Chapter 7: To Hell and Gone/Gone Fishing
“Castiel! Cas!”
Dean. Screaming from the depths of a nightmare. Castiel bolted upright. His wings arced up, feathers lashing.
He threw off his blanket, sprinted down the hallway—
Summoning every shred of power—
Wings cracking the ether—
Snap!—
—he burst into Dean’s dream.
Into Dream Hell, a greenish-black, limitless realm, crackling with thunder and lightning. And—
Dean.
Castiel’s Grace recoiled.
Naked, screaming, writhing, Dean dangled mid-“air.” Meat hooks strung him up—by the arms, the legs, the chest—their chains stretching up and out to points of origin an endless distance away. Thousands more damned spirits writhed to his right. To his left. Above. And below. As far as a wretched soul’s eye could see: one vast spiderweb of pain and hopelessness. Master Torturer Alastair, Sadist Supreme, Spider Supreme, in the “form” of a tall, scrawny human, leaned over Dean’s soul, his demon knife slicing. Would keep slicing till Dean was nothing but bits. Bits that would spontaneously reform. And then the slicing would start all over again.
And at every start, Dean’s soul-tones called out to Castiel—sharp, defiant streaks of crimson, amethyst, gold, and green, threading through his WingSong, their harmonics rising to a battle cry: angel and human, Grace and soul, fighting as one.
Stronger together than apart. Can’t lose that, ever.
I’m here, Dean. Hold on!
Castiel’s blade hissed free of his trench coat sleeve, and—
—And his blade dream-transmogrified into that of an archangel’s. Castiel, gifted by dream with the powers of a Michael, a Raphael, a Gabriel—the only angels who could defeat the white-eyed demon; trust Dean to imagine him that strong—stabbed his blade through the demon’s back, piercing its heart. Holy Light gushed from his blade’s tip and spurtled through the demon’s body, igniting it. Alastair’s eyes burst into flames. Holy Light flooded out of Alastair’s mouth.
Howling, flailing, the Inferno of Evil fell through the dimensions into deepest Hell.
Castiel waved his hand, and Dean’s bonds broke. He gripped Dean tight and flew hard. Demons and…Forty-five dream-cows? Really, Dean?…chased them. He dream-teleported himself and Dean out of Dream Hell, and—
—And Dean’s dreaming mind sent them to—
—A bar.
A hotel room.
A den of iniquity.
A lonely stretch of highway, miles and miles of asphalt ribboning out before them.
A—
—A wooden dock stretching over an expanse of shimmering lake, emerald dragonflies humming over its glassy surface and silvery fish gliding below. Dean’s dreaming mind exhaled long and slow and settled them here.
Dean, dressed in torn jeans, slouched in a fishing chair at the dock’s end. Whole, unharmed, safe; that was all that mattered, really.
A dark blue tackle box lazed beside Dean, and a rod and spinning reel rested loose in his hand. The blackening waters gently lapped, while russet-leafed trees reached lacy fingers to an amethyst sky—and nearly touched the scalloped clouds, clouds delicately brushed in pink and lavender, in apricot and gold, by the dream-sun sinking low. Dream-smells painted the cooling air. Not the putrid odors of Hell, of rotting meat and congealed blood, but pleasant smells, musty green smells, smells of turtles and algae and heated grass.
Dean tipped his head back, and the muscles of his face relaxed, the hunter’s tension that constantly burbled under his skin easing—as if that flock of geese over there, rising from the lake in a flurry of honks, were taking it with them, off to the horizon. Castiel, imitating the geese, stretched out his glorious dream-wings—which, for some reason, Dean had dreamed up in the colors of the rainbow, every feather barb iridescing like a thread of silk. With a flap, his wings undulated on the ether’s Cosmic currents, scintillated and Sang in the Cosmic Light. In his mind’s eye, he followed the flock, tagging along at the end of their graceful V, swooping with them over pewter lakes, grassy fields, buttercupped plains.
How luxuriant, their flight. How luxuriant, these sensations.
His dream-wings became air, airy nothings, and Castiel stepped beside Dean.
“Why am I not surprised,” Dean said, his eyes closed to mere slits, “that even in my dreams you’re wearing your suit, tie, and trench coat, like a wannabe sleuth?”
