[FIC] - Finding Bluebirds
Author: phaelsafe
Rating: G
Genre and/or Pairing: Destiel
Spoilers: 7.16ish (references 4.16, 5.16, 5.18, 5.22, 6.20, 6.22, and 7.01)
Warnings: none
Word Count: ~2900
Disclaimer: I do not own SPN or make money from this, but I do like to play with the characters.
Summary: He wakes and remembers nothing; he does dream though.
A/N: Spun entirely from the twenty seconds of preview of episode 7.16. Everyone better know where the lyrics (and title) come from!
The police officers who question him at the ER say it is a miracle the paramedics were able to revive him after he spent so long under the surface of the reservoir. The doctors tell him that is why he cannot remember anything, memory loss caused by trauma to his brain from a lack of oxygen, and the hospital transfers him to a place that specializes in such cases.
They call him James here because he cannot recall his name -- it is the most common name for men, and, statistically speaking, it could very well be his. They have taken to calling him Jimmy though, and he hates it; a nickname implies affection and a familiarity he most certainly does not feel in this sterile place where otherwise helpless people are left to be forgotten.
At least, that is what it feels like to him. The staff members are nice enough even though he can tell they act in this manner out of pity. Human nature, or so he guesses; he does not seem capable of connecting with anyone on this level or any other. He does not tell his doctor this and she does not push the issue because it agitates him.
She still asks after his dreams though because he frequently wakes up speaking in languages that he is unable to consciously reproduce, though she tells him the latter is a common symptom of his disorder. The visions are do not feel common, especially when he has them while awake, and he is certain they would leave most people terrified beyond all reason, or locked up in an institution.
Not every dream falls into the category of "nightmare" though. Sometimes, he dreams he is flying. Other times, he--
--can feel it now, a separating sensation like he is disengaging from reality. Maybe, probably, he should not have been thinking about these things in the first place so he sits against the wall in the wide hallway; he does not want to come back to another concussion....
The boy has bright hazel eyes, edging more into green than brown, and a spray of freckles across his nose. He is nine, maybe ten, and he sits apart from his brother, who is several years younger, on the white couch.
Melancholy wells up from somewhere deep within him, an emotion that is foreign to him outside of dreams. Yet in dreams he feels lost, fighting to keep powerful emotions in check.
Maybe his lost memories have something to do with these two. Why else would he dream about such a normal scene? Maybe something awful happened to the boys; maybe he did something-
No! As he watches, he feels so very protective of them, a deep and abiding sense of love and affection. He can't imagine doing anything to hurt either child, even if he can't remember anything about them beyond what he feels.
And there is something about the older boy, something that goes well beyond the realm of devotion: possession, maybe, something he cannot pretend to comprehend, and that scares him.
The children do not notice his presence and yet he remains still.
The room is not right, or rather, the children are wrong, out of place. The furniture looks decades newer than what the kids are wearing, although they don’t seem to notice this as they turn through the pages of a well-aged book.
"Dad's hunting a bodach. Oh, my God. Sam, you'll never guess what the that is!"
"It sounds... Gaelic maybe? I don't know, Dean," says the younger boy as he leans over trying to steal a peek at the page.
Dean jerks away, flipping the cover shut. He keeps his thumb in between the pages to mark his place. "Nah, we're not even supposed to be reading these."
"Whatever," Sam says with a pout as he crosses his arms over his chest and shoves himself back into the cushions.
"Sammy, quit acting like a little kid," Dean demands but he opens the pages once more.
Sam snorts. "Old penis man?"
The two share a look before bursting into sophomoric giggles.
"We gotta see this," Dean says between breaths. "Come on. Dad told me where he was going."
Sam's laughter dies away. "No. Dad said to stay here where it's safe."
Tossing the book on the table, Dean stands and stretches.
"Dude doesn't exactly sound dangerous, Sammy."
Sam levels an exasperated look at his brother. "Don't call me that. And if he wasn't dangerous, we wouldn't be here."
"Well, I'm bored," he states as heads for the door.
"You're supposed to be watching me!" Sam declares, his eyes widening with alarm.
"Then I suggest you come on."
Fear clutches at him as Sam stands warily and follows Dean. He does not know how he knows this, but he does: bodachs are malignant, shadowy creatures which steal children off into the night. He has to try and stop them, keep them sheltered here in the safety of this space for all eternity, because he has a terrible feeling something truly awful will happen if they leave. But what can he possibly do? This is, after all, just a dream.
