Chapter Text
Atop a rocky hill, floating in a red, hazy atmosphere, sits a castle. Its black spires soar into the cloudless and sunless sky, windows gaping dark. Hideous, disfigured demonic guards patrol the entrance. Deep inside, there is a throne. It is shaped from skulls and bones, cushioned with pillows made from the skin and hair of Hell’s enemies.
Slouched upon this throne is a very bored young man. Leaning to his left, right leg draped over an armrest, head propped up by his fist and supported by the other armrest, he listens to what feels like endless reports. He hates this part of the day, and awaits being able to escape. Today he gets to go topside and look up at the sun.
His crown starts to slip, its black, twisted spines shifting to a precarious angle. With one finger, he pushes it up and overcompensates to the other side, hoping to avoid it happening again. The teardrop-shaped ruby dangling below the miniature jewel-eyed skull that adorns the crown swings with the movement. Absently, he flicks at the gold chains on the front of his black silk blouse.
The demon who’d been reporting on… Hell if he knows, he wasn’t paying attention, turns to leave, and his Advisor faces him with a stack of scrolls as a servant appears with a tray of writing and sealing implements. Joy. The day’s duties are almost over.
“My Prince,” says the advisor, who bows his head and presents the day’s scrolls, “Just a few more orders of business and you can go forth on your journey.”
Grumbling, the prince sits up and reaches for the nearest scroll. Best to get this over with, he thinks with a sigh. “You know Crowley, I always find it amusing that even the ruler of Hell must be tortured as well. One would think me immune to such punishments.”
“Very funny, Dean,” says Crowley, straightening up and smoothing down the dark silk cravat at this throat. “You know that I only bring you the items that demand your attention or require an official seal and signature.”
“Oh, so that’s why I sit through all those boring reports for what feels like forever?”
Crowley gives him a look, and Dean quiets. He knows, the masses must be allowed some access to the Heir of Hell. Otherwise, the denizens get restless. It’s especially important before one of his trips to Earth, keep them quiet until he returns. So he resigns himself to reading documents, then signing and pressing his signet to warm wax the color of venous blood.
As soon as the last document is signed, and the servant with the tray vanishes, Dean is off the throne. Crowley snaps his fingers, and another servant appears, holding a long velvet coat with a fur collar. He looks on with disapproval as the servant helps Dean into the garment and adjusts the fit. Gold silk sashes are arranged just so, and when he’s finally shooed away, there isn’t a speck of lint on the light-absorbing black fabric.
“You know I don’t approve of your little visits,” Crowley remarks as Dean straightens his crown. “You should have outgrown this sentiment you have for humanity years ago.”
Dean ignores him and strides to the large double doors at the end of the throne room, awaiting the guards that will escort him to and through the portal to Earth. He’s heard all of this before, and will not let Crowley’s attitude ruin what should be a pleasant couple of days as soon as he steps into the fresh air of Earth.
The doors open, and four guards escort Dean to his destination. Each of the guards carry polearms, and have wickedly sharp blades at their waists. As soon as the portal is reached, they close around him, and it makes Dean uneasy. This is new, and he doesn’t trust new.
He turns to see another demon approaching: Abaddon, Knight of Hell. She’s one of the few allowed to keep a human-like form, and her red hair cascades over one shoulder, her fitted leather uniform showing off curves that might be enticing to a man that doesn’t know what she is. Wide, depthless black eyes pin him in place as she approaches, a smile on her red lips.
“The prince is going to visit his whore human mistress?” She drags a long, red nail down Dean’s breastbone, and he turns his head in disgust.
It was Crowley’s idea to come up with the excuse of a mistress, in order to protect the real reason for Dean’s visits to earth: his younger brother. Dean sacrificed his life for Sammy, and it’s the last piece of humanity he is willing to part with before Ascending as Hell’s King.
“I’ve every right to do as I please during leisure time, Abaddon.” He tilts his head to look down his nose at her. “My apologies at your feelings of inadequacy.”
Her lip curls at his remark, and she flicks her fingers at the guards still surrounding Dean. Suddenly, two weapons press at his back, and two blades are aimed at his throat.
“Oh, that’s where you’re mistaken, Dean.” Abaddon slips a stiletto blade from its sheath, and taps it on his shoulder. “I have no sense of inferiority at your presence, only the kind of irritation one might have for an intruding rodent.”
