Earth after Heaven had been a revelation.
It was such a dim place, at first; all colour and shadow in place of the bleak jagged edges of Heaven; the soaring perches empty of any distinguishing features besides for the vague suggestion of their shape. Michael existed as every moment, everywhere and as a part of everyone. His wings were so vast that they all lived under his shadow; archangels, seraphs and cherubs alike, with the sweet pinpricks of human souls anchored to his pinions by the richness of his Faith.
Castiel was created to be a minor seraph, though he didn't take his post the moment he came to be.
He was fascinated by Michael's vastness - his size, his Faith, his Grace. So fascinated that he dared to reach up out of the shadow that Michael cast so darkly over the rest of them, and spoke.
Brother, he thought, in the language of the stars and the dust that lies between them; discordant and forever. Brother, why are you so great?
For the first time since Lucifer was forced from Heaven and into the Dark Place, Michael looked down from God. His Sight fell upon the youngest of the seraphs, and he too spoke.
Little brother, sang the archangel. You are small.
On Earth, Castiel was the one who was immense. When he perched on the backseat of the Impala with the Winchester brothers, it felt like his Grace was bottled up and ready to spill over, spill out and flood all that surrounded.
He only felt small on Earth when he flew between places; chasing the warm currents of human laughter and love as he soared over continents, one wingtip over the Temple of Heaven while the other left a wave of miracles in the village of Bowness, on the strange, fey shores where the river Nith became Solway Firth, and where England rose up into Scotland; an ancient border still respected, even after centuries upon centuries of change.
Earth was beautiful and strange, vulgar and disgusting, shaped by