Saved, a supernatural fanfic

Thirty years.

Thirty of the longest years that a man could experience, but knowing that when looking back, they would be gone in the blink of an eye. Thirty years coating him in dust and grime, catching in the back of his throat like acid, reminding him of his own vomit, breathing them in as acrid smoke making his nose burn and his eyes water. Each one embedded under his nails like contaminated soil, poisoning him from the inside out.

Thirty years of blood and bile and flesh and bone, most of it belonging to him, some belonging to others. And the relief when it isn't his brings him to tears. Tears that are different from all the tears he had cried until then, those old tears came from fear and pain, of loss and regret and never seemed to end. All his anger and rage that he had buried for so long flood to the surface and the new tears wash over him and all that filth that had covered him for so long mix with them and now he has a new skin, one that will protect him forever.

He looks at his new skin, his new armour and finds that he likes it. He is finally safe, it is not the home he dreamed of but it was home nonetheless, and in his mind, the one he deserves. Rightly or wrongly it is his now; he will adapt like he always does and for once the only thing expected of him is to be himself. There is no pressure to be anything more than the person he knows he can be, and the one thing he knows he can be is an artist.

And with that, using his blade as a brush and the broken body before him as a canvas, he creates. Big broad strokes and tiny fine lines, sky bold and flower intricate, abstract and erotic, he creates his first beautiful, horrific masterpiece.

And he continues to create and he perfects his art. Painting and sculpting, adding to and cutting away, and this is how Castiel, Angel of the Lord finds Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man.

Castiel has, of course, been on a journey of his own. The call had gone out, Dean Winchester has fallen it said, he must be saved. And like all good soldiers, the angels of heaven lay siege. They wade through hell and the blood and the viscera from which it was formed, climbing over the souls of the damned and trampling the bodies of the fallen. We must find Dean Winchester is the battle cry, we cannot fail.

There is so much noise in the bowels of hell. The screams of the tortured vibrate and the whimpers of those that have broken murmur like their forgotten echoes and still the angels advance. He must be saved, we are losing time. And Castiel pushes forward. He can hear the screams of the Righteous Man over the cries of all the others, clear and ringing out, guiding him onward like a twisted siren's song.

We are losing him, the angels around are crying, we are failing. Slowly the angels fall away, a lost cause they are saying. I can still hear him is Castiel's answer, he is not lost if I can still hear him.

And onward, ever onward the faithful push. There are much fewer faithful now and Castiel, who started as a soldier in a battalion, becomes the general of the small, sad army. Can you still hear him, the army keep asking.

Yes.

The army becomes smaller. And now?

Yes.

Smaller. We can't hear him.

I can hear him, he is not lost.

Smaller. Is he still screaming?

But you can still hear him?

Yes

But he isn't screaming?

No, he is just crying now.

And then silence. Silence from all the angels, silence from Dean Winchester. Silence that means terrible things. Dean Winchester has stopped screaming and stopped begging for his life and stopping pleading for mercy and stopped gasping for air and stopped moaning in the dark and the worst silence of all, Dean Winchester has stopped crying.

Very quietly, the angels turn away. No whispers of regret, just resigned silence. We have failed. He is lost. The Righteous Man is no more, we must return home. But not out loud, never to voice such a terrible thing, to admit defeat.

Except for one, the one solitary voice that remains. And Castiel speaks quietly, not to the others who have gone, but to himself. He is not lost. I will find him. Dean Winchester will be saved.

Stepping forward, saying to himself, He is not lost. I will find him. Climbing over wreckage, He is not lost. I will find him. Closing his ears to the heart wrenching sounds around him, He is not lost. I will find him. Becoming the mantra that guides him, He is not lost. I will find him. He is not lost I will find him. He is not lost I will find im. Heisnotlost, Iwillfindhim. Heisnotlost, Iwillfindhim. Heisnotlost, Iwillfindhim.

HeisnotlostIwillfindhimHeisnotlostIwillfindhimHeisnotlostIwillfindhimHeisnotlostIwillfindhim

And then, by sheer force of will, Dean Winchester is standing there and Castiel understands how he found him. Because Dean Winchester is anything but silent. Dean Winchester is a force of nature with power and fury swirling around him like a tempest, he is the eye of the storm of his own creation and he is revelling in it. He is grabbing the very elements that engulf him and is using them to create the vicious violent sculpture that lay before him. And Castiel, Angel of the Lord, solder of a decimated garrison, general of an invisible army, is afraid.

He looks at the man at the centre of this maelstrom and is awestruck with his absolute calm. His world is spinning and twisting around him, but he is serene. Every movement, every action has precision and purpose. There is no wasted energy, no futile gesture, no empty motion. He speaks to the sculpture with the same care. His voice is calm and soothing and to hear it is to feel tranquillity, that is until you notice the actual words. This is a man who wields his words just as cruelly as he wields his weapons. And Castiel, Child of God, has doubts.

He doubts that Dean Winchester is not lost. He doubts that Dean Winchester can be saved. He doubts that Dean Winchester is the Righteous Man. He doubts that Dean Winchester is even a man anymore. In his head he hears I doubt, I doubt, I doubt. Another mantra. He Is Not Lost, I Will Find Him. I Doubt. But I Did find Him. I Doubt. But I Did Find Him. I Doubt. BUT I FOUND HIM, I FOUND HIM, I FOUND HIM, He Cannot Be Lost If I Found Him, HE CANNOT BE LOST IF I FOUND HIM, Dean Winchester Is Not Lost, I Have Found Him, DEAN WINCHESTER IS NOT LOST I HAVE FOUND HIM, DEAN WINCHESTER WILL BE SAVED, DEAN WINCHESTER WILL BE SAVED.

But Dean Winchester has seen Castiel, and Dean Winchester does not want to be saved. Dean Winchester is finally in control of his own life, he is not lost and does not need to be found by anyone. He holds his blade and advances on the angel. Dean Winchester, I have found you and you are saved, Castiel whispers to him. But Dean resists, and he strikes out. Memories of the years of being at other people's mercy envelop and suffocate him, I will not be controlled again he says, I am Dean Winchester, and you will not take me. Please don't fight me Dean Winchester, I am here to save you, Castiel whispers again, but fight he does. And he screams and flails, and the serenity disappears and he becomes the furious storm that surrounded him. He is a hurricane of chaos, wildly thrashing, beating his Saviour Angel, clawing and biting like a caged animal.

And again whispering, Please Dean Winchester, I am Castiel, Angel of The Lord, and I am here to save you.

Howling, I am Dean Winchester, belonging to no-one, and I am not lost.

Carefully, Please Dean Winchester, I am here to take you home.

Stubbornly, I am Dean Winchester, and I am already home.

Soothing, Dean, let me take you home.

Crying, I can't go home.

Softly, Dean, let me save you.

Sobbing, Angel, I cannot be saved.

And Castiel takes Dean by his shoulder, lifts him where he has fallen and leans into him, we can all be saved. But how will I be saved, Dean is asking, how can you save me? And the grace that Castiel has burning in him, flows through his body into his hand. The hand that is touching Dean's skin, the skin that was formed with blood and tears. And his grace destroys that skin leaving Dean Winchester's old skin behind, the only proof that it even existed, Castiel's handprint seared in where it once was.

Then Dean Winchester is gone.

Castiel, Angel of The Lord, stands in his true form, in the middle of Hell, terrifying and awesome. And he cries out, louder than all the voices in Hell combined, louder than all the Angels, louder than God, and his message is beautiful in its simplicity.

DEAN WINCHESTER IS SAVED.