“Why am I not surprised,” Castiel said, “that even in your dreams you’re wearing your plaid work-shirt and one of the three jackets you own, like a sacked lumberjack?”
“A sacked lumberjack enjoying his free time.”
Dean nodded across the waters. On the opposite shore, barely visible amidst the browns and grays of the surrounding weeds, a four-foot blue-gray bird—very thin, with no discernable s-curve to its long neck—stood on stick legs, motionless in the shallows. A Great Blue Heron.
The bird’s sharp beak stabbed into the water. Came up with a wriggling trout. The bird lifted its head, and with muscular contractions of its throat, it gulped the trout down whole. It stabbed again, gulped. Stabbed, gulped.
“Impressive fisher, isn’t it?” Dean said. “How about you? You ever fish?”
“Angels are not a species of bird, Dean.”
Dean lifted an eyebrow and snorted. “Yeah, buddy, I got that. Wasn’t exactly picturing you whomping out your wings and swallowing down a live trout. What I meant was”—Dean whisked his hand up and down over Castiel’s vessel—“in your meatsuit, with a fishing rod.”
“Well, actually…”
With dream-twists of his wrists, Castiel telekinetically removed his dress boots and socks and rolled up his pants legs. He slid down to sit near Dean’s feet, and he dipped his toes in the water, its cold needles pricking.
“I’m afraid of fish.”
Dean lost hold of his fishing rod. Castiel grabbed for it, caught it, and held it out to give it back. Dean fumbled for it, his sea-bright eyes never leaving Castiel’s.
“You. Castiel, Angel of the Lord, Smiter of Demons and various and sundry Monsters. Are afraid of fish?”
Copying Dean’s earlier behavior, Castiel tipped his head back and let his face warm in the waning sun.
“Many, many thousands of years ago, a little gray fish struggled up onto a beach. An older brother said to me, ‘Don’t step on that fish, Castiel. Big plans for that fish.’”
“Not a problem, O Fisher of my Soul.” Dean passed Castiel a fishing rod, which he’d produced from wherever dream fishing rods resided. “Cuz I’m not gonna make you use live bait. And—”
—And Dean was sitting beside Castiel on the dock, his own bare toes dangling in the water.
“And you can throw back anything you catch.”
Dean dropped his line into the water. Castiel held his breath and followed suit. The waters didn’t rise up and deluge Earth, the moon didn’t turn to blood and fall from the sky.
Yet.
“You sure I won’t hurt any fish?”
“The lake trout have done all the evolving they’re gonna, Cas. You yanking them out of the water and throwing them back in won’t upset the balance of nature.”
Castiel fidgeted with his fishing rod.
“You’re making ripples. Gonna scare the fish away.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe I should—” Castiel made to stand.
“No, c’mon, fish with me. Sit.”
Castiel sat.
“And relax. This is supposed to be relaxing.”
Castiel’s heart hammered against his ribs like a fighter’s blows.
“You relaxed?”
“Extremely.”
“Like you’re expecting to be swallowed down by Jonah’s whale?”
Castiel squinted at the lake, through its layers of water to its muddy bottom, ten feet or so below. “Doubtful it was a whale, Dean. Only sperm whales have throats wide enough to swallow large prey, and—”
“Cas. Meta-whatsit.”
“Oh.” Castiel tilted his head. “I get it. I think.”
Still, Castiel scanned the lake for any surfacing dream-whales.
Dean touched his hand to Castiel’s shaky one—
And Castiel’s Grace stilled around the contact.
“Tell you what,” Dean said. “You get a nibble—keep your eye on your bobber there”—Dean nodded at the small, red-and-white globe that’d suddenly attached itself to Castiel’s line and was floating on the water—“let me know, and I’ll help you.”
Castiel didn’t dare move, didn’t dare break the dream-spell of Dean's gentle touch.
Not until Dean finally lifted his hand.
Then:
Castiel drew himself up and sat tall. “That’s a great relief. Thank you, Dean.”
Dean slapped him on the back.
Castiel riveted his attention on his bobber. He must not miss any nibble, even if it was only a dream-nibble. Who knew what the repercussions would be?
