Work Text:
Sew the starlight across the body, just so.
Castiel set to his work, needle in his mouth -
or that would be the way it seemed, to an outside observer.
Since the human mind could not comprehend the reality,
here,
here is the tale of how Castiel put Dean Winchester back together again.
***
The materials lay scattered around him, and in his lap -
yes, this angel in the old trenchcoat,
with the face of a man from lost centuries past,
with the face of a cemetery angel.
He looks nothing like this, of course, not really.
But because that is the image humans associate with the name Castiel -
this is what it looks like.
It looks like constellations spread out across his lap, and the floor and walls around him
which are really the firmament of the night sky -
but in the sky, where Castiel and his brethren live, it is always night -
the stars made for stitching.
Castiel passes the top of his palm over an endless sea of green jewels,
the type children dream of, when they dream of Arabian nights -
he sifts, and searches, until he finds the color - just so -
he sets these aside.
He begins, as he must, with bone.
Stitching, stitching, the strength in the marrow and the cold hard white -
firm and strong, reliable; the frame from which all things must begin
the frame which is left, after,
when all things end.
Next, the sinew, the muscle -
supple and quick, the muscle of work rather than beauty
the muscle memory of hair-triggers and never telegraphing a punch
never let 'em see you comin'
and Castiel pauses, for that thought was not his own.
Beside him, in a basket, something bright and warm and buttery
like a summer's day with ice cream and friends, a picnic in a park,
love and joy and sweetness, a warmth that reaches out for Castiel's hand every time he has to pass over it for another element of his work -
and Castiel, being what he is, cannot resist giving it a quick caress.
Just to see,
what it's like -
to hold the soul of the righteous man.
He'd expected it tarnished.
Broken. Battered.
It surprised him.
The touch suffused his being, leaving him warm and light in ways Castiel had never known were possible.
And Castiel smiled down, and went back to work on his creation.
Next, he worked on the veins and the blood and the heartbeat -
in this man, the blood pumped heavy and fast.
He healed the arteries that were already building up.
Castiel healed as he worked, even though he had strict instructions to "put him back exactly as he was, Castiel".
But Castiel was a creator, and he wanted to make Dean Winchester his own.
He closed this creation over lovingly with soft skin, stitching, stitching -
skin tan like the summertime of his soul,
and soft, softer than a man with his career ought to have.
He reached for the gemstones, and made his eyes green,
the green of freshly-mown grass in the summer.
Last, he gently lifted the soul from its basket.
He held it up to look at it closely.
This soul was safe here, with him.
Happy. Delighted. Protected, for the first time in its life.
It reached out for him, and it wept, as Castiel put it into the chest cavity with deep regret and misgiving.
Then, he closed the chest over.
There was a mark, on the arm -
from Castiel dragging the soul out of the pit -
and he left it there, although he didn't have to, as a signature.
As a way for him to find the soul again -
if it wanted to be found,
by this monster that had lovingly cradled it in his great hands,
the first time it had ever known peace.
Castiel looked at his creation. It was beautiful, and beautifully made, as humans went.
But the soul would not spark, the body would not be him, until this last -
and he laid a hand over the naked body in his lap,
over the forehead,
and over the handprint, because Castiel was secretly a sentimental creature -
and he filled the head with all the memories that made Dean Winchester.
He watched the horrors of his life unfold -
he read all the secrets of his heart -
shameful only to Dean, but Castiel ached to feel the shame flowing through him,
knowing that he could not stem the tide, because Dean would be suspicious.
But some of the worst memories -
well,
Castiel sanded off the rough edges. He made them softer, blurrier -
he did what he could to take away the pain of this soul,
to ease its suffering.
Why, he didn't quite know.
Castiel usually followed the rules.
Not this time.
As he watched this man he had built up, atom by atom, and his fierce loyalty, his love for family and friends, his heroism -
and yes, his fears, and his shame, and his questionable actions -
Castiel saw him, all of him -
and he was fascinated.
And something more.
This was a man unlike any other of his Father's creations.
Or perhaps he was just that way to Castiel, who now had reason to understand why they had been commanded to love humanity.
Castiel looked at the man in his lap again, memories complete, body finished, and ready to take that first breath, to open those gemstone eyes.
But -
he thought -
something is missing.
Then he looked at the constellations he had laid out like a blanket around him, helping him to work, and thought -
Ah. There.
And Castiel scattered his favorite constellations across Dean's skin,
so that when they found each other,
he could lose himself in counting them.
Intensely pleased with his creation, he smiled down upon it.
And to his utter shock, Dean took a deep breath -
and opened his eyes.
Eyes that were huge, and innocent, almost childlike in their wonder and their beauty -
eyes that, Castiel already knew, were often tired, or narrowed, on Earth.
Dean lifted a hand to Castiel's cheek -
and Castiel was frozen, because he should not be able to do this -
and with all the childlike wonder in those huge green eyes, said:
"Thank you."
Castiel snapped out of it when he spoke, and hurried to complete his mission -
put the body into the ground in his haste, without thinking of how he would emerge,
or even if he would -
because Castiel,
the angel,
had felt a soul reach out for him alone.
***
Alone again, in his part of heaven, Castiel stared at the cut-out stars from the constellations in the sky.
He wondered, for the first time, about many things.
The command was coming, he knew it -
war was imminent,
he was to be the messenger, this time.
"Castiel," he heard his name called, and he went to serve, as the soldier he had always been.
But for the first time, an ulterior motive hidden beneath a wing,
and the tatters of constellations, along with his own fascination for that lonely, bright soul,
followed Castiel down to earth -
to the righteous man, and to rebellion.