Chapter Text
One
In nearly all aspects of human mythology, Hell was described as a fiery pit of blood and agony. The smell of smoke and ash was a common occurrence, and Satan was depicted as a red dude with a pitchfork and horns.
Dean Winchester was now completely sure that all of the people who had ever come up with a description of Hell had never actually been there.
Hell was dark, for one. No fire to be seen. No eerie, threatening red glow. Just the stench of rotting flesh and sulfur, and the oppressive blackness that seemed to close in from all sides, resting like a physical weight on Dean’s chest. Instead of rock and flames, there were piles and piles of gold and silver, precious metal long since rusted, the wealth of a thousand kingdoms hoarded for hundreds of years until it was barely recognizable. There were bones, too. The remnants of past victims, some of them fresh, some of them centuries old.
The Devil, too, was different.
He came to Dean in the form of a tall, skinny man with slate gray eyes and a cruel smile that sent shivers down Dean’s spine every time. He had arching, ash-gray wings sprouting from his shoulder-blades, and he wielded a knife like the shape of a man was his main form.
It wasn’t. Dean had seen the enormous winged lizard he turned into. It was enough to give him nightmares for days. Not that Dean could tell when it was day and night here, of course. The passage of time in this cave was a mystery to him.
He knew that it had been months. The light stubble he’d had before this whole nightmare had started had turned into a full-on beard, his usually-cropped hair dropping to shoulder-length. Dean’s limbs, which had once been packed with smooth muscle, were now wasted and skeletal. His skin had turned ghost-white and pale, a product of his not seeing the sun since he’d been thrown into this hellhole.
Thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about his eyes deteriorating. It wasn’talways dark in the cave. When Alastair tortured him, he liked to light a torch to see by, sometimes with his own fire.
Dean was supposed to be here for two years.
Twenty-four months, Dean Winchester, Alastair had hissed at him that first day. Two years. One each, to pay for my brothers’ deaths.
Dean Winchester had killed two of the three Princes of Hell.
Azazel, who had murdered Dean’s mother all those years ago, was the eldest. Asmodeus, whom Dean had killed with a single arrow and a broken longbow, was next. Alastair was the only one still alive.
He was the smallest, the youngest, and also the smartest. He had managed to capture Dean in a joint-attack with Asmodeus that had cost his brother his life and had ensured that Dean was dragged away to his cave high in the mountains.
Dean had been here for a long time.
Alastair tortured him every day. The dragon was so fucking smart, though, so Dean never had the chance to hope for him to accidentally kill him. No matter how much filth Dean spewed about his brothers, he never managed to get the dragon riled up. Alastair was precise and intentional with each cut he made, each burn and bruise and broken bone he inflicted on Dean.
Sometimes he didn’t strictly hurt Dean. Sometimes he held his head underwater several times in a row until the human passed out. Sometimes he kept Dean from sleeping for hours, days at a time. Dean had learned, over the course of his stay in this dragon’s cave, that there were many ways to inflict pain without doing much at all.
It was sort of disturbing, how much pleasure Alastair seemed to take from hurting Dean. He’d even seen the dragon get hard from listening to his screams, which was just horrifying. Thankfully, Alastair had never gone there, though Dean lived in fear of the day he would. It was certainly held over his head, just like the threat of having both his legs broken.
Dean had stopped fighting a long time ago.
The first few days had been pure agony, and when he’d had a break to breathe, Dean had tried to kick Alastair’s temple and knock him unconscious. He’d managed it, stealing the keys from the unconscious dragon to unlock his shackles.
He’d forgotten he was in a dragon’s cave, trapped by a wall of rock that was larger than the front gate of Lawrence’s castle. The only way to move it was to have a dragon to do so. Dean had crammed himself against the floor and the bottom of the boulder desperately, trying to find a crack that would lead him outside.
He would later learn that Alastair’s cave was five thousand feet in the air, a sheer cliff face dropping off to the west side of Hell, the second-largest volcano in the Ryuu range. Even if Dean hadmanaged to escape the cave, he never would have made it down the mountain alive.
Sometimes, Dean thought he would have just thrown himself off the edge of the cliff anyway. Anything was better than this.
It was a general rule among humans that when someone was carried off by a dragon, they were as good as dead. Dean had never met any survivors of dragon abductions. The creatures were fiercely protective of the ‘treasures’ they dragged back to their caves, and they were superior to humans in every way when placed in a one-on-one situation.
So yeah, Dean wasn’t expecting a rescue mission. He didn’t want one, didn’t want the deaths of good men and women on his conscience. He knew that if anyone tried to take him away from here, they would end up like the rotting corpse a few feet to the left.
Dean had been chained to a metal post embedded in the back wall of the cave for the time being. He spent a lot of his time on the rack, but after he’d passed out from starvation and dehydration on the third day, Alastair had given up on that idea unless he was torturing Dean. Dean was no fun to him unconscious.
The human sat up now, muscles trembling and weak. He wasn’t given water often and was fed even less. He’d learned his lesson the first time he’d tried refusing food, trying to starve himself to death. By the end of Alastair’s ‘correction’, Dean had been begging him for food, begging him for anything to stop the pain.