Dean’s hands ball into fists. This isn’t the first time a demon has challenged his position, but it is the first time a Knight has done so, and to his face, at that. He clenches his jaw as she draws blood below his collarbone with the tip of her dagger, and he manages to suppress a gasp as he realizes she’s using a weapon that could kill demons. And the guards are obviously under her orders. This is so very bad.
In an attempt to play it cool, Dean tucks his chin down and looks up at Abaddon with quirked brow, hands clasped at the small of his back. “So, what? You going to rough me up? Raise the alarm to have half of Hell down here in an instant?”
With a smirk, Abaddon uses her dagger to lift one of the ends of Dean’s gold silk sashes, and rubs the material between her fingers. “Dear boy. You are still so young, naïve, and foolish.”
Wrapping the sash around her hand, she pulls Dean up against her, and he can smell the sulfur on her breath. “You’re going to die on Earth, and we’ll blame it on the angels. There will be a gloriously bloody battle in your honor, and I will use the opportunity to take the throne.”
She gestures at the guards with her chin, and one of the polearms is removed from Dean’s back, presumably so they can open the portal. All he needs is an opening. Dean grins at Abaddon, and spreads his hands out at his sides.
“But I’m the destined heir! The one who’s supposed to lead Hell to victory over Heaven!” He gives her a sideways glance, “What’s the matter, Abby? Getting forgetful in your old age?”
She snarls, and pushes Dean hard enough that the guard behind him is forced back. “Prophesies are garbage, and can be twisted to suit a need. I’m sure the ensuing battle after your death will be enough to convince the demons that my ascension is what was actually prophesied. After all, Hell isn’t known for its free thinking.”
A thudding whoosh behind him tells Dean the portal’s been activated. He’ll have to act now, or miss his chance. Luckily, the guards have turned to look at the portal. Using their distraction, Dean grabs one of the blades from the front guards, before slitting its throat. Not wasting a second, he flips the blade to neatly impale the guard behind him, all before even Abaddon can react. Pushing the falling guard onto the one who opened the portal, that leaves one left, and Abaddon, who surges forward with her thin dagger. Dean neatly parries it, narrowly avoiding a shave with the guard’s blade.
Backing toward the portal, he sees the other guard toss aside the limp body of his comrade, and swing a fist. Unfortunately, dodging will put him in the path of that damn dagger; so he takes the hit to the jaw, and uses the momentum to twist toward the guard with the blade. The weapon grazes his thigh, but Dean gets in a good swing and takes out an eye.
Abaddon twirls that wicked dagger and lunges. Dean can’t dodge completely, and he feels the sting in his side. Focused on keeping from getting stuck with Abaddon’s blade again, Dean doesn’t see the pole weapon coming for his head until he’s almost knocked to the floor by the blow to his temple. Now that makes him see stars, and his knees buckle. He’s going to have to get out of here if he’s going to survive this.
Dean uses his trip towards the floor to sweep up the other dropped polearm, and manages to impale the guard bleeding from an eye socket. Then he kicks at the kneecaps of the one who whacked him twice, and the last guard falls to the floor. Above him, Abaddon reaches up with both hands on the stiletto dagger to plunge it into his skull. Dean dodges to the right, and lands on the body of the impaled, one-eyed guard. This time, the dagger grazes his shoulder blade.
When he manages to get to his feet, Dean sees that Abaddon is blocking the swirling portal, and he can hear the sound of others approaching. He shakes out his arms. “Sounds like I got backup coming.”
“Yes,” Abaddon gives a twisted half smile. “Mine.”
Shit. He’s already bleeding from unhealable wounds caused by special blades meant to kill demons. Things are going from bad to worse, and Dean takes in his surroundings for a solution. While he’s been trained to use just about every weapon that exists in Hell, he’s but one man. How did Abaddon pull this off, get so many on her side?
Dean takes a deep breath and swipes at the blood trickling down from his temple. Abaddon isn’t even holding a fighting stance, assuming she’s won. But Dean slips the toe of his boot under the one polearm that isn’t sticking out of something, and catches it. He rushes Abaddon, who’s caught by surprise. Using his greater mass and momentum, Dean causes her to collapse back, and performs a reverse throw, flinging himself over Abaddon and into the portal. He reaches out with his bloody hand and smears the side of the opening as he passes, hoping it’s enough to disrupt the sigils and close it behind him.
He lands in a forest clearing, and quickly makes his way as far from the portal as he can before they reopen it. Still a little dizzy from getting whacked upside the head and the air getting knocked out of him from his landing, Dean checks himself over. Shoulder stings, but works okay. The wound at his side is bleeding more than he likes. Breeches ruined by the gash at his thigh, but it’s barely a scratch to his skin. Jaw’s sore, and the head wound is going to cause one hell of a headache.
