Badge
It is times like these that Castiel enjoyed the most. In all of his human experiences – the researching, the slaying, the moments of relaxation, and, yes, even the sex – there was not one that compared to an early morning. Whenever the angel looked upon the horizon at dawn he was always amazed at the array of colors his Father had compiled and how well it flowed. It was a perfect miracle, designed to repeat itself day after day; a beauty in a class of its own.
It is one such time that the angel sits on the far edge of a lumpy motel bed, body naked except for a sheet thrown precariously over his abdomen and thighs and his blue eyes trained on the window. He'd arranged the curtains specifically as not to block the glass and interrupt his viewing. Somehow he'd also convinced Dean the night before that this motel was better than the first they'd passed, just inside city limits. He claimed that it was less sullied than the competition, Angel-Mojo, as Dean called it, coming to his aid. He felt only slight guilt at the lie for it afforded him a clear view to an empty field that faced east.
As orange and milky red bled into blue, Castiel was vaguely reminded of Perdition. Repetition of color was a natural thing for this world and he found beauty in how it could be utilized so drastically. The air in Hell had been tinged a sulfurous yellow and its landscape was painted cold blue; the blood that leaked from unseen landmarks was pink from the new souls and black from the old ones.
It seemed so long ago now that he and his brethren had been given their orders. "Do not come back without Dean Winchester," they'd been told. "Face the Unholy Ground and raise the Righteous Man before it is too late." The members of his garrison had promised that they would do all they could – that giving up was no option they'd heard of – and he swore that nothing would stop him from this. But he'd been foolish at the time, unknowing of true corruption and the way Hell could tear a soul to shreds. And he hadn't known just who this Dean Winchester was.
Cas glanced back from the sunrise as gold started to take over the canvas of sky and looked upon the face of his human – his lover. He hadn't known back then just what made up Dean Winchester, but he did now.
All angels had knowledge of The Vessels, of course; the two that would give habitation to their brothers, Lucifer and Michael. They themselves were brothers, Dean and the abomination Sam. It was foretold and therefore it was, they'd believed; nothing could stop it. How wrong they were. But what was left out from the explanations was just what made these brothers up. They were more than useless human suits – more than any human really. Sam was made up of anger and determination and stubbornness, a refusal at the ready for almost anything and mind always back tracking to how he could save someone or change something. His brother was a more complicated matter.
Cas traced a newly formed scar across a strong calf causing Dean to mumble and curl in on himself. The angel felt the smile in his soul but it did not grace his lips; he always had such trouble expressing himself with the still unfamiliar facial muscles of the human anatomy. Certain expressions came naturally, though, derived from human instinct; in moments of passion or great pain his face would automatically contort and he found it comforting that he could, in fact, show how he felt and that he wasn't a 'heartless douche bag' as he'd heard his brothers be called. Humanity had touched him and he found that he liked it. Tracing another scar, this time higher up on Dean's leg, he frowned.
He'd never been informed of what made Dean, Dean while he was serving Heaven. He knew only his name, his face, and the bare recognition of his soul – just enough to find him in the maze of Hell's numerous layers. It took him four human months to find the man in question, and the others had long since given up by the time he'd returned from his exhausting trip through the Unholy Plane. He'd found every piece of the man's soul, strewn about various torture rooms and throughout the chained thunderstorm that permeated Hell's every area. It had been long work and even after he'd found the pieces he still had yet to finish the puzzle.
Putting him back together was difficult for the only certain thing he knew of Dean Winchester's physical appearance was the unmarred form Heaven compiled. Without information on any other corporeal mark he did the best that he could and yet still somehow felt it lacking. Was this the man they needed? He was indistinguishable from any other human male the angel had seen and Castiel was not impressed. That is, until he'd had to take a vessel of his own to watch over his charge. Castiel took all of his charges seriously – watching for the day Thursday would always be a fond memory for him – and Dean was no exception. At least, not in that sense.
As time went on Castiel noticed more and more of the man's appearance in contrast to the other humans. Dean was what one would call a 'dirty blond' though he was still unsure why one would call him filth because of the color of his follicles. The man also had green eyes, a similar shade to mossy tree bark – one of Castiel's favorite earthly creations. After the first year, in which Castiel had been 'name nicked,' he realized something else about Dean and his relation to the human society: he was what one might call attractive. Cas was unsure even at that point what prompted those unfamiliar with the Righteous Man to deem him as such. He himself knew that Dean was beautiful, having cradled his soul against the Grace that God had given him, scorching him unknowingly with a hand-shaped burn that would not leave his newly reformed body. Cas always felt the mark as one of failure, but in the new light of dawn, he realized it was no such thing.
As Cas traced the skin on Dean's chest, hand running over sealed cuts and an anti-possession tattoo, he knew that he had not failed Dean by leaving a handprint upon his shoulder. Indeed, of the few things Dean prided himself on – being a big brother, a good hunter, and having a quick wit – one was his scars.
"They're badges," the human had told his angel as the celestial being ran a tongue over one the night before. He stifled a groan and instead let out a deep pant of breath.
"How so?" Castiel asked, tilting his head in the easiest show of expression he could muster. His attention was otherwise preoccupied with a freckle on Dean's inner thigh, just at the crux of where leg met torso. The man's skin tasted of salt and it gave off a heady scent of leather and musk; Cas found that he liked the combination. Dean couldn't withhold a long groan at the motion. "Dean?"
"They're – huh," he grunted as Cas nipped at his hip, "they show that I've done something. Something important and I wasn't just a stupid cubical worker or – or – oooh," he moaned as heat surrounded his member. "Caaaas," he hissed.
They hadn't gotten much talking done after that and neither minded. In the light of morning, though, and his hand once more tracing the body he'd reassembled, Castiel regretted how he'd put this man back together. Truly, he'd left him near unmarked – his past life of hunting an intangible thing. He was… sad that he'd taken something so precious as those badges away from Dean – the one thing that his lover measured himself by in physical terms. And yet, now, he also felt pleased that the only sign of a previous life on Dean's body when he was resurrected was Cas's own hand. Possessive is what they called it; yes, he liked this human emotion of territorial claim. He crawled up the bed and laid his hand on the perfectly shaped burn. Beneath him, Dean shivered and leaned into the touch before blinking himself awake.
"Cas?" he asked, voice rough with sleep and leftover satiation from the night before.
"Sleep, Dean," the angel commanded.
Dean nodded and drifted off back into slumber. Castiel continued to trace the contours of his body, contented when the light from the window dusted over his lover and shaded his body in the perfect tones of day break. Indeed, the dawn was a marvel to behold and his favorite creation from his Father. But perhaps what the angel held most dear was the recreation of the body next to his and how it fit so perfectly with the rise of the sun.