I was not born. I was created. Sculpted out of energy or stars or cold, hard marble from the side of a mountain or the depths of the universe by perfect hands without a face. The hands are cold and loving and careful. They do not make mistakes.

That is what they tell me. I'm young. I'm impressionable. They tell me that He created me with His own hands out of the kindness of His heart, that God's love is undeniable. They tell me to watch, to learn. The humans, the soft, hairless, ridiculous humans who stumble around blindly in a world full of so many wonders but see the thunder clouds as God's rage. You can learn from them, Castiel, they say. They're God's most perfect creation. Love them, serve them, protect them.

Then they drag me away and they train me. I become a soldier, one of God's. There are billions of us, more angels in Heaven than humans on earth. There is evil, they say. Even with God, and it's our job to stop it.

One day Michael takes control. We're only allowed to watch Earth from afar. Only a select few are allowed to take a vessel. It's lonely without the humans. Without God's world.

They stick me with an angel called Anna. She's brilliant, fierce, single-minded. I've never met anyone who loves God as much as she does. She says to me, Castiel, it is our duty to protect the world from Evil, it is our duty to love God. Follow me, Castiel.

And I do. I follow Anna until the day she falls, until the day she receives orders from a superior, and says, "no." Angels do not say no. Flawless, expressionless creatures created by God's hands, hands that do not make mistakes, are not created to say no, to think for themselves. They are created for obedience. They are created to serve God and his humans. Before Anna falls, not to Hell, but to Earth, she says, "Trust in God."

And I do.

I fight as one of God's soldiers. I am strong. I am obedient. I am faithful and loving. For years I am the model angel. I am what God intended for me to be: perfect.

And then, one day, I receive orders, a last ditch effort to save a soul from Hell.

They tell me nothing but a name. They don't tell me why he's down there, why he deserves to be saved, why now, why me. Nothing but a name: Dean Winchester. They say he's torturing. He needs to be saved. I recognize the name from overheard whispers.

There's two of them, I've heard, and the other one, the younger one, he's a monster. The King of Hell. His name is Sam. He's got demon's blood pumping through his veins. He's destined to rule Hell. Destined to destroy us. Destined by the plotting of the demon Azazel, who contaminated him, soiled him, found the perfect boy to be king. A monstrous king who wears the skins of children as robes and drinks the blood of mothers. He opened the Devil's Gate. He's a human hybrid who will end the world and damn us all. Right now, he's piss drunk in Illinois, but, my superiors tell me, he's Hell's most wanted.

Meanwhile, his brother's soul belongs to Heaven. There's a human torturing in Hell, and all they tell me is that he's going to save us. He will, whether he wants to or not. He's the only one who can. Save us from the new demon threats terrorizing the Earth, save us from Hell, rising, save us from his brother.

Sam Winchester's name is a warning; Dean's is a beacon of hope.

I descend into Hell and Dean Winchester is waiting, staring me in the face, tells me he can rescue himself. I don't introduce myself, don't know if he can see me, but I grab onto his shoulder, pull him out of the Pit. He's fighting the whole way, as if he doesn't want to be rescued because he's too proud or too ashamed, or maybe a little of both.

I hover above his grave. I don't have a vessel. He's somewhere else in the state, waiting for me. I'm on the Earth among mankind for the first time in 2,000 years, above Dean Winchester's grave. I call out to my superiors. I have other duties on Earth now, but before I move on, I must inform them that I have finished. I call out.

Dean Winchester is saved.