Looking around, Dean decides the road is the obvious path, and regardless of how far he makes it, they will be able to catch up to him. So off into the woods he dashes.
That’s the thing about forests. They’re full of bushes, and brambles, and low-hanging branches that catch on everything. Burrow-holes covered with leaves and detritus threaten to snap ankles, and his long coat gets caught on everything, the sashes hopelessly torn. With a sigh, he slips the velvet from his shoulders, and keeps moving.
After a while, the thought strikes him that he’s managed to keep the crown on his head during all this. The same thing that tries to slip off his head when he’s bored has kept itself firmly in place during that whole skirmish. Dean giggles at the thought. Maybe it’s sentient?
The sound of a twig snapping causes Dean to turn his head, which makes him lose his footing and fall to his knees. If it wasn’t for his knee-high leather boots, his gray silk breeches would have bloody holes there. He looks down to see they’ve gotten torn and stained anyway. Huh, that’s a lot more blood than the last time he checked. Looking back, Dean can see he’s left a messy trail even the stupidest demon could follow.
As if the damn universe is reading his mind, Dean hears the bray of a Hellhound. Shit. He’s weakened from blood-loss, possibly lost in the middle of the woods, and they’ve released Hellhounds to find him. Dean swallows, and forces his brain to think of a way out of this. Thought is growing sluggish, and he knows that’s a bad sign.
Signs. Sigils. He can use a sigil to mask his presence. But his trail will still lead them right to him. Shit, does he still have enough energy to pull off relocation? Using demonic power to pop from one place to another is draining on a normal day. Should have thought of that in the first place. Well, he does have a head wound and all. Speaking of, it’s throbbing like a drum, and making it really hard to concentrate. Shit, they’re getting closer, and Dean’s kneeling in the mud in the middle of a forest, bleeding, an army of Abaddon supporters coming after him.
Focus. Dean takes a deep breath, and tries to tune out his various aches. He pictures a lake. It’s one he’s seen before, during a visit to his brother. It’s calm, with the sun shining and glinting off the water, thick green grass along its edge.
Dragging his finger against his bloody side, Dean traces a sigil on the back of his free hand, and concentrates. He’s only gotta do this once. Eardrums pop as he lands near the body of water, and he nearly collapses in relief, drained with the effort that took. But he needs to find a place to draw the concealing sigil.
He manages to stumble to the low fence that borders this side of the lake, and he steps over a fallen beam, landing at the water’s edge. He leans against the support post, and once again traces a sigil with his own blood, this time onto the wood. Task completed, Dean whispers the words that activate it, and his hands fall to his sides. Perhaps if he just closes his eyes and rest a bit? The sun feels so warm on his face.
As Dean falls unconscious, his relaxing body slumps to one side. Booted feet slip into the water and drag him further down. Water soon laps at the bloodied fabric that hides the still-bleeding wound at his side.
At a door in a stark white hallway, a warrior stands uncomfortably. His large wings, feathers the color of midnight, twitch at his back. Running a hand through his hair, he checks his armor over before rapping knuckles on the door.
“Come in!” a sweet, melodic voice calls from the other side after a breath. Jaw clenched, the warrior twists the doorknob and lets himself in. The room on the other side is less stark, even though the walls are still glaring white. But there is a desk made of a honey-colored wood, and there are shelves full of colorful little trinkets. At the desk sits a slender woman with coppery red hair, and a flowing green gown. Her wings, mottled pink at the crest, with a white stripe and black flight feathers, fan out in briefly in greeting. The warrior frowns at her garb, as he’s used to seeing his Colonel dressed in more warrior-appropriate clothes.
“Sit Castiel,” she says, waving at a chair that matches the desk, with a multicolored cushion on the seat. He obeys, and takes a moment to adjust his armor in this new sitting position.
“So,” she says after a moment, “How are you enjoying your new position as Captain of our Garrison?”
Castiel looks up at her, frown still firmly in place. “Like they’re just waiting for an excuse to demote me, Colonel.”
She pouts at him. “Quit calling me that! I’m on desk duty, and we’re family. Besides, you wouldn’t have gotten the promotion if you didn’t deserve it, so don’t be so harsh on yourself.
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re my sister, Anael. Somehow I doubt that your commanders appreciated you using your influence in order to promote me.”
She waves his words away with a careless gesture. “You’ve always had the knack for getting in trouble by doing what is right, Castiel. It’s not your fault not everyone can see that.”
