A/N There are so many other things I should be doing right now, but apparently I'm writing oneshots. Why brain, why. This is basically rant form sorry.
Castiel had watched all of humanity pass by. He had watched the greatest kings, the lowest peasants, the golden light of invention, and the cruel darkness of war. He had been moved by none of it. He had watched passively as the Grand Canyon was formed, and as the tower of babel fell. Angels watched human activity the way humans watched ants futilely digging into the earth in complex patterns – a fascinating machine.
His garrison had seen action before. He had eons of training and his entire existence fell into the hierarchy of taking orders from an unseen leader. This was the faith of angels – complete unquestioning obedience. So it was without a second thought that he accepted his mission to hell to retrieve the soul of Dean Winchester.
Many angels would go, and it was likely few would return. It was deemed an acceptable loss. It was God's will that this soul be saved from the pit, so any that fell, did so as part of God's plan. Castiel did even hope he was one of the few to return. He accepted whatever fate God handed him – success or failure. If only he'd known the true outcome of this excursion, he might have hoped, or hesitated.
It was travelling through hell that he found himself waking to experience. He had never been to hell before; being so far removed from God's grace was a new feeling. Castiel had long since grown accustomed to most experiences, the life of an angel was one of patience and repetition. So something new was in itself something of interest. It was cold outside of God's light. The warmth of God's love was slowly cooling in heaven like a pie left on a windowsill (why Castiel could not question), but here it was icy and bleak. The fires of hatred raged around them, but their scorch was frigid. It had been millennia since he had felt something new.
His eyes travelled eagerly over their surroundings, taking in all the new sights, new sounds. He had seen demons before, many times, but not like this. Here their true forms ran free, not crushed within a vessel. The demons guarded the souls on torture racks, like dragons protective of their gold. The angels fought through them without passion. Demons could rarely hurt angels, in hell was one of the only viable chances they had, yet the angels still did not grant them the respect of fear.
They had to move quickly: the soul of the Righteous Man had already been in hell too long. If he was corrupted it would start a chain events Castiel could not see the end of. The chain would also be God's will so it tried to accept the outcome without passion. He always tempered his thoughts with the calm of faith; whatever happened today, it would be God's will. But still, they would do their best to hurry. The paradox of hurrying toward your destiny was not lost on the angel, but he accepted it through faith.
The battle raged on and time was difficult to calculate. Time in heaven and hell and earth all moved differently. The urgency of their quest filled him with unease. He tried the methods of acceptance, to regain his angelic calm, but found it difficult to master. He was too invested. Castiel chastised himself, and focused on God's will, his ultimate guiding principal. Unease or tension was not a good sign in angels, it meant they were not in sync with God's will. But this was the most important mission he had ever been given, and he was the second in command of the garrison. It would reflect poorly on his abilities if they failed.
Finally, they neared the section of hell the Righteous Man was supposed to be. They had already wrongfully searched through two other sections, to find nothing. Castiel begun to see a light through the haze of evil. The light of a pure soul was instantly recognizable to the angel. When observing the earthly plane, the mortal coil obscured the light, but here in hell with no physical barrier, souls shone like beacons. There were plenty of souls in hell mind you, being tortured by demons until they became twisted and poisoned by hate. This soul was different; the light was blinding, the power rolling off the soul in waves. As Castiel moved closer he could see the edges of the soul were beginning to darken with hate. He didn't stop to contemplate the meaning but reached out to touch the naked soul, wholly consumed with his mission.
For a moment, all he do was gasp for breath. It was like gripping the sun. Electricity raced through him, power flooding into him, mixing with his grace. His mind both raced and stopped entirely. This was new. This was the most different thing he had ever experienced. This was not at all like interacting with souls in heaven. It was the different between a power source doing its job and grabbing a live wire. His hand burned, but he didn't let go.
He could see through Dean's eyes how he perceived hell. He could see the torture, the choice to get off the rack and get some revenge. He could see every moment Dean had experienced on earth. From birth to death, he could see this man's life – his struggle, his sorrow, his fleeting joy. Castiel was moved. Castiel was not used to being moved. He was filled with the fire of human emotion, it was a powerful drug and Castiel was overdosing.
He kept a hand on his prize as his wings took them powerfully upwards. He left the remainder of the angels behind without a second thought. Castiel's mind was clouded – between the fire of touching the bare soul and the waves of emotion seeping into him - he could barely fly straight. His confused captive fought him as they moved towards the light of freedom. Castiel didn't take it personally, the soul didn't know what was happening. The poor twisted being probably thought he was on the VIP express to deeper agony. Or possibly the mind-numbing burn of the connection was felt on both sides. Castiel wasn't sure and he had no basis for comparison. Personally saving a soul from hell had never happened before, he was humbled as realized this action would define him in heaven for eternity.
The taint of evil that touched the edges of the soul burned at the proximity to God's grace, at the closeness of Castiel. That's when he realized. Tainted. They had been too late. Things were in motion now. Castiel wasn't high level enough to know exactly where it ended, but the word floated up to him: apocalypse. If anything could prevent that ending, he was holding it right here in his hand – this one soul, this one man. It was his orders to bring this soul back to the mortal plane and help stop seals from being broken. He would be working side by side with a human. It had been ages since angels had even been on earth in a vessel, much less interacted with humans. Castiel was flooded with excitement at the prospect of new. His heart raced at the idea of helping shape God's vision, helping this man.
Once free of hell, Castiel took his time rebuilding Dean's corporeal form. Normally his powers would be near empty after the battle and the escape. The tips of his wings were singed black from the fires – maybe permanently. But his grace was overflowing with power, from the soul. He felt more powerful than he ever had before.
The righteous man would need something to move about the earthly plane with if he was to stop the apocalypse. Castiel was meticulous in his detail. The body should be exact. Though he had no problem leaving out damage and defects the body has endured. It served no purpose. The human form was beautiful, as were all of God's creations. The complexity of the machine was something humans so rarely appreciated. From the cells of their skins to the workings of tiny veins to maps of synapses, Castiel appreciated God's design and enjoyed the work of creating the vessel… no, body. Dean's body. As he finished, he saw that his touch had left a mark on the soul, a mark that was shining though on the body he had rebuilt. His hand print.
The sight of it gave him a feeling he couldn't name. He knew every language spoken on earth but could not put a word to the sensations flooding his mind. He decided it was simply a side effect of having touched the nuclear reactor that is the human soul. Nothing more. The handprint could stay; it would fade with time like other scars. The human should feel grateful, blessed even, to have been personally touched by a seraph. Castiel felt the urge to place his hand over the mark, but refrained. He was still incorporeal, and didn't know the result would be. It would quite a shame to burn out the body he had just finished remaking.
He put the completed work back where Dean had left it, and stepped back to watch life return to it. With a few words of Enochian, life flowed into the ground and found the waiting body. The combination of the spell and his angelic presence flattened the surrounding trees. He wondered if his orders would have him continue to watch over this man. He hoped they would. His mind raced, and his whole being felt the ebbing fire. It was just the residual power of the soul he reminded himself. Nothing more.
It was the excitement of something new. Nothing more.