Right?
Adrenaline floods his veins, driven by the hammering of the heart within his chest.
The phonograph on the desk blares to life without warning, the cylinder spinning up to speed and music blasting out from the horn.
For now I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it's headed my way. Sometimes I grow so tired, but I know I've got one thing I got to do...."
Eyes widening in surprise, both Sam and Dean wheel around to stare at the old machine. Sam presses his hands against his ears as the cylinder accelerates and the music pitches upward into painful frequencies. His shout is lost in the racket, but Dean is across the room in a matter of seconds, holding a chef's knife that he grabbed from somewhere along the way.
The boy stops just short of the desk, seemingly unaffected by the shrill screeching.
The noise breaks off abruptly and Dean approaches slowly, tilting his head as though he still hears something. Suspicious, he lifts the knife.
"Dean?" Sam whispers; his question is far too loud in the otherwise silent room.
Dean responds with a gesture for Sam to stay back.
Sam obliges but he asks, "Is it a restless spirit?"
"I don't think so."
"See? We need to stay here. Maybe Mom was right: angels are watching over us." Sam suggests hopefully.
"I don't know what it is," Dean confesses. He then shoots Sam a surly look and adds, "But angels don't exist, Sam."
The cylinder continues rotating, the stylus picking up and spitting static into the air, and Dean suddenly drops the knife beside the wooden box. He snaps his fingers and says, "Quick, find me some paper and something to write with."
Sam snatches up the pen and notepad resting next to the phone and scrambles over to Dean.
Dean takes it and presses the pen to the paper. He jots out hasty little letters, scribbling with a distant look in his eye.
Sam's curious eyes flick over to Dean. "What does it mean?"
'I don't..." Dean's breath catches. He is shaking now, though otherwise he does not look frightened in the slightest and his voice is calm when he says, "You can't tell Dad about this. Sammy, please."
He is just as breathless as Dean, but he steps closer anyway and peers over their shoulders to read: Dean. Find me. Save me. He is baffled by the rest of the message, which consists of his current address and today's date. It must be a coincidence since it is his dream, but he cannot puzzle out the relevance of it.
Studying his brother, Sam, his face so full of youthful trust, agrees. "Okay."
He opens his eyes to find the sun has set. He is standing outside the clinic wearing a heavy windbreaker over his clothing, and he has no idea how he got here.
The night is cloudless, and he looks up into the dark sky wishing there was less light pollution so he could see the stars. There is a chill in the air that cuts right through his thin scrubs but he pays it no mind; it helps clear away the remnants of the dream from his mind.
A roar from a large white car with black racing stripes tears through the evening as it turns into the parking lot. The motor revs up, forcing the vehicle over the rise of concrete that connects to the street. Music blasts out from the open windows.
"Gonna ramble on, sing my song. Gotta keep-a-searchin' for my baby.... Gonna work my way, round the world. I can't stop this feelin' in my heart. Gotta keep searchin' for my baby."
He feels oddly gratified by the song and a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold races down his spine at the familiar sound of the engine rumbling to a stop. As the music fades away, the feeling is replaced with bitter apprehension, and with the slamming of a car door, he turns to make his way back into the building where he is supposed to be.
The dread within him swells as he hears one set of heavy footsteps approaching from behind break into run. Instead of following suit and racing for the perceived safety of his pseudo-home, he falters and stumbles to a stop right there in the middle of the sidewalk.
He does not turn around, he will not turn around, because something nasty is bubbling its way out of the recesses of his mind, memories that he could pull forth if he really wanted to. But he does not want to remember; he refuses to remember.
The gentle but desperate tug at his shoulder wrenches every last bit of it free, and his heart breaks yet again under the weight of that warm hand.
He turns then reluctantly, eyes cast to the ground under the gravity of his past transgressions.
The heavily scuffed work boots in front of him still need to be replaced.
Letting them in was accidental, they didn't leave when he returned the other souls to Purgatory, and he strains against the blackness as they try to take him over. "Leviathan! I can't fight them. Run!" he hollers to Dean, but it is too late...
...he pulls the blade from his back and tosses it aside without a further thought. "I'm glad you could make it, Sam, but the angel blade won't work because I'm not an angel anymore. I'm your new God -- a better one -- so you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord, or I shall destroy you," he proclaims to the stunned hunters around him...
