Random Castiel (and Michael, and others, and Dean)
For onetouchspark, who requested "Cas feels Dean's pain. Literally." I am fairly sure this isn't the direction you expected me to go. And I'm also fairly sure it plays fast and loose with mythology and continuity. But you get whatcha get.
Spirits retain form although they have no bodies and are reduced to souls. This is true of many other creatures who live in the mass of layers and veils that makes up the fabric of reality. Heaven is but another layer, and the angels, too, have forms, though they cannot be perceived from the physical world. But they can be felt, and their approach brings destruction. This is why angels stay in the vacuum of space, which to them is not empty but full of the treasures of heaven. This is why angels are thought to come from the firmament. Indeed they do, but not because it is above. Simply because it is empty.
This is a long way to go to say that angels do look at each other and see bodies. Of sorts. They do feel in these bodies-of-sorts. And they do occupy space. Thus, before Castiel was Jimmy Novak, Castiel nonetheless had a body. And he nonetheless felt. Felt pain.
Excruciating pain. Intense pain.
Castiel let out screams that silenced galaxies. The others gathered around him. "What does this mean?" they asked of one another. "How should he be in pain through no cause that we can see?"
It was Michael who knew first. "He feels the pain of one to whom he is bound," he said. "One whose soul suffers in Hell."
Castiel grabbed at Michael's robe. "Who?" he said, weakly. "I know... I know of no binding. Why am I bound?"
Michael bent to him, touched his face. "Because, little brother," he said, "you have been chosen for a great task. You will lead a man from perdition, and you will bring him to me."
"I don't understand," Castiel gasped. "Why me? Why not Anael, or Zachariah, or one of your higher brethren?"
"Do you doubt your place in Creation?" Michael whispered, lips and breath a hot wind against Castiel's face, the face that now burned as though it was being stripped to its core. Castiel convulsed, clutched the stars for support. One crumbled to powder in his hands, and the supernova blew through eternity.
"I'm not worthy," he whispered. "I'm just a lesser angel. I'm a foot soldier, I have no qualifications. I cannot."
"You doubt," Michael said, and his face darkened.
"I do not!" Castiel knew the implications of that word."But I... Brother, this task is too big for me. Find another."
"This task is yours, Castiel," Michael said, and he faded away.
(A long time hence, Dean Winchester would say to him, "It's too big for me. Find someone else. I'm not what you think I am." And Castiel would look at him with truly sad eyes and know exactly how he felt.)
The pain lasted for months that were not months but years. then they stopped. Searing blazing pain, and it stopped. And instead Castiel felt sorrow-- deep, unbridled sorrow-- and anger, and vicious pleasure, and a torrent of things he could not understand or explain.
"Make it stop," Castiel gasped to his brothers as they watched in acute distress but never lifted a finger. "Find the man. Unbind me. Relieve my suffering."
"We will," Michael whispered to him. "We will find him and we will relieve your suffering, Castiel, but only if you accept your task. Only then will we lead you to him."
Castiel wept. His tears froze into the tail of a comet. He didn't want to, but he said yes.
(Some time later, Dean Winchester would refuse to say yes. And Castiel would support him. He knew how that felt, too.)
The angelic army laid siege to hell. The demons and the frightened creatures of the night parted before their advance. And they marched upon the racks where Alastair stood, and they found him, found him along with an apprentice. Alastair looked at them and said. "You may have him. I have no quarrel with you. We all have our roles to play in this game; I know mine."
The angels took Dean and relieved him of his suffering. And they called up to Castiel.
Castiel crept up to the spirit lying undone and unconscious on the floor of a torture chamber.
"It's you," he whispered, touching Dean's face. "It's you I've been feeling all this time. It's you."
And he understood his task.
He took Dean by the arm and pulled him up through the layers of the veil that separate hell and earth. He found the body and remade it, eased Dean's soul back into it. And he breathed life into the soft, remade mouth.
(Later, when Dean would complain of the pain, Castiel would have sympathy. He had felt it. And it would lead him on his path to rebellion.
