Angels were created to be servants of heaven. Seraphim were beyond that, bodies of fire and wings breed of flame and heat. They were ruthless, dark, destroyers of worlds and creators of love. They were perfect, engineered to be God's greatest warriors.

It was said that just one look at a Seraphim would completely burn a body, their trueness and their real selves so overpowering and pure that no creature could survive.

But what were they when that flame was snuffed out? What were they when the fire that burned inside them was snuffed to nothingness and flesh?

Humanness was still so very foreign. The ideas of sleep, sustenance, sexual needs… all of it seemed to be a group of things he'd never need.

Waking up only after four hours of sleep, Castiel moaned silently to himself, desperately wanting to shut himself down and roll back over. Tired eyes struggled against invisible weights and with a defiant shove he lifted himself off the tiny bed, pressing his palms in his eyes and sighing again.

Another day.

On shaky legs he dragged himself to the Letter's tiny kitchen, ignoring the note left for him on the fridge by Dean.

"I know you're not here," he muttered aloud to himself. There were times he swore the Winchesters forgot that he wasn't a child.

"Don't be so sure, feathers," a voice tore his attention away from the empty promise of food to see the demon standing close behind him, eyebrow raised and mouth pulled in a smirk.

He blinked at her. "I thought you were laying low?"

"Playing dead ain't as much fun as you think it is, Cas, though I figure you'd know that."

"I'm not playing dead."

"Not doing much to help the other fledglings though, are you?"

"Your point?"

She lowered her gaze. "I just expected more from you I guess."

"What do you want me to do?" He growled, settling on a half rip e orange he managed to find in the back of the fridge. "And why do you care?"

"Ever since I almost died. Is this what you're going to do from now on? Piss and cry over losing the only thing that made you specia-oof!"

Anger was seething through his blue eyes as he managed to get her pinned against the fridge. She flicked her eyes black but it did nothing to intimidate the seraph. "You don't think I've tried?" he pressed her down harder. "I have done everything, summoned Metatron, I've even reached out to them. They want nothing to do to me. I can't even fight. So excuse me for giving up."

The cold anger in his eyes never faltered. Ever since she started seeing him she'd never seen him so angry. it was a while before he let her go, turning away.

"You should go."

"Why?"

"Because I'm angry."

"And I'm a demon, Castiel, but we don't always get our ways, do we?"

He leaned away from her on the counter, appetite soiled. "What do you want?"

"For you to get it in your thick head that you can't just give up."

He felt her turn him around, hands flat on his chest and lips pressed on his. He leaned down into her, hands running down her arms and in an instant he had her against the fridge, kissing her wildly and he cringed at the feeling of her cold hands slide under his shirt.

"You still pissy?"

"You did that on purpose."

She smirked up at him. "When don't I?"

—

He was surprised they didn't manage to destroy everything on the way back to his room. he was flat on his back, eyes half closed and breathing slowed. Meg was laying half on him, arm flipped back to rub softly on his chest.

"Happy?"

"Better. Not even close to happy," he muttered, "But better."

"Feels good to let it out, huh? Even angels got to do it."

He considered correcting her but instead he sighed, rolling over and locking her in his arms.

"Wha-?"

"Punishment for making me angry," he muttered, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "You do it too much."