Castiel avoids rolling his eyes. Anael wasn’t there when he got punished the last time. The thought of the gleaming spike aiming for the corner of his eye makes him shudder. It’s time to change the subject.
“When is the meeting with the Archangels?” The regular meetings that the Archangels hold is one of the few things that will make Anael wear a dress.
“Later today. Although as soon as it’s over, I’ll be changing into my usual shirt and trousers. Dresses use too much fabric.”
Her attitude toward formalwear makes the corners of Castiel’s mouth turn up. Anael has always held strong feelings about formalwear among the elite angelic Host. If she could get away with it, she’d wear her armor to meetings.
“Is there a reason you called me here, Anael?”
While Castiel loves visiting his sister, there are tasks that need to be completed, rosters to oversee, Patrol reports— His thoughts are cut short when Anael holds out an object. It’s a stick with a small wooden cup on the end, and there is a ball attached to it with a string. Somebody found another human-made toy. Lips pursed, Castiel knows what comes next, and Anael, true to character, launches into an excited lecture about how human children use the toy to develop hand-eye coordination. She also describes some of the songs and games that combine with the item.
If there’s one thing Castiel has noticed, as he takes a moment to look around the room while Anael demonstrates the motions required to get the ball in the cup, is how many human-made toys are educational, or are based on weapons. Littered among Anael’s shelves are miniature weapons. Small swords made of wood, bows that can only fire toy arrows a short distance, and a slingshot that is possibly the most dangerous item on the shelf. He remembers getting pegged in the forehead with a stone while Anael demonstrated that one.
But many of the toys teach hand-eye coordination. The small, colorful sacks filled with sand or beans that can be tossed around, the horseshoes that are meant to be aimed at a peg, and the strange swirling disk thing that uses a wound string, that can be bounced up and down if you get the momentum just right.
He’s brought out of his musings as Anael hands him the toy, stick-first. “Try it!”
Holding the stick, Castiel calculates the trajectory of the ball, and the force required to get it to land in the cup in less than a second. He misses on his first try. Anael giggles and claps her hands. “You see? It requires a bit of practice to get used to the string and the weight of the ball. Not to mention, that since they’re hand-carved, each cup has its own unique challenge.”
This becomes evident when on his second try, the ball lands in the cup, only to bounce out again. Frustrated, Castiel places the toy on the desk and frowns at his sister. “I don’t have time for frivolous playthings right now, Anna.” He hopes the use of her shortened name conveys his irritation.
“Spoilsport.” Anael sighs and leans back in her seat. “I really did want you to come in to discuss how your promotion to Captain has been going. As a ranking officer, it behooves me to check in on your situation.” Her face growing serious, she leans forward, hands on her desk. “Seriously, are they listening to you? Any insubordination?”
Castiel thinks about this for a moment. It’s not direct insubordination, no. Not something he could actually report. More like… a general lack of enthusiasm for his orders and interaction with the warriors assigned to his direct oversight. He shakes his head. “They’re just getting accustomed to having me as their Captain. I’m sure after some time we’ll find a way to work together well.”
Anael squints at him, but lets it go. “I have an idea what the meeting with the Archangels will be about.”
This is interesting. “Oh?”
“Yes, remember that little recon mission I had you run?”
He nods. They had picked up a demon who had been spreading rumors, and had it questioned. He never learned what information had been retrieved from it.
She steeples her fingers. “If it’s to be believed, it seems that there is a division of Hell considering a coup.”
Oh. This is big news. If the intel is correct, then the angels can stage an attack during the time of unrest. “Are they planning to overthrow the prince?” he asks.
“As far as I can tell, they’re going the route of assassination and fighting over the empty throne.
Castiel absorbs the information. This could turn into all-out civil war. With the in-fighting in Hell, Heaven may finally have a chance at defeating the demons once and for all.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to be on the watch for suspicious demon activity. If we know when the overthrow is to occur, then it could be advantageous.” She gives him a sly grin. “And besides, since it was your team that got the intel, you should have first crack at the recognition.”
“Anna, you don’t have to—”
“Castiel, we both know you need all the wins in your corner you can get. If you ever want to regain everyone’s—”
“Enough.” Castiel clenches his jaw. He doesn’t need a reminder of the mistakes he’s made. While the few who haven’t turned from him always say that there’s nothing wrong with his compassion for humanity, the rest of the angels think there’s something wrong with him. Every single time he’s been reprimanded or punished, it was for helping humans. Once, an Ophanim, one in charge of punishment, called him broken.
