“When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost!”
Castiel stared at her, and remembered.
He remembered the pain of the acidic air on his wings. He had stabbed and shoved his way through the demons, wading through blood and bodies of his fallen kin. It was far from angelic, farther from than anything he had ever done before.
The air ahead of him cleared and he saw him. A spark of doubt lit in him. This snarling, bloody demon was the righteous man?
The thing turned from the tormented soul at his feet and Castiel stared straight into his eyes, flickering between black and bright green, like they weren’t sure whether their owner was human or something else entirely. Castiel straightened. There was still hope. He strode forward and reached for Dean Winchester’s shoulder. The man roared wordlessly at him and raised his blood caked whip, but Castiel was faster.
His hand fastened on Dean’s shoulder and inside his head, the world exploded. In his mind’s eye was a churning ball of light and colour. It flashed and writhed furiously. Parts of it surged up and out, blazing with green-gold-orange-white before dropping down again. Strangely, they reminded him of solar flares. Blackened cracks marred the surface, but they couldn’t block the intensity of that light. He observed it with something akin to wonder. How could anything trapped in this place for so long still be beautiful?
He reached out a hand -his real hand, not the one of his vessel- and touched Dean Winchester’s soul. He gripped it tight.
Castiel remembered, and decided that when he had first laid a hand on Dean he wasn’t lost. He was found.