..."It's not too late. Damn it, Cas. We can fix this!" Dean offers despite the betrayed look on his face.
The house quakes around them with Crowley's arrival. He glares balefully at the ring of fire encircling him. "Dean. It's not broken. You have to run now. Run!" he orders.
His eyes drift past the the bowed legs, the jut of the man's hips that tilt in a way that suggests he is always prepared for a fight.
Sam and Adam are both gone, fallen into Hell beyond his reach.
Dean kneels in the grass, his face beaten to a bloody pulp by Lucifer. The hunter looks up, grimacing at the pain the movement brings. "Cas, you're alive?" he breathes out.
"I'm better than that," he answers.
The smile Dean gives him is strained but honest. "Cas, are you God?"
He cannot help his amused chuckle at that. "That's a nice compliment, but no. Although... I do think He brought me back. New and improved."
With a caress he heals the damage done to Dean's face.
An ancient pendant, a present from a beloved brother, used to hang from the man's neck.
Leaving the preacher unconscious on the ground, he slams Dean against the nearest brick wall.
"What, are you crazy?" Dean groans.
The fury courses through him and he flings the hunter further into the alley. "I rebelled for this?" he rages. His powers may be waning, but Dean's head still snaps back from the unnatural force of the blows that land upon his jaw.
He pins Dean against the building, leans in close, and hisses, "So you could surrender to them?"
Dean remains silent so he smacks Dean against the wall again and punches him in the stomach. "I gave everything for you, and this is what you give me...."
"Cas, please," Dean finally begs.
He no longer wants to hear excuses and kicks Dean into the chain-link fence at the far end of the alley. With a groan, Dean rolls onto hands and knees, spitting out blood and struggling to sit up.
He stalks over to Dean, towers over him, but Dean just glares back before saying, still pleading with the angel, "Do it, just do it!"
The anger fizzles out of him suddenly and he watches as Dean wheezes in pain. Unable to grant the man's wish, he uncurls his fist and knocks Dean out with a touch of his fingers instead...
...he looks up, ignoring the ceiling between him and Heaven. Dean wants to help him, tries to say something useful, but there are no words for this.
He reaches into his pocket and turns toward the hunter. "I don't need this anymore," he says as he tosses the amulet back to its true owner.
Glancing down, Dean's mouth falls open to respond but he cuts in first. "It's worthless."
With a flap of his wings he is gone from the room...
There was once a scar in the shape of his own hand burned into the shoulder in front of him.
…"What's going on, Cas?" Dean asks, stepping forward now that Uriel is gone.
His eyes dart away, briefly ashamed, knowing he should not be capable of feeling anything in the first place.
"Since when does Uriel put a leash on you?"
He can hear the worry lacing the words, and he thinks he can safely assume it is not solely from a sense of self-preservation. He glances back at Dean. "My superiors have begun to question my sympathies," he explains with a sigh.
"Your sympathies?"
"I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You." He pauses to take a breath his body doesn't require. "They feel I've begun to express emotions, the doorways to doubt. This can impair my judgment." He cannot deny the accusations either, nor does he know how to cope with these emotions. No longer able to look at his ward, he turns away.
Dean follows, forcing him to maintain eye contact before walking around to stare through the grimy pane of glass. The demon strung up on the other side of the door is busy pretending they don't exist. "Well, tell Uriel, or whoever, you do not want me doing this. Trust me."
He can hear how Dean struggles with his own inner demon. "Want it, no. But I have been told we need it."
"You ask me to open that door and walk through it, you will not like what walks back out."
Why was he asked to retrieve Dean from the rack only to place the man in a different kind of hell? "For what it's worth, I would give anything not to have you do this," he announces, sincere with the all of his heart...
...he fought his way here, through hordes of sulphurous, black demons, to the Righteous Man. This soul glows so brightly, even in this place, even through the decades of torture, and he reaches out. The soul cringes away from him, and oh, how he resents that in ways angels should not, but this man is only human. This man is just a man so he grasps the soul tightly to him. It his turn to flinch as a piece of his Grace sears into that soul, forever binding them together, but he must complete his assignment and so he rends the fabric of Hell apart. They escape together, and to the Choirs of Heaven sweetly singing, "Dean Winchester is saved!"
The shocked green eyes stare out at him from a freckled face.
He put this man's body back together, piece by piece.
Despite having the power to move time and space while holding the secrets of Heaven in the palm of his hand, Castiel does not know what will happen next.