“I’ll inform the soldiers to keep watch. Now if that is all?”
He hates to leave Anael like this, but the reminder of his failures stings. Standing, he waits for her dismissal. She comes around her desk, and clasps his hands.
“I’m sorry, Castiel.” She looks up at him, eyes full of affection.
“It’s not your fault,” he replies.
“And it’s not yours, either,” she whispers, giving his hands a squeeze before letting go. “Dismissed,” she says with her usual authoritative tone reserved for work. “And don’t forget to report anything suspicious.”
Castiel salutes. “Of course, Colonel.” With a nod, he steps out into the hallway and closes the door behind him. After letting out a heavy sigh, he goes to inform the Garrison of their orders.
* * *
Later, while he’s rearranging patrol schedules, he gets a visit from a brown-winged angel in casual attire, Balthazar.
“I heard you might be needing angels for some recon?”
Castiel knew that as soon as Balthazar heard about this new mission, he would want to take part. “I’m not sending you. Don’t you remember what happened last time?”
“I swear, I didn’t realize the tavern wench had a beau!”
“And the brawl that ensued?”
“Completely unavoidable.”
“There is a reason that in spite of your seniority, I hold rank over you,” Castiel growls, turning back to his patrol schedules.
With his dark blond curls and congenial demeanor, Balthazar has an uncanny ability to charm… himself right under a woman’s skirts. He’s been close to being labeled Fallen and kicked out of Heaven for his repeated hedonistic transgressions against angelic law. One of these days Balthazar will sire a nephilim, and that will spell the end for Castiel’s friend.
“Come on, Cassie! I’ve been stuck up here doing menial labor since forever. I can’t properly stretch my wings, shut up here.” His speckled wings ruffle as if in explanation.
Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a great sigh. “Let me look at the schedule. I’ll pair you with a responsible angel for a couple of patrols.”
“That’s the spirit! I owe you one, my good friend.” Balthazar claps Castiel on the shoulder.
“Many more than that,” Castiel grumbles under his breath as Balthazar swaggers out the door. If he had a chit for every favor Balthazar owed him, he could paper the wall next to his desk.
As Castiel picks up his pen, a young angel with sleek black and white wings raps gently on the doorframe.
“Yes, Samandriel?” Castiel refuses to set the implement down, an indication this interaction better be brief.
The young angel steps just inside, tucking his wings in deference. “You said to inform you if there was suspicious demon activity?”
A little impatient, Castiel snaps out, “And?” with a bit more force than intended.
Samandriel visibly shrinks back. “Th- there appears to be demonic activity in a forest, with Hellhounds, sir. It seems they’re chasing something.”
That’s definitely more interesting than patrol schedules at the moment. Feeling a little guilty for snapping at the young angel, he says, “Good job. Let’s form a search team.”
* * *
After gathering four other angels with sharp senses, Castiel flies with his team to Earth, near where the disturbance was noted. They stay invisible and high enough to remain undetected, as they observe several warrior demons scour the wooded area, a couple of Hellhounds scrounging through the undergrowth. One of the angels points out a long black coat that the handler of one of the hounds is carrying. It obviously doesn’t belong to that demon, so it must belong to whoever they’re hunting.
“Let’s split up in five directions, radial pattern, see if we can find who they’re looking for. Remain on guard, and we’ll meet back here. Signal if you find anything of import.”
The others salute and depart. Castiel heads in an east-southeast direction. He’s soon past the edge of the forest, and dips a little lower for a better view. He passes fields, pastures, and orchards. It’s springtime, and just past when most fruit trees have finished blossoming, and everything is a fresh green.
A warm eastern wind helps keep him aloft even though it slows him down, and he stretches his wings to take advantage of the draft. The land lowers in elevation beneath him, and he circles back, having not found anything. Coming back from further south, he notices a small lake. Flowers are already blooming along the edge, and—
Wait. He can sense… something.
Dipping lower, he opens his mouth and breathes deep. There it is, the tang of fresh blood. And something tainted, possibly demonic. There, at the water’s edge along a field, an old dilapidated fence. More signs of blood, and someone slipping under the lake’s surface. After he makes himself material, Castiel swoops down to where he saw the body go under. Splashing in water up to his thighs, Castiel holds his wings up as he reaches down to lift up the body partially obscured by tangled, slippery weeds.