Was he disturbed by how quickly he’d broken? Yes. Dean liked to think he would have lasted longer, but he knew now that was simply not the case. The soldier John Winchester had raised, the Dragon-Slayer and the Prince of Lawrence, had been reduced to nothing more than sniveling mess after not even a week and a half of torture.
Pathetic? Yes. Dean preferred not to think about it.
He groaned softly as he brought himself to a sitting position, the welts on his back from a few days ago scraping against the rough wall of the back of the cave. He’d had an infected wound three times, and each time Alastair had drenched it with enough alcohol to make Dean scream. Unfortunately, he hadn’t died.
Dean stared into the darkness of the cave, wondering where Alastair was and if he was coming back. The dragon always made time for him, even if he was busy as the sole ruler of the dragons.
Azazel had been the original king. He’d been born of a clutch of three eggs in the heart of the Ryuu range’s biggest volcano, the eldest of three brothers. He had killed Mary Winchester when Dean was four years old, feeding the hatred that had been simmering for centuries between humans and dragons. John Winchester, who hadn’t been a major player in the War on Syphon, had suddenly become the leader of the fight against dragons.
Dean had killed Azazel fourteen years later when he was eighteen. It had taken three days, four grappling hooks anchoring the dragon’s wings to the ground, thirty-four men, two water cannons, and over four thousand arrows. Eventually, though, Dean had cut out Azazel’s crown of horns and presented them to his father, only to be assigned the task of hunting down the next prince.
Asmodeus, needless to say, was easier to kill.
He was stupid, reckless, and enormous. He was also bright white, like the snow that capped the Ryuu mountains during the winter. He made the mistake of flying right at Dean, thundering his way up the mountain at a speed faster than any horse could imagine traveling. Dean had fired a single arrow into his eye from two hundred yards away with a broken longbow.
Alastair had been much smarter. Dean wasn’t sure if he’d intended to sacrifice Asmodeus or not. He wouldn’t have put it past the third prince to ensure his brother’s death so he could take the throne. Either way, he’d swooped out of nowhere right after Dean had sent an arrow through Asmodeus’s brain and dragged the prince off to his cave.
Dean had been here ever since.
He shifted again, wincing at the pain of his body. Alasatair had carefully peeled the top layer of skin off his right shoulder, then held a torch to the soft, tender skin underneath. It was still throbbing like a motherfucker.
The Prince of Lawrence shifted again, then froze as he heard the telltale thump of talons on stone, announcing the landing of a dragon just outside the entrance of the cave.
Alastair was back.
Dean’s hands began trembling, his heart kickstarting to pound a sickening rhythm inside his throat and skull. He hated the reaction, but it was bone-deep and not something he could control. He attributed the arrival of the dragon with pain. How could he not?
He heard the crunch and rumble of the stone at the entrance being moved, and Dean’s chest quaked with fear. Fucking shit, he was scared.
His eyes slitted in pain as sunlight streamed through the space where the rock had been pushed aside. The cave was awash with golden light. A shadow rose in the middle of that flood of sunlight, throwing cool terror over Dean’s trembling form. The human curled into himself, bringing his knees up to his chest in anticipation of the agony soon to come.
Instead of stepping inside and immediately shutting the door of the cave, Alastair walked forward, coming toward Dean immediately. He left the boulder off to the side, which was weird. Alastair was normally careful, taking every precaution he could to make sure Dean didn’t escape. Strangely, there was no drag of ugly tail on stone either, and his footsteps sounded lighter. Dean tensed, listening for the telltale hissing of amusement, but heard nothing.
Tentatively, he peeled his eyes open a little.
Cerulean blue eyes stared back at him.
Dean’s eyes widened, the painfully bright sun blocked by the silhouette of the powerful dragon standing before him. That was not Alastair.
The dragon was a little smaller, for one. The size of his fighting horns suggested that he was young, maybe a few hundred years old. He was pitch black, too. Like coal, or the obsidian that glassed the sides of the active volcanoes. The dragon’s eyes glowed a hot blue, like the center of a flame.
A quick, instinctive once-over told Dean all he needed to know about the dragon, something he’d learned to do after years of fighting the beasts. The long, lean line of the dragon’s body suggested a fast flier, further supported by the enormous wings tucked against the dragon’s back. Dean couldn’t see the dragon’s tail from this angle, but he guessed it was narrow and streamline, with the ability to flare out and alter direction while flying if needed. The dragon’s eyes were fiercely intelligent, narrowed and assessing as they took in Dean’s trembling, pathetic form.
Dean shook harder.
The dragon regarded him for a moment longer, then stepped forward. Its wings, powerful and tinted blue at the edges, were folded neatly against its back. Its claws were quietly stealthy on the ragged stone of Alastair’s cave.
Dean pushed himself against the back wall as the dragons stepped closer, irrational fear jetting through him. This dragon looked powerful, and power meant pain for Dean. What if this was a new torturer? What if it was worse than Alastair, somehow? What if-
There was a quiet rushing noise, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut as brush of air caressed his cheek. It smelled of cold mountain air, momentarily clearing away the stench of rotted bodies and rusted metal away. Dean nearly sobbed at that, so starved for freedom and sunlight he was practically insane.
