#(I bet u didn't expect a 1000+ word drabble for this)

[qapsiel]

and let's be real. that mark is on dean's shoulder (cause it never faded. sorry. maybe like a scar does over time but it's always there.) because cas was like.. this one right here? this human inside this pit of hell? the one that's biting me even as i try to raise him out? the one that's trying to gnaw his way out of my grip even as he's reaching for it so desperately that his fingers are shaking? and the fear in his eyes is wild and frenzied but the hope is pleading and begging? same one that one minute he's clinging to me so desperately that he trembles and the next minute there's teeth and tearing and fear? i'm making sure this mark stays. this pain that i gave him when he needed snapping out of it. this holy power i sank into him to save him at the same time?

pretty much equals me saying...dibs.

from here on out.. all you other angels, demons and whoever else? idk. dad. find your own righteous man. cause this one? he's MINE NOW.

i have been in my feels tonight. basically, cas said 'i licked it, it's mine.' right out the gate.

based on this

                               DEAN WINCHESTER'S SOUL STANDS OUT FROM THE OTHERS. It's still pulsating with strength despite the decades it had to spend in Hell. Even from this far away, Castiel can spot the fine lines where demonic instruments cut into it, tore it open, ripped at its beauty. The transformation has started, but he is not yet beyond saving. Extraordinary, Castiel thinks as he shoots through a battalion of lesser demons, burning them out of existence with his divine light. Behind him, his brothers and sisters, his division keeps the hordes of Hell at bay to ensure their leader reaches the soul they were tasked to save. Castiel can hear the blood-curdling screams of a sibling who gets overrun by demons, but he mustn't look back, mustn't stop: The mission is everything. The mission is to save Dean Winchester. And he has to do it. 

Uriel zooms past him. The thunder of his approach makes the torturers look up from the souls they're cutting into, and a wave of panic, fear, and desperate hope washes toward the angels. Some souls stretch their hands out for them, wanting to be rescued, saved, redeemed. But the one who made Heaven do the unthinkable and send a garrison into Hell — he cowers, dropping the blade, turning a fearful eye at the divine light. Unable to believe he is the chosen one. 

Uriel starts his descent. And while it's true that it doesn't have to be Castiel to grab this soul out of the pit, he has the desperate urge to do it. It must be him, nobody else. This soul is special, it speaks to Castiel, it is as if he has already touched it before—which is a silly, pointless, impossible thought, and yet it's consuming Castiel to the point that he crashes into Uriel, their wings entangling for a moment, Uriel's lion head roaring in indignation, but Castiel's wheels only spin in warning. This soul is his to raise.

The other torturers have fled by the time Castiel descends into the pit, his true form extinguishing the hellfires where it touches the ground. He pays no attention to the screaming, begging souls still bound to the rack; all his eyes are glued to the cowering, blood-covered man who still manages to appear defiant despite his crouched position.

"Be not afraid," Castiel's voice thunders over Dean as he moves his form to encompass the half-broken soul, bathing him in divine light and glory. "You, Dean Winchester, are chosen to be raised from perdition." 

He forms hands out of his divine light and engulfs Dean with it, cupping him in his palms like a child would carry a caught grasshopper to show their parents. He can feel the soul shiver and tremble in fear in his grasp, and then, impossibly — Dean Winchester starts to lash out. Castiel's eyes blink in confusion as he lifts the soul closer. Dean tears at the light, kicks at it, tries to throw punches wild enough that Castiel almost drops him. 

"We have to leave, Castiel," Uriel urges, the mane of his lion head flaring with flames. "Yes," Castiel agrees, two dozen eyes swiveling around to check on their surroundings. The demonic hordes are closing in with warriors more dangerous than the ordinary foot soldiers. "Heavenward, quick!" Castiel commands as he coils his wings to propel him up again. The soul in his grip is still kicking and fighting; Castiel shifts his hands, grasping it more securely, and then takes off.

The way back through the pit is more dangerous because the demons now know that they're here. And, annoyingly, Dean Winchester doesn't stop rebelling. The garrison has formed a protective ring around Castiel and his charge, keeping Hell's atrocities at bay, and Castiel is grateful because he (literally) has his hands full with wrangling this unruly little soul. One would think Dean Winchester should be glad to escape this nightmare, and Castiel can feel that he is—one hand clings to Castiel's thumb, grasping, begging to be taken along, and choked-up hope comes off Dean in waves. But the other hand tears and cuts and demands freedom, maybe demands the rightful consequences for selling your soul to a crossroads demon. 

It's particular and strange, this discrepancy, and it somehow touches something deep inside Castiel. This soul doesn't think it deserves to be saved and yet it cannot stop the wild, passionate hope that somebody will, that Castiel will, that the angel really is here, for him.

"You are saved, Dean Winchester," Castiel tries again to reassure the flailing soul, but Dean only stops fighting for a couple of minutes in between scratching and pounding his fists on Castiel's hand. His whole being is shivering, trembling — in fear? Exhaustion? Desperate hope? Castiel doesn't know. The fact is that the rebellious little soul is starting to hurt his grip. Souls are pure energy, more energy, even, than an angel possesses, and it starts to burn at Castiel's divine light and shoot waves of displeasure into his entire being. 

"Stop it," he demands as Dean, after a short pause of quivering, pleading hope, starts actually biting Castiel's hand. "No — stop it." But Dean begins gnawing at Castiel's thumb while his hands desperately cling to the rest of his fingers. He even manages to pierce Castiel's true form — it's a tiny, insignificant injury, really, but a drop of grace flows free, and Castiel, irritation flaring, shoots a spark of his divine light into Dean to make him snap out of it. The light catches the free drop of grace and then hits Dean's shoulder, burning a holy mark into him — the pain suffices to make the soul snap out of its frenzy, at least, and Dean Winchester falls quiet. His teeth unclench, his fists become loose, and his wild eyes flicker toward Castiel with silent, questioning hope.

"You are saved," the angel repeats firmly as he softens his grip around the trembling soul. No power in Heaven or Hell can take Dean Winchester away again, not as long as Castiel's divine light keeps shining upon him. He has been marked. This righteous man, this peculiar little soul that doesn't believe in good things happening to it — Castiel will ensure it will know that at least one angel is watching over him.