Chapter Text
Prologue
Castiel's assignment was true and simple. It was tattooed onto his brain in the blackest ink, there when he closed his eyes, dark and heavy on the inside of his eyelids.
Raise the Righteous Man from Perdition.
Pouring a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent into a human vessel is something Castiel has not had need for since times antediluvian. The pins and needles that creep down his arms and up his legs and over his scalp are unlike anything he has ever felt before. He is super-aware of his heart beating steadily, his lungs shifting under his breast, his insides twisting and undulating. Messy. Human. He can feel Jimmy Novak beating somewhere behind his eyes. Castiel blinks and the feeling vanishes.
Castiel is not sure what to make of it all. He barely has time to flex his fingers before he hears his sister's voice humming inside his head. Ambriel's voice is soft as a feather and as piercing as thousands of volts of electricity:
We are ready, Castiel. Join us.
Castiel is at her side before the echo of her words has faded. They stand in an empty field, amber with wheat and fading sunlight. Castiel senses his brethren standing around him before he sees them. Their energy is barely contained by their human forms. Castiel can only hope they have chosen the right vessels for this journey. He makes his eyes meet each pair of the angels standing around him, slipping uncertain under human flesh. There are eight of them: Ambriel, Omael, Umabel, Paschar, Verchiel, Haziel, Liwet and Oriphiel.
Ambriel is in a petite blonde thing with expansive curly blonde hair. Her pink lip is chapped and held between two teeth while the rest of her body stands rigid, obviously a muscle memory. The vessel can't be more than twelve or thirteen. The fire in Ambriel's eyes emboldens Castiel. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, Castiel is afraid.
Omael is in an elderly Asian man, thin and well-dressed. The suit is grey slate, a mirror of the vessel's hair. A bright silk scarf, red and pink and orange, is tied around his neck. Omael looks ready. He looks tough. Castiel can only hope it is enough.
Umabel is in a housewife, soft at the edges in khakis and an emerald turtleneck, chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her lips are set hard and Castiel knows the angel behind that face. He has sat in silence with Umabel in heaven and looked down upon Earth. He has seen her take many vessels and do as she is commanded, always without error. He has seen her smite and he has seen her save. In a time when few angels walked the earth she was here. She has loved humanity the way God intended. Castiel trusts her to the ends of any plane.
Paschar is in a Hispanic man, mid-thirties, wearing a blue jumpsuit. Perhaps he was an electrician. Castiel is not sure if he trusts Paschar. Paschar loves God but he is indifferent toward humanity. Castiel cannot help but see a flicker of their brother Lucifer in him.
Verchiel is in a priest, balding and tall. His gaze is authoritative. Verchiel is the only one of them who has been to hell before. Verchiel's wings were burned black by the fires. The other angels call it beautiful.
Liwet is in a dark, curvy thing whom Castiel knows is not of this era. He appreciates her care in choosing a vessel, combing through years of the devout instead of the first half-believing churchgoer to show themselves. Her vessel's clothing places her square in the 1920s, and when Castiel concentrates he can smell 1928 in her hair.
Haziel is in a woman with dark skin. He can see African dirt under her fingernails. She's dressed in faded denim shorts and her hair is cropped close. Haziel is oldest of these angels, even older than Verchiel. She has a sense of humor Castiel has never understood, but he respects her without doubt.
Oriphiel is in a teenage boy with dyed black hair and skinny jeans. Castiel feels a deep affection for Oriphiel. Oriphiel is the youngest angel here, one of the last God created before leaving heaven. Oriphiel does not remember a time before humanity. Castiel has traveled through Heaven with Oriphiel, sharing his secret game of finding the best heavens of humanity. Castiel does not know where this urge to explore comes from, but Oriphiel embraces it. The two have walked through eternal sunrises, dusky evenings in warm rooms, nights under the stars in empty fields. Castiel wants to know what it all means- why do humans love these things? Why do they hold onto them when the rest of their memory has faded? Oriphiel is content just to experience. Castiel sees more humanity in Oriphiel than any of his other brothers.
These eight angels and Castiel, these nine in all, have the same mission branded in the deepest part of themselves.
Raise the Righteous Man from Perdition.
Haziel clears her throat and speaks, her voice heavy and rich, her tongue moving around thick words. "We are, this nine, this nonet, here united in a singular goal." Castiel feels the pulse of those six words deep within. "We will enter Hell, we will journey through the flames, we will press onward and deeper until we have come to Hell's core. There will be the Righteous Man, Dean Winchester."
Dean Winchester. The name rings like a bell in this field, the only sound the soft rush of wind through wheat. Castiel feels the name Dean Winchester sinking into him, coming over him like thick molasses. Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man. All at once Castiel can feel a history sinking into his bones, a study of Dean Winchester as understood by Haziel, a flash of father brother duty love that feels like something Castiel already knows. It feels like himself. The other angels bow their heads as they receive Haziel's impartation.
