"You will be lost, Castiel," the angel heard in the back of his mind as he entered Hell to claim another's prize.
It rang somewhere through the void, hung there, embedded in the skin of some ancient behemoth. He tore himself from the ashes at its bidding, began the flow of red with the beat of his wings, and he was livid.
The corruption diffused throughout the veins of his vessel. The vestiges of his apathy balked at the intrusion, struggling fiercely before acquiescing, yielding to a great and terrible end. He had been told the consequences of fraternizing with the enemy. Humanity, he surmised, was foreign. "Free will" ebbed and flowed like tidal waves. Like the rivulets of blood exiting a demon's chest.
This righteous man, this true vessel – he belonged to Michael. That would not change.
Castiel was cognizant of the specifics of Dean Winchester's death. His demise was met on the second of May, 2008, at the insistence of a hellhound. It was the abstracts that perplexed him, knotted the eyebrows of the skin he is wearing together. This man did not die to further his own goals. He did not do so to resist a god he never believed in. Dean Winchester died for that which was once more ephemeral than him, a being rooted, ultimately, in vice, in earth.
Dean Winchester died for another's sins and to this day his suffering echoed throughout Hell's confines. His humanity was nearly lost and -
"Fuck." The colloquialism echoed throughout the depths of hell, but its genesis lied immediately in front of the angel, laid bare and waiting. Castiel was gone.
"Fuck...uh," a ragged voice mustered, pausing momentarily before approaching intelligibility. "Son of a bitch, I...is that what it's gonna be this time? You gonna play dress up? Joke about being some beautiful savior, come to rescue me? Make me yours, then tear me apart? I've got some news for you, man. It ain't...it ain't gonna work."
The first reaction lay, dead, upon the angel's tongue, an irate reprimand, the assertion that he was truly the divine; he had not approached Dean Winchester to ravage him further; he moved forwards, extending his Grace outwards for the man's soul to receive. This was not artwork. This was bestial, visceral and primal. This was a wounded animal, its insides swirling with rage and fear. "My condolences - I must inform you that I do not intend to 'make you mine,' as you so crudely refer to it," he informed the beast, then began his repairs.
A choked noise tore itself from the righteous man's throat as the body encasing his soul changed, morphing gradually from broken shreds into something whole. The aesthetics of this man were appealing even in death, Castiel noted as he eased the pain of his reconfiguration with a tendril of intent. It was all he could do to renew them in a new life.
"Sammy," Dean called out, the tears pouring down his face. "I don't - I can't - I deserve to die, but if you're real, if you give a shit about anything, just, please - take me to Sammy." The effect on the angel's psyche was sobering; this man was trusting in his pain, refrained from realizing the multitude of wars waged inside his brain.
Castiel burned his brand onto the shoulder of the suffering man with one hand, lacing the fingers of the other into Dean's right palm as he permitted him to arise.
A voice resounded in the back of his mind, small and wary. Dean Winchester is not his, it says, but if he continues down this path, he will become Dean Winchester's.
The angel capitulated anyways, suppressing it with the ember of emotion. He gave in to promises of nights spent watching over this man, fostering the burn of free will in his own chest. If the righteous man does not believe he is worth saving, thinks he has no purpose, Castiel decided he would convince him of it. He would forge a bond, in kept promises and weary stares, stolen moments and unwavering loyalty.
When the time came to acquiesce to Michael, hand a good man over to a higher power, ostensibly he would do so. But ultimately, it was desire that tread, blunt and dangerous, over Castiel's frame.
It was desire, he remarked years later, that propelled him towards the Winchesters and away from heaven, desire that caused him to lie and rebel. Freedom was asphyxiating; trust was setting yourself up for betrayal. Love, at times, was to sacrifice parts of your own self in return for someone else's. Will was to deny another what they wanted.
And he took up each of those things, unrelenting in his rebellion, for one man. He allowed hope to gather where it was not present beforehand. Castiel denied fate, time and time again, shed copious amounts of angelic blood.
It was all for Dean Winchester. All of it.
And, as night after night, Dean interlaced his fingers with Castiel, smiling as he caressed a face that was no longer Jimmy Novak's and leaned in to kiss it, the angel became convinced that he would make the same decisions given the choice. That, if he aligned himself not with good or evil but this man and his brother, it would be satisfactory in the end.
He and Dean were enough.
They always would be.