Author's note: last time was all Dean, this time it's all Cas. They'll be back together next chapter!
It's a little known fact that angel's have paperwork to fill out; reports on prophets, events, and assaults made, things like that. Not that there's a giant celestial filing cabinet. No, it's more like streams of data flying through space and time. There's an order to it all, but nothing a human could ever discern. Angels can always see it, even in their human vessels. It's connected to their grace, engrained in their being, forever flowing through them, a shared pool of information.
Castiel dipped deep into his grace, to a report marked with sigils to keep the details secret from those who hadn't been involved. Everyone knew about it, but very few angels had been involved. He opened it, and was immersed in a flashback.
There was the smell of stale earth, the wind roared through in his ears. Down, down, down they flew. The air grew hot, blistering; it filled with screams and moans. Castiel led the small unit of angels, their swords at the ready. Bands of demons flew at them, two dozen demons for every angel. Claws and teeth gnashing, slicing at the wings and limbs of heavens warriors. Angel blades cut throats and severed parts of demons. One of the angels was overwhelmed. Then another. And another.
The six remaining angels dove between pillars of fire and ash, slashing and chanting in enochian. Waves of demons, some as strong as the angels themselves crashed into the tiny unit. Something sliced across Castiel's back it cut through feathers and flesh, scoring the base of his valiant wings. He saw another angel over taken. The unit had stormed the gates and paid the price in blood. He could see the chains first, and he knew where they led. The red hot metal looped around the body, writhing and strung up on a dozens of hooks. It wasn't even intact but it was still screaming, or trying to scream at least. You couldn't scream with a throat that looked like that. Screams of enochian curses echoed in his ears, another lost. Castiel gathered the pieces of Dean Winchester, the righteous man who'd spilt blood in hell. If only he had defied orders and launched the assault sooner, he could have saved Dean. He could have saved the world from what he knew was coming now. He flew; he flew faster and harder than he had ever flown before. The pieces seemed to melt in his arms. He let his grace flow from his body into the pieces, there were fewer pieces now, but it was not whole yet. The three remaining angels followed their leader, trying to keep the hordes of demons at bay. A wing clipped a pillar of bodies, and another angel spiraled down like a faulty paper plane. The body in his hands had healed, that was the easy part; the soul was still shredded. He could barely see the gates of Hell before him. The demons were gaining on the tired angels, they'd been at this for weeks. They were countless, the angels were few. Another was overcome. Two left. Castiel's grace flowed into Dean Winchester's soul, it stitched and glued. There would be marks and scars, but it would be whole. The gates were before him, almost there. He passed through as the last angel fell to the mobs of teeth and claws. Castiel was the only one left. Dean Winchester flew out of Hell wrapped in Castiel's arms, and blanketed by his grace. He was left in a hole in a desert. He'd survived Hell, he could survive this.
The broken angel returned to heaven. He was bleeding and shredded, his wings singed. It was marked as a failure. A whole unit of angels lost and the gates of hell opened by the man they were trying to save. Castiel was marked a hero. None of the other angels questioned the order for his new title, but few of them actually liked it. He was an outcast among his brethren. He lived on the fringes of angel society. Slowly but surely gathering a following, amassing his own army. All because of, and all for one man: Dean Winchester.
Castiel put the report back in its place in the stream. He looked down on his sleeping ward. The man who had killed anything that wronged him, the man who'd led a life of sin and violence, the man he almost fell for, the man he did fall for. His grace held the man together, they were bonded. If his soul was recycled, and unique souls like this one often were, Castiel would still be bonded to him. He would be a new person, in a new place, a new vessel, a new mission, but he would still be Castiel's. Could he be called that? Could Castiel claim ownership over a man? Were they each other's? He was part of Dean, and undoubtedly some of Dean had worked its way into the angel. He made the decision right there, when it was time for the man's soul to be taken, when it was labeled for recycling, Castiel would change something. Put it in the same vessel, or same life. Maybe he could swing it so he too became an angel, but what fun would that be? He looked down again; he could feel what Dean was feeling. The man had confided in his brother. He'd relinquished his control; it was the first time since Hell. This was a big step for the hunter. He'd opened his biggest secret up to his brother. He'd made the decision to love Castiel. The angel felt conflicted. Did Dean only love him because he was stitched together with his grace? Did the angel even care? He had loved the human from the moment he began watching. He watched him grow into a man, watched him become the man he was today. Castiel knew every flaw, every tick, every mark on the hunter. Castiel didn't care why Dean loved him, he just cared that he did. Maybe that was wrong, but the angel decided not to care anymore. He laid a kiss on the forehead of the sleeping man, his hand fit into the scar on his shoulder. He would have the hunter, and the hunter would have him. As far as Castiel was concerned, the matter was final.