"We will pull the chains from the Righteous Man's body, or, if necessary, ease the whip from his hands. We will cradle his body and bear him back up to Earth, remake him cell by cell. Then, we will leave him to pull himself from the dirt and fulfill his destiny." Castiel can feel the angels around him nod. "We can only hope to get to him before he breaks the first seal. But Hell is hard," Haziel's eyes cast briefly over Verchiel, "and though Dean Winchester is righteous he cannot hold out forever. Whatever has happened, he must raise him. He must return to Earth. Our brother Verchiel has entered hell before. He will be our guide and our adviser. Verchiel, I bid you speak."
Verchiel's eyes are piercing as he speaks. They are the eyes of a being that has seen much. "Hell is not something one can be prepared for. Every horror you can imagine parades in front of you without shame. There is no hope there, there is not even resignation. There is only pain, and fear. Its punishments are as varied as the rewards of heaven, perhaps even more so. There are pits of lightning-bright lava and caves of pitch, chains and spikes and flesh turned against flesh. You will see things no holy being was meant to see." Verchiel paused to draw breath he did not need. "There is no preparing you for that. I can only provide you with facts. In Hell, you are cut off. The voices that are as part of you as your grace will be cut off. You will be, for the first time, truly alone. Even the connection between us nine will be dim and little more than human telepathy. Teh voices will not be the only thing lost. The ability to heal will be greatly lessened. Smiting demons will take much energy, and there will be too many demons to fight. Every wound you obtain will be felt in your true form. Your vessel serves as a kind of cloak, a way of passing less obviously through perdition. It will not exist in the same way it does on Earth. Not only will your vessel bleed, but you will bleed ichor, your true blood. Your wings will scorch the moment you pass through Hell's gate. The deeper you go, the worse it will get. My brothers, sisters," Verchiel pauses and his brow crinkles in concern, "This is only my experience of the first level. We will be going much deeper. The ninth level is where Hell will keep the Righteous Man."
Unease passes through the eight angels, all Hell-fire virgins. This they suspected, but hearing it stated plainly by fleshy tongue is a different matter altogether. Though this is a mission they have accepted with their whole being, they cannot help but fear the flames of Hell. Verchiel continues his lecture, and the angels are rapt.
"Each level is worse than the last. They have no theme or focus, as certain human poets would suggest, but partake in all sins equally. Time is different in each level; in some it is frenzied, in some it is dragged long. In some nooks of the ninth level, it is said a century could pass in Earth's minute. The Righteous Man will likely have already been there decades by the time we reach him. There is no knowing how long it will take us. The most important rule is to not part. We cannot lose each other in that depraved place. The path, I am sure, will twist and turn and conspire against us. There will be temptation and coercion and attacks by creatures innumerable. There will be places hidden to us. I am warning you all, they will try to take you." Verchiel spoke with heavy knowledge. "They will try to make you stay. Do not listen to them. Do not give in. Remember the holiness of your mission and let it be comfort to you. Nothing they can give you can outshine heaven. Nothing."
Castiel knew Verchiel's tale, one not as old as the tale of Lucifer but ancient all the same. Verchiel had set out to save his brother Dardariel, who had disappeared into the pit when he was beset by demons. Verchiel had been the first and only angel to brave Hell by choice, and the only angel still existing who had been. He had plunged into it swiftly, and was mobbed by the damned. Legend says that he fought his way through much of Hell's first level before he encountered Dardariel and found him fallen, turned to wicked ways, and Verchiel was forced to strike him down. Even in the heat of that place Verchiel had held Dardariel as he died, and had seen the repenetance and purity in his eyes. Verchiel then had borne his body up from the pit and into Heaven, where his body now lies as a twisted old tree in Joshua's garden, a symbol of salvation to all those who repent their wrongs. Verchiel was an anomaly, and while respected by the other angels he was also questioned. Castiel privately sympathized with Verchiel. Had Oriphiel wandered into some dark place, Castiel knew he would do anything to get him back.
It scared him.
Haziel raised her arms. "Brothers, sisters, this is our fate. We go forth to seek the Righteous Man. Are you ready?"
A chorus of "yes, sister" echoed against the emptiness of the field. In the distance, Castiel spied a farmhouse, its windows glowing gold with electric lights. He is doing this for them, he thinks. He is going to save humanity and stop the apocalypse.
He is also doing it for Dean Winchester.
As Haziel recites the spell, raw Enochian power spilling from her brown lips, Castiel gazes skyward. The stars are bright and shining in the night, like slivers of grace scattered across blackened wings. He feels the white feathers of his own wings tremble invisible in the breeze. He commits their feeling to memory, as he knows they will never be the same. Castiel can feel the ground opening beneath him, and the cool of night is suddenly permeated by a smothering heat. The sky is still twinkling above like a joke, or maybe a question, when Castiel feels a sinking in the pit of his stomach. His eyes fly shut as he is suddenly pulled deeper than he has ever been before.
When they open again, he is in Hell.