Castiel lay bleeding on the floor of the bunker, his breathing labored, his eyes fixed on the empty space where Dean had stood only moments before. A gush of coppery blood filled his mouth as he struggled to inhale, causing him to gag. Weakly, he rolled over, propped himself up on a forearm, and spat. A wave of nausea washed over him and he closed his eyes, waiting for the sensation to pass. Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting position, hissing softly as the pain from the injuries to his vessel asserted itself in response to his movements. Beside him, his angel blade protruded cruelly from the bound volume into which Dean had so hatefully thrust it. Castiel's fathomless blue eyes focused on the weapon, and he uttered a sound that might have been either a weak laugh or a quiet sob. He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of a shaking hand, then gently pried the dagger from the damaged book, wincing as hot pain flared in his injured arm. He placed the blade on the floor beside him, then pushed up his right sleeve. An angry-looking bruise circled his wrist where Dean had grabbed him. Tenderly, he prodded the contusion, noting a distinct half-moon impression where Dean's thumbnail had caught the skin below his cuff. His Grace vibrated urgently within him, eager to heal. He resisted. Not yet. Struggling to his feet, he slowly made his way across the bunker.
He lingered guiltily for a moment in the doorway to Dean's bedroom. The feeling was a familiar one, as guilty lingering was a habit to which Castiel had become prone. Hesitantly, he crossed the room and crouched beside the bed. Dean kept a first aid kit tucked away under the upper left corner of the bed, next to a tidy stack of pornographic magazines. Castiel withdrew the small, metal box from its nook and placed it atop the rough blanket. The container itself was old, but he knew that Dean had replaced the expired medical supplies with fresh ones during his "nesting" phase, shortly after moving into the bunker. Dean had placed several first aid kits throughout the bunker, owing to the frequent nature of the injuries inflicted upon the hunters in their line of duty. Castiel knew of two that he had passed on his way to Dean's bedroom. With unsteady hands, he unhooked the box's latch and lifted the top. Catching his bloody and battered reflection in the small mirror lining the lid, he inhaled sharply, then grimaced in pain as several broken ribs protested the sudden pressure. Once again, he felt his Grace vibrate warmly, intent on healing his broken vessel. Despite his pain, he continued to resist.
Castiel had never particularly enjoyed being human after he lost his Grace. He had most certainly had not enjoyed the vulnerability and humiliation that went hand in hand with mortality. So much of the human condition involved varying degrees of suffering. As a soldier of Heaven, pain was an experience with which Castiel was intimately familiar, but it wasn't until after he had begun to fall that he started to experience suffering. Pain, when experienced with Purpose, had always seemed but an unpleasant necessity to be endured for the glory of Heaven. Before he had pulled Dean Winchester out of Hell, he had never questioned the Will of Heaven. Never once. It was, after all, the Will of Heaven that had compelled him to take his garrison into the depths of the pit and to free the Righteous Man, the Michael sword, from his prison. Anything that he had felt up until the point that he took a vessel in order to safely and effectively communicate with Dean Winchester had been secondary and dim in comparison to the purity of Purpose that was the guiding force of Heaven's Host. It wasn't that Castiel had never had any questions; as vast as was his angelic knowledge, he was by no means omniscient, and curious by nature. It was that he had always had faith that the answers to his questions existed, and that those answers were righteous and just. Until he had saved Dean, Castiel had given no more thought to individual human lives than a gardener might give to a particular blossom. Humans were beautiful to Castiel, all of them, but none was more important than another. Of all of his Father's creations, humanity had been the one of which He had been most proud. God had commanded the angels to love and to serve humanity, a commandment which Castiel had obeyed effortlessly. The human race was endlessly complex and ever-changing, and beloved of Castiel because it was beloved of his Father. So when the order had come from Heaven for Castiel to descend into the depths of the pit with six of his brothers in order to both redeem the soul and resurrect the body of a single human, he had gone into battle, without pause, to fulfill the Will of Heaven. As he watched his brothers die, one by one, in the name of their mission, Castiel mourned his fallen brethren, but did not question the necessity of their sacrifice. When finally he had reached Dean Winchester, the hunter's soul had become a twisted and diabolical thing, retaining scant humanity.
Still, Castiel had entirely and without hesitation enveloped the corrupted soul in his Grace and had flown from the Lake of Fire, relentlessly pursued by all manner of demon and hellspawn. As the last of the angels remaining in his garrison afforded them escape, Castiel fled the pit, cradling the tattered soul within his being.
