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"Here sighs and cries and shrieks of lamentation
echoed throughout the starless air of Hell;
at first these sounds resounding made me weep:
tongues confused, a language strained in anguish
with cadences of anger, shrill outcries
and raucous groans that joined with sounds of hands,
raising a whirling storm that turns itself
forever through that air of endless black,
like grains of sand swirling when a whirlwind blows." – Dante
He feels it in his bones. Deep inside the place where the countless voices of the Host should be singing, there is only silence. Hell is cold.
He is trying to crawl his way through the fires of the fourth circle the first time they see him. He has to kill so many of them before they give up and retreat. He isn't clean anymore.
The souls reach to him, his hidden grace still partially visible to their immortal eyes. They stretch themselves through bars and over knives and broken glass, just trying to get closer. He thinks that if they touch him, maybe they'll be pure again. So he gathers them close and holds them, whispering soft comforts as long as he can. When he looks at them, they have burned to ash. They see what happens, and are grateful. Still they reach for him.
He cannot sense the righteous man. He has been searching for 30 years, always following the clear pure ringing of his soul (like the ringing of a finger around a wine glass). The sound has faded now, lost amongst all the other noises assaulting his ears. A new strategy is needed, he thinks.
His blade gleams in the reflected light of his grace, its tip pressed against the bleeding throat of yet another demon. The corrupted soul hisses and tries to break his hold, but he is as stone, and will not be moved.
"Where is the Righteous Man?" he growls, and the demon flinches in bitter terror before stuttering out something about butchers and knives and blood and endless screaming and he was ours as soon as he rose from the rack.
The blade moves swiftly. The demon is ashes and smoke before the next not-breath.
The demons have stopped answering him. They know of no righteous man in their midst. He asks for him in many tongues. The tongue of angels, the tongue of daemons, until eventually, one soul cries out to him in an ancient and lost tongue of man.
"He no longer exists as you seek him, angel. He is tarnished. He is Gehenna's and you cannot have him. He is ours; we are his. He is Alistair's. He is becoming. Begone from this place. You do not belong."
Ah. He thinks. Alistair.
Now he knows where to look, it does not take him long to find the righteous man. The demons are right, he is not whole anymore. He is carving into a woman, whose cries appear to be pure agony and ecstasy in the same moment. Her soul is black as tar, oily and reflective in the hell-light.
The righteous man's soul is far brighter than it should be. He is muted, grey at the edges and scarred black lines run across him, but not as corrupted as his time in here should have led him to be.
He has his orders.
He grips the man about the shoulders, pulling him away from his torturous pastime and raises him struggling to the surface.
His grace wraps around the broken thing in his arms, and he patches the damage as best he can. He settles the soul into its vessel, benedictions falling from his lips in song as he works. The soul stops struggling at the sound, and rests easy for a time.
Castiel looks down upon his handiwork, and gives thanks for the collective voice of the Host welcoming him home.
Amen brothers, he proclaims. The Righteous Man is saved.
The song surrounds him, and as he watches Dean rise into the light, his soul brighter than the sun, he smiles.
Gloria Deo.
Through a round aperture I saw appear
Some of the beautiful things that Heaven bears,
Where we came forth, and once more saw the stars. - Dante