Imagine Castiel the angel.
Imagine Castiel the warrior, the soldier, one of heaven's most divine.
Castiel, atop the Christmas tree. The angel every other angel wished they could be. One of God's most treasured, cherished soldiers. The angel that was trusted to pull Dean Winchester, the Michael Sword, straight from the pit. The jealousy from all of the other angels, the ruffling of feathers as this beam of light strode right past them to do his duty. For no reason, at the time, other than that God commanded it. Castiel, fearlessly fulfilling his commands from God, not knowing exactly why, but going forth and raising Dean from hell.
Imagine Castiel doing just that.
He does not take his time. He pushes forth with a vengeance, with blind obedience as he trekked past demons and Lucifer's prisoners to rescue this lone human being. And then he reaches him. And the sight, Dean Winchester with his bloodied flesh and hooks slicing into skin... it is enough to make the soldier shudder. Castiel, the angel who was always flawed, the angel who had a problem involving far too much heart, pities the creature before him. Dean Winchester, you see, is beautiful. Castiel has always been obsessed with human beings and their design, but knowing that God has made this one special, makes Castiel infinitely more intrigued. He does not know Dean Winchester, but there is something about him that makes his touches tender.
He walks around the battered shell of a man--a vessel, truly, as ironic as that sounds--with his fingers trailing over skin with touches as light and gentle as the proud feathers one can imagine on his back. He takes his time now, just to study the fine curve of his neck and the muscles in his back. His arms, too, bulge with days spent wielding knives and slamming his fists into objects harder than steel. A hunter. A weapon. Finally, he comes full circle, standing before the broken man. Raises his chin in his hand and looks into green eyes that see right through him, that won't remember this moment.
"Come with me, righteous man." Perhaps he doesn't say it aloud, but it's there, the title being given freely to this creature. His hand ignites a searing grip on his shoulder, and as he raises him from perdition, he never takes his gaze away. He takes his time rebuilding the body, going over it in perfect detail. He dips his fingers in color and sprinkles them across Dean's cheek bones, creating freckles as carelessly as God created the stars in the sky. Fits his knees back together. Removes the open wounds and sores, erases scars from years before the hellhounds got to him. And speaking of them, he assures that ever mark of their teeth is raised, is smoothed out, fits perfectly with the rest of his skin.
And then he rests this newly made man, this beautiful creation, in his coffin in the ground. It takes time for Castiel to work up the energy to leave him there, but when he does, you can hear him shout--
"Dean Winchester is saved."
--clear as a bell.