"Hello, Dean."
Rating: G
Genre and/or Pairing: Destiel
Spoilers: 7.16ish (references 4.16, 5.16, 5.18, 5.22, 6.20, 6.22, and 7.01)
Warnings: none
Word Count: ~2900
Disclaimer: I do not own SPN or make money from this, but I do like to play with the characters.
Summary: He wakes and remembers nothing; he does dream though.
A/N: Spun entirely from the twenty seconds of preview of episode 7.16. Everyone better know where the lyrics (and title) come from!
The police officers who question him at the ER say it is a miracle the paramedics were able to revive him after he spent so long under the surface of the reservoir. The doctors tell him that is why he cannot remember anything, memory loss caused by trauma to his brain from a lack of oxygen, and the hospital transfers him to a place that specializes in such cases.
They call him James here because he cannot recall his name -- it is the most common name for men, and, statistically speaking, it could very well be his. They have taken to calling him Jimmy though, and he hates it; a nickname implies affection and a familiarity he most certainly does not feel in this sterile place where otherwise helpless people are left to be forgotten.
At least, that is what it feels like to him. The staff members are nice enough even though he can tell they act in this manner out of pity. Human nature, or so he guesses; he does not seem capable of connecting with anyone on this level or any other. He does not tell his doctor this and she does not push the issue because it agitates him.
She still asks after his dreams though because he frequently wakes up speaking in languages that he is unable to consciously reproduce, though she tells him the latter is a common symptom of his disorder. The visions are do not feel common, especially when he has them while awake, and he is certain they would leave most people terrified beyond all reason, or locked up in an institution.
Not every dream falls into the category of "nightmare" though. Sometimes, he dreams he is flying. Other times, he--
--can feel it now, a separating sensation like he is disengaging from reality. Maybe, probably, he should not have been thinking about these things in the first place so he sits against the wall in the wide hallway; he does not want to come back to another concussion....
The boy has bright hazel eyes, edging more into green than brown, and a spray of freckles across his nose. He is nine, maybe ten, and he sits apart from his brother, who is several years younger, on the white couch.
Melancholy wells up from somewhere deep within him, an emotion that is foreign to him outside of dreams. Yet in dreams he feels lost, fighting to keep powerful emotions in check.
Maybe his lost memories have something to do with these two. Why else would he dream about such a normal scene? Maybe something awful happened to the boys; maybe he did something-
No! As he watches, he feels so very protective of them, a deep and abiding sense of love and affection. He can't imagine doing anything to hurt either child, even if he can't remember anything about them beyond what he feels.
And there is something about the older boy, something that goes well beyond the realm of devotion: possession, maybe, something he cannot pretend to comprehend, and that scares him.
The children do not notice his presence and yet he remains still.
The room is not right, or rather, the children are wrong, out of place. The furniture looks decades newer than what the kids are wearing, although they don’t seem to notice this as they turn through the pages of a well-aged book.
"Dad's hunting a bodach. Oh, my God. Sam, you'll never guess what the that is!"
"It sounds... Gaelic maybe? I don't know, Dean," says the younger boy as he leans over trying to steal a peek at the page.
Dean jerks away, flipping the cover shut. He keeps his thumb in between the pages to mark his place. "Nah, we're not even supposed to be reading these."
"Whatever," Sam says with a pout as he crosses his arms over his chest and shoves himself back into the cushions.
"Sammy, quit acting like a little kid," Dean demands but he opens the pages once more.
Sam snorts. "Old penis man?"
The two share a look before bursting into sophomoric giggles.
"We gotta see this," Dean says between breaths. "Come on. Dad told me where he was going."
Sam's laughter dies away. "No. Dad said to stay here where it's safe."
Tossing the book on the table, Dean stands and stretches.
"Dude doesn't exactly sound dangerous, Sammy."
Sam levels an exasperated look at his brother. "Don't call me that. And if he wasn't dangerous, we wouldn't be here."
"Well, I'm bored," he states as heads for the door.
"You're supposed to be watching me!" Sam declares, his eyes widening with alarm.
"Then I suggest you come on."
Fear clutches at him as Sam stands warily and follows Dean. He does not know how he knows this, but he does: bodachs are malignant, shadowy creatures which steal children off into the night. He has to try and stop them, keep them sheltered here in the safety of this space for all eternity, because he has a terrible feeling something truly awful will happen if they leave. But what can he possibly do? This is, after all, just a dream.
