Chapter Text
“When Castiel first laid a hand on you in hell, he was lost.”
It’s true, Castiel thinks.
The memory of that day he holds with enormous importance. It orbits within his grace like the Earth’s moon.
Tearing through the membrane of Hell felt white hot and suffocating. His wings turned ashen and tarnished, grace singing with his determination.
His presence drew the hordes. They were a pulsing mass of ichor and sludge, a bloody vacuum with a prying grip.
Castiel strained through the legions, his righteous blade dissecting what filth he could. The weight was enormous, but his aim continued to ring true.
Then he felt him. The striking facet of his soul, the fractal glimpse of it, buried but crying out in the drudge of the pit.
Dean Winchester. The righteous man.
He was tainted and ragged from the bloody maw of the rack, his body a mirage, shredded and torn. Castiel could sense, deeper, in the tangled whisp of his soul, that he was the one.
He watched as the human’s huge, tired eyes sparkled with panic. He sensed the uproar, the wavering tightness of souls churning, the great wash of change.
Castiel pushed closer through the swarm, wings extended in a mighty shield behind him, and layed his hand upon the righteous man.
It was exaltation.
The touch sang, bursting forth with light. Every atom screamed and shook, one million thoughts emerging, stars collapsing, fusing, burning. The universe trembled like a plucked string.
Castiel removes them from time, from place, from being. They are nowhere, a pocket of quiet carved from the back door of reality.
Castiel removes his grip to find a bright, stinging mark on the strong curve of Dean’s shoulder. The shape of the mark is foreign to Castiel, a faultless match to the deft, pale hands of the vessel he newly occupies.
Dean is fading. His soul is holding on to a shattered cask of a body. Castiel expels it and is left with the fluttering, golden marrow of his spirit.
He is so bright and beautiful, Castiel is taken with awe. The soul reaches out, yearning and fervent, crying for a home.
Castiel reconstructs his body atom by atom. He lingers in selfish indulgence, an overwhelming warmth inside him.
He places freckle by freckle, regrows organs and tendons warped by time and battle. He weaves golden, supple skin and honeyed emerald eyes.
He slips a hand down his warm, firm flank, gorgeous and resplendent in his pure, unsullied beauty.
When this new body draws its first breath, and his soft stomach rises and lowers, Castiel stops. He has done what has been commanded of him. The scripture of the righteous man continues, and Castiel knows not what will follow.
He will send this man, and his astonishing, incandescent soul to walk among the living, the tortured and confused, once again.
A flicker of doubt shutters across Castiel. How could this be right? How could it be just, when he looks at this man and sees perfection, and sorrow, and courage? This man was layed to waste once before, and yet his soul is strong and loyal.
He has never found reason to falter, to hesitate under his Father’s hand, ever before. But there’s downy hairs dusted on each of Dean’s knuckles, a dark mole in the dip of his collarbone, and the sight of it, the feel of him in his presence, is too much.
He cups the human is his wings, and the give of his warm, nubile skin is brilliant against his feathers. He listens to the sound of Dean’s steadfast heart and makes his decision.
May God have mercy on any who strive to slight this man, for Dean Winchester, the righteous man, is his.