And if he ended up in Hell in Dean's place, he would likely think that was as it should be. The pain should have been his to begin with.)
Spirits retain form although they have no bodies and are reduced to souls. This is true of many other creatures who live in the mass of layers and veils that makes up the fabric of reality. Heaven is but another layer, and the angels, too, have forms, though they cannot be perceived from the physical world. But they can be felt, and their approach brings destruction. This is why angels stay in the vacuum of space, which to them is not empty but full of the treasures of heaven. This is why angels are thought to come from the firmament. Indeed they do, but not because it is above. Simply because it is empty.
This is a long way to go to say that angels do look at each other and see bodies. Of sorts. They do feel in these bodies-of-sorts. And they do occupy space. Thus, before Castiel was Jimmy Novak, Castiel nonetheless had a body. And he nonetheless felt. Felt pain.
Excruciating pain. Intense pain.
Castiel let out screams that silenced galaxies. The others gathered around him. "What does this mean?" they asked of one another. "How should he be in pain through no cause that we can see?"
It was Michael who knew first. "He feels the pain of one to whom he is bound," he said. "One whose soul suffers in Hell."
Castiel grabbed at Michael's robe. "Who?" he said, weakly. "I know... I know of no binding. Why am I bound?"
Michael bent to him, touched his face. "Because, little brother," he said, "you have been chosen for a great task. You will lead a man from perdition, and you will bring him to me."
"I don't understand," Castiel gasped. "Why me? Why not Anael, or Zachariah, or one of your higher brethren?"
"Do you doubt your place in Creation?" Michael whispered, lips and breath a hot wind against Castiel's face, the face that now burned as though it was being stripped to its core. Castiel convulsed, clutched the stars for support. One crumbled to powder in his hands, and the supernova blew through eternity.
"I'm not worthy," he whispered. "I'm just a lesser angel. I'm a foot soldier, I have no qualifications. I cannot."
"You doubt," Michael said, and his face darkened.
"I do not!" Castiel knew the implications of that word."But I... Brother, this task is too big for me. Find another."
"This task is yours, Castiel," Michael said, and he faded away.
(A long time hence, Dean Winchester would say to him, "It's too big for me. Find someone else. I'm not what you think I am." And Castiel would look at him with truly sad eyes and know exactly how he felt.)
The pain lasted for months that were not months but years. then they stopped. Searing blazing pain, and it stopped. And instead Castiel felt sorrow-- deep, unbridled sorrow-- and anger, and vicious pleasure, and a torrent of things he could not understand or explain.
"Make it stop," Castiel gasped to his brothers as they watched in acute distress but never lifted a finger. "Find the man. Unbind me. Relieve my suffering."
"We will," Michael whispered to him. "We will find him and we will relieve your suffering, Castiel, but only if you accept your task. Only then will we lead you to him."
Castiel wept. His tears froze into the tail of a comet. He didn't want to, but he said yes.
(Some time later, Dean Winchester would refuse to say yes. And Castiel would support him. He knew how that felt, too.)
The angelic army laid siege to hell. The demons and the frightened creatures of the night parted before their advance. And they marched upon the racks where Alastair stood, and they found him, found him along with an apprentice. Alastair looked at them and said. "You may have him. I have no quarrel with you. We all have our roles to play in this game; I know mine."
The angels took Dean and relieved him of his suffering. And they called up to Castiel.
Castiel crept up to the spirit lying undone and unconscious on the floor of a torture chamber.
"It's you," he whispered, touching Dean's face. "It's you I've been feeling all this time. It's you."
And he understood his task.
He took Dean by the arm and pulled him up through the layers of the veil that separate hell and earth. He found the body and remade it, eased Dean's soul back into it. And he breathed life into the soft, remade mouth.
(Later, when Dean would complain of the pain, Castiel would have sympathy. He had felt it. And it would lead him on his path to rebellion.
And if he ended up in Hell in Dean's place, he would likely think that was as it should be. The pain should have been his to begin with.)