Propping the upper half of the body against a fencepost, he takes in the pale, lax face, the wound at the temple, dark bruising along the jaw. There’s another cut just below the collarbone that’s sluggishly seeping, and a rip in the shirt indicates another wound on the abdomen. It’s only after he’s assessed the damage that he notices the twisted black crown, damp green tendrils caught in the spines, red gems drawing the eye to the small skull that indicates exactly who Castiel has saved from a watery grave.
He’s staring down at the Prince of Hell. The monster that, within the past decade, has caused a new uprising in demonic activity. There are even rumors that he has personally had a hand in laying waste to entire villages himself. Has the plot to overthrow Hell already begun?
Castiel notices that the prince is not breathing. Without even thinking about what he’s doing, he sends a surge of Grace to push on his lungs, causing him to cough up water, and spasm as if shocked. Yes, of course the Prince of Hell, the leader of demons would react badly to a burst of Grace to the chest. But at least he’s breathing again, albeit weak and ragged.
He should just let the prince slip back into the lake, let him die. But Castiel has a secret, something he hasn’t told anyone. He has befriended the prince’s brother. Samuel, younger than his brother Dean by four years, has been studying at seminary as a healer.
Castiel met the young man after a rather frustrated prayer as an entire town was dying of a deadly disease. He’d helped prevent Samuel’s loss of faith that day, and they had struck up a conversation while Castiel showed him how to care for the sick, help prevent more deaths. Not through miraculous healing, but with cleanliness, herbs, and poultices.
After that time, Samuel would often pray directly to Castiel, mostly holding a one-sided conversation. This is how he learned of Samuel’s brother, and the fate that Dean had taken on to spare him. Dean apparently has made time to secretly visit his brother as well.
Looking down at Dean’s face, he can see the familial resemblance. There are none of the outward signs of vice or evil; his face looks kind and beautiful with his high cheekbones, full, pouty lips, and slightly upturned nose. His bone structure is softened by affluence and youth, but he notices the strong jaw, can feel the muscular build under his hands.
Alarm spikes through Castiel as he realizes Dean’s heart rate has slowed dangerously. If Castiel doesn’t do something soon, Dean will die. But what can he do? He knows, that even born human, Dean has been affected by his years raised in Hell, and the demon blood he has consumed in order to survive there.
Blood. It’s worth a try. Castiel pulls his blade and cuts his left wrist. He presses the wound to Dean’s mouth, but with the man unconscious, it just spills past his lips. Desperate, Castiel tries placing his bleeding wrist to Dean’s lacerated temple. He holds his hand back to avoid touching the crown that has somehow managed to stay seated upon Dean’s head. It radiates a presence of evil. As Castiel’s blood drips down the side of Dean’s face, he can see the bruising fade, and the flesh begin to make itself whole.
Dean’s breathing becomes more even, but his heart rate is still dangerously weak. Castiel once again presses his wrist to Dean’s mouth, and he sees his throat bob with a weak swallow. Dean spasms and chokes, and Castiel is afraid he’s inadvertently killed the man. But Dean’s heart rate stabilizes and grows stronger, the bruise at his jaw fading and the cut below his collarbone knitting back together.
Simultaneous waves of relief and dread flow through Castiel. What is he doing? He is feeding the Prince of Hell his own Holy blood! If there was ever a reason to demote him from his position as Captain, and possibly even label him as Fallen, this may just be at the top of the list. He looks up and realizes his wings have spread out and mantled protectively around Dean. Regardless of what he knows he should do, his instincts are telling him something else. He wants to protect this man. And he’s going to do it, in spite of every angelic rule that says he should do otherwise.
Perhaps Castiel is broken. If so, he never deserved the rank of Captain in the first place. In the meantime, he’s going to protect the person who Samuel still believes in, despite all the horrific stories Castiel has been told.
Color begins to return to Dean’s cheeks, and Castiel takes in more of his surroundings. He notices the sigil hastily drawn on the fence post. If Castiel hadn’t noticed the blood in the water, Dean may well have drowned.
Just as Castiel is preparing to drag Dean all the way out of the water, he simultaneously gets a status request from one of his soldiers, and senses an approaching demon. Now is the time he must make his decision. He looks into Dean’s soul, and sees how much has been corrupted by being raised in Hell. In spite of the demon smut, there is still a spark deep down, glowing with righteousness, loyalty, and kindness. Dean is not past saving.
Decision made, Castiel ignores the angel, and drags a finger through the blood that has dripped down his forearm from his wrist. He draws a temporary shielding sigil on Dean, and he flies them away from the lake, trying to find somewhere safe. There was a small hut further east that seemed unoccupied. Perhaps they can recuperate there long enough to figure out what to do next.