Something soft brushed against Dean’s wrists and he cried out in fear, his already-closed eyes squeezing tighter as he braced for agony.
Seconds passed, and nothing came. What the hell? Dean tentatively cracked an eye, then jerked in surprise and fear.
There was a man, a human male, standing in front of him. He was wearing clothes, that weird magic dragons seemed to possess keeping them there even when he shifted forms. The clothes looked soft and warm, a nondescript gray that was fitted to the man’s lean body. The guy was kneeling in front of Dean, handsome face stony and devoid of emotion. Black wings arched over his head, majestic and joined with the shoulder-blades of the man’s back.
Dean stared at him, and the man stared back, blue eyes intense.
His hands were encircling the shackles on Dean’s wrists, the soft pads of his fingers brushing up against the tender skin of Dean’s inner wrist. The human shivered at the gentle contact.
“Who?” Dean croaked finally, voice barely a whisper. It made his throat ache, blood bursting somewhere, making him retch pathetically.
“My name is Castiel,” the dragon told him in a gravelly, deep rasp. “I have come to raise you from perdition, Dean Winchester.”
Dean swallowed the blood and bile rising in his throat. The dragon was here… for him? To… to raise him from perdition? What the fuck did that mean? He was pretty sure ‘perdition’ meant ‘Hell’, but that would mean… That would mean…
No, that wasn’t possible.
The dragon looked away from his face, eyes narrowing at the thick shackles that bound Dean’s wrists. He produced two metal pins from a pocket in the thick wool coat he was wearing, which Dean recognized as lock picks.
The human prince watched faintly as the dragon — Castiel, he’d said — picked the locks on his chains easily. He threw the open cuffs aside, his straight, handsome nose wrinkling with disgust as he eyed the dead body sprawled only a few feet away. Dean felt like he was going to pass out.
“Come, Dean Winchester.” The dragon stood, holding out a hand. Dean stared at the outstretched hand, eyes practically popping out of his head, then turned to look up at the dragon. There was no way this was happening. It was a fever dream, it had to be.
His wrists felt too light without the weight of the shackles. The chafed skin felt raw in the cool air. Dean felt like vomiting and crying at the same time, and he neither the food nor the water to spare to do so.
It seemed Castiel was not a patient dragon.
When Dean didn’t do anything with his offered hand, he knelt, face set with frustration, and slipped rough arms underneath Dean’s bruised shoulders and knees. The human yelped, both in pain and shock, as the dragon lifted him clean off the ground.
Fucking shit. Castiel was strong.
The dragon turned, hefting Dean in his arms like the human weighed nothing. He walked across the floor of Alastair’s cave, carrying Dean away from the place he’d slept and cried and bled in for months and months. The dragon carried him confidently to the entrance of the cave, past the threshold where the rock had stopped him that one time. He carried him out. Out to the sunlight, out to the fresh air, out to freedom.
At the edge of the cliff outside, the dragon set Dean down on the ground. The human shifted, trying to sit up, and barely managed it. He was weak and shaky, even with adrenaline flooding his veins.
The sunlight felt incredible. It was a gentle warmth on his skin, a kiss of heat and light. The fresh mountain wind blew fiercely so high up, slicing straight through the rags Dean was wearing. He shivered hard, but reflected that he’d much rather be cold than be trapped in a cave that smelled of death.
This high up, the entirety of the Ryuu mountain range was spread out below them.
Dean turned with wide eyes to Castiel, the dragon who had saved him for some reason.
The dragon had stepped away, a determined look on his handsome face. Dean’s eyes widened as he watched the human form’s skin seem to ripple, shifting before his very eyes. He had never seen a dragon shift forms before, but Dean found it wasn’t something he could look away from. There was something captivating about watching the lines of the body grow and harden, the soft skin of a human becoming the hard, interlocking neatness of dragon scales.
In a matter of seconds, there was a full-size black dragon standing beside Dean again.
Dean stared at him, then took in the drop off the cliff that spread out to his right. Castiel shifted his wings where they lay, neatly folded against his back.
Eyes widening in panic as he realized what was about to happen, Dean made a desperate attempt to push himself away from the dragon. “No,” he croaked. “No. No. No.” The dragon didn’t seem to register his pleas. It stepped forward, reaching out with one massive front hand to curl enormous claws around Dean’s entire body. The human prince struggled weakly, panic lending him energy that hadn’t been there before. “No. No. No.”
The dragon eyed the drop before them, heedless of Dean’s soft, raspy cries. It tightened its claws around the human prince once, nearly crushing Dean, and then flared its wings to their full span.
With a huff of breath, the dragon dove off the edge of the cliff, carrying Dean’s broken scream with him.
The human passed out from pure fear right after they took to the air, the idea of being dropped and falling and hitting the ground and dying too much for his exhausted, nutrient-deprived brain to handle. His body went limp in Castiel’s claws.
The human didn’t wake, even when the dragon carrying him opened its jaws and let loose a triumphant roar that shook the nearby mountain peaks.
“Dean Winchester is saved!”