Right?
Adrenaline floods his veins, driven by the hammering of the heart within his chest.
The phonograph on the desk blares to life without warning, the cylinder spinning up to speed and music blasting out from the horn.
For now I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it's headed my way. Sometimes I grow so tired, but I know I've got one thing I got to do...."
Eyes widening in surprise, both Sam and Dean wheel around to stare at the old machine. Sam presses his hands against his ears as the cylinder accelerates and the music pitches upward into painful frequencies. His shout is lost in the racket, but Dean is across the room in a matter of seconds, holding a chef's knife that he grabbed from somewhere along the way.
The boy stops just short of the desk, seemingly unaffected by the shrill screeching.
The noise breaks off abruptly and Dean approaches slowly, tilting his head as though he still hears something. Suspicious, he lifts the knife.
"Dean?" Sam whispers; his question is far too loud in the otherwise silent room.
Dean responds with a gesture for Sam to stay back.
Sam obliges but he asks, "Is it a restless spirit?"
"I don't think so."
"See? We need to stay here. Maybe Mom was right: angels are watching over us." Sam suggests hopefully.
"I don't know what it is," Dean confesses. He then shoots Sam a surly look and adds, "But angels don't exist, Sam."
The cylinder continues rotating, the stylus picking up and spitting static into the air, and Dean suddenly drops the knife beside the wooden box. He snaps his fingers and says, "Quick, find me some paper and something to write with."
Sam snatches up the pen and notepad resting next to the phone and scrambles over to Dean.
Dean takes it and presses the pen to the paper. He jots out hasty little letters, scribbling with a distant look in his eye.
Sam's curious eyes flick over to Dean. "What does it mean?"
'I don't..." Dean's breath catches. He is shaking now, though otherwise he does not look frightened in the slightest and his voice is calm when he says, "You can't tell Dad about this. Sammy, please."
He is just as breathless as Dean, but he steps closer anyway and peers over their shoulders to read: Dean. Find me. Save me. He is baffled by the rest of the message, which consists of his current address and today's date. It must be a coincidence since it is his dream, but he cannot puzzle out the relevance of it.
Studying his brother, Sam, his face so full of youthful trust, agrees. "Okay."
He opens his eyes to find the sun has set. He is standing outside the clinic wearing a heavy windbreaker over his clothing, and he has no idea how he got here.
The night is cloudless, and he looks up into the dark sky wishing there was less light pollution so he could see the stars. There is a chill in the air that cuts right through his thin scrubs but he pays it no mind; it helps clear away the remnants of the dream from his mind.
A roar from a large white car with black racing stripes tears through the evening as it turns into the parking lot. The motor revs up, forcing the vehicle over the rise of concrete that connects to the street. Music blasts out from the open windows.
"Gonna ramble on, sing my song. Gotta keep-a-searchin' for my baby.... Gonna work my way, round the world. I can't stop this feelin' in my heart. Gotta keep searchin' for my baby."
He feels oddly gratified by the song and a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold races down his spine at the familiar sound of the engine rumbling to a stop. As the music fades away, the feeling is replaced with bitter apprehension, and with the slamming of a car door, he turns to make his way back into the building where he is supposed to be.
The dread within him swells as he hears one set of heavy footsteps approaching from behind break into run. Instead of following suit and racing for the perceived safety of his pseudo-home, he falters and stumbles to a stop right there in the middle of the sidewalk.
He does not turn around, he will not turn around, because something nasty is bubbling its way out of the recesses of his mind, memories that he could pull forth if he really wanted to. But he does not want to remember; he refuses to remember.
The gentle but desperate tug at his shoulder wrenches every last bit of it free, and his heart breaks yet again under the weight of that warm hand.
He turns then reluctantly, eyes cast to the ground under the gravity of his past transgressions.
The heavily scuffed work boots in front of him still need to be replaced.
Letting them in was accidental, they didn't leave when he returned the other souls to Purgatory, and he strains against the blackness as they try to take him over. "Leviathan! I can't fight them. Run!" he hollers to Dean, but it is too late...
...he pulls the blade from his back and tosses it aside without a further thought. "I'm glad you could make it, Sam, but the angel blade won't work because I'm not an angel anymore. I'm your new God -- a better one -- so you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord, or I shall destroy you," he proclaims to the stunned hunters around him...
..."It's not too late. Damn it, Cas. We can fix this!" Dean offers despite the betrayed look on his face.