Beside him, Dean chuckled. Castiel snatched a glance at him, then returned to bobber-duty. They fished in silence—the waters below them stretching and sighing, insects humming, small animals swishing through the grasses and leaping through the tree leaves, breezes rising up and riffling their hair. Dream-hours passed, though the sun never dimmed, never sank below the horizon, never stopped kissing the confluence of land and sky. Dean reeled in fish after fish, took them off his hook, slipped them into a red dream bucket.
Castiel’s bobber, fortunately, never bobbed.
“You sure you didn’t put a spell on these fish?” Dean said.
“No, Dean, I didn’t—”
Dean nudged him. “Sure you did. Me catching all of them, you none?”
Was Dean teasing him? The concept was difficult to comprehend, but Dean’s eyes were sparkling like the sun-dappled waves. Castiel’s Grace frolicked at the sight.
“There it is,” Dean said.
“There what is?”
“Your happy face. You put on a genu-wine happy face.”
Castiel placed the fingers of one hand on his lips. The corners of his mouth were reaching towards Heaven. The lake’s mirror reflected his smile.
“Looks good on you,” Dean said.
“Dean, I…”
“You finally got a nibble?” Dean peered at Castiel’s bobber.
“No, I… Dean, I…”
“Crap. You’re trying to tell me you find fishing boring.” Dean dropped his fishing rod, grabbed the bucket, tipped it over the lake.
“Dean, stop!” Castiel seized a slippery fish bent on escape. “Set the bucket upright.” Castiel juggled the fish back into it, the bucket now sitting between them. A few fish had flail-tailed it, but Castiel dream-blessed the rest and multiplied them.
“Damn,” Dean said. “I need to bring you on more fish hunts.”
“Dean, I was trying to say…”
I love you, Dean.
But he couldn’t bring these words into the dream-air. Even here, they felt too fragile, too risky.
“I’m trying to say, thank you, Dean. Thank you for sharing this.”
Dean rested his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Castiel, Angel of the Lord, Fearful Fisher of Fish whose Trench Coat is Trailing in the Lake and He Doesn’t Even Notice, no one I’d rather share it with.”
And I will treasure all our time together, my beloved. I will love you till the End of Time.
Castiel closed his eyes. Another smile tugged at the corners of his lips. A warmth filled his heart, as if the late-day sun had settled there. Dean’s hand still rested on his shoulder. He’d flown through star-filled eons and never once known a peace like this—small, human, sun-warm; Dean’s hand on his shoulder.
If only this stillness, this shared breath between them, would last forever—
“Whoa! Cas! Look!”
Castiel’s eyes flew open. What in Heaven’s—?
“Look up there!” Dean flung up a hand, whooping and hollering. “That’s, that’s, a-mazing!”
Castiel skipped the head-tilt and squint, leapt his gaze skyward—
And forgot how to breathe.
Luminous, looping, bottle-green lines; spiky, chortling, golden globes; plump and pungent hyperspheres—
From one end of the sky to the other, hues, textures, shapes streaked and leapt and pinwheeled like fireworks!
Booms, bangs, fizzles exploded through the crisp air—
Then burst inside Castiel’s chest, in a fountain of aquamarine starlight! The starlight cascaded deeper still, spilling through his Grace like a flutter of trembling wings—
Setting off a forgotten refrain of burnished Hosanna:
Every note crackling with Light and Fire. Every note pulsing with Wild Joy, that same Joy the Neanderthal poet had Sung into the winter sky, her dancers flinging their bodies about.
A rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, surging up from the thunderbooms of fireworks: Castiel’s wings rising in the ether. Not his dream-wings—his tattered, broken wings. Only they, too, now scintillated in rainbow colors, Singing the burnished Hosanna.
With a shuddering breath, Castiel reached toward the sky. To touch Love.
“Cas, what’s going on?”
Castiel covered his mouth with his hand.
“Cas?”
Castiel shook his head, unable to speak.
“Cas, you okay?”
One of Dean’s hands still lay on Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel laid his own atop it—for the dream realm made him bold.
“Cas, are we—? We’re not under attack, are we?”
A laugh gusted out of Castiel. “That”—he gestured at the pyrotechnics—“is poetry, my friend.”
My dearest, my darling.
“Pure poetry. I am awestruck. You dreamed it up.”
Dean, my Dean, you dreamed it up—your very own crazy-assbutt version of the Beloved poem. You dreamed it up to share it with me.
Thank you, Dean. I love you, Dean.