The house quakes around them with Crowley's arrival. He glares balefully at the ring of fire encircling him. "Dean. It's not broken. You have to run now. Run!" he orders.
His eyes drift past the the bowed legs, the jut of the man's hips that tilt in a way that suggests he is always prepared for a fight.
Sam and Adam are both gone, fallen into Hell beyond his reach.
Dean kneels in the grass, his face beaten to a bloody pulp by Lucifer. The hunter looks up, grimacing at the pain the movement brings. "Cas, you're alive?" he breathes out.
"I'm better than that," he answers.
The smile Dean gives him is strained but honest. "Cas, are you God?"
He cannot help his amused chuckle at that. "That's a nice compliment, but no. Although... I do think He brought me back. New and improved."
With a caress he heals the damage done to Dean's face.
An ancient pendant, a present from a beloved brother, used to hang from the man's neck.
Leaving the preacher unconscious on the ground, he slams Dean against the nearest brick wall.
"What, are you crazy?" Dean groans.
The fury courses through him and he flings the hunter further into the alley. "I rebelled for this?" he rages. His powers may be waning, but Dean's head still snaps back from the unnatural force of the blows that land upon his jaw.
He pins Dean against the building, leans in close, and hisses, "So you could surrender to them?"
Dean remains silent so he smacks Dean against the wall again and punches him in the stomach. "I gave everything for you, and this is what you give me...."
"Cas, please," Dean finally begs.
He no longer wants to hear excuses and kicks Dean into the chain-link fence at the far end of the alley. With a groan, Dean rolls onto hands and knees, spitting out blood and struggling to sit up.
He stalks over to Dean, towers over him, but Dean just glares back before saying, still pleading with the angel, "Do it, just do it!"
The anger fizzles out of him suddenly and he watches as Dean wheezes in pain. Unable to grant the man's wish, he uncurls his fist and knocks Dean out with a touch of his fingers instead...
...he looks up, ignoring the ceiling between him and Heaven. Dean wants to help him, tries to say something useful, but there are no words for this.
He reaches into his pocket and turns toward the hunter. "I don't need this anymore," he says as he tosses the amulet back to its true owner.
Glancing down, Dean's mouth falls open to respond but he cuts in first. "It's worthless."
With a flap of his wings he is gone from the room...
There was once a scar in the shape of his own hand burned into the shoulder in front of him.
…"What's going on, Cas?" Dean asks, stepping forward now that Uriel is gone.
His eyes dart away, briefly ashamed, knowing he should not be capable of feeling anything in the first place.
"Since when does Uriel put a leash on you?"
He can hear the worry lacing the words, and he thinks he can safely assume it is not solely from a sense of self-preservation. He glances back at Dean. "My superiors have begun to question my sympathies," he explains with a sigh.
"Your sympathies?"
"I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You." He pauses to take a breath his body doesn't require. "They feel I've begun to express emotions, the doorways to doubt. This can impair my judgment." He cannot deny the accusations either, nor does he know how to cope with these emotions. No longer able to look at his ward, he turns away.
Dean follows, forcing him to maintain eye contact before walking around to stare through the grimy pane of glass. The demon strung up on the other side of the door is busy pretending they don't exist. "Well, tell Uriel, or whoever, you do not want me doing this. Trust me."
He can hear how Dean struggles with his own inner demon. "Want it, no. But I have been told we need it."
"You ask me to open that door and walk through it, you will not like what walks back out."
Why was he asked to retrieve Dean from the rack only to place the man in a different kind of hell? "For what it's worth, I would give anything not to have you do this," he announces, sincere with the all of his heart...
...he fought his way here, through hordes of sulphurous, black demons, to the Righteous Man. This soul glows so brightly, even in this place, even through the decades of torture, and he reaches out. The soul cringes away from him, and oh, how he resents that in ways angels should not, but this man is only human. This man is just a man so he grasps the soul tightly to him. It his turn to flinch as a piece of his Grace sears into that soul, forever binding them together, but he must complete his assignment and so he rends the fabric of Hell apart. They escape together, and to the Choirs of Heaven sweetly singing, "Dean Winchester is saved!"
The shocked green eyes stare out at him from a freckled face.
He put this man's body back together, piece by piece.
Despite having the power to move time and space while holding the secrets of Heaven in the palm of his hand, Castiel does not know what will happen next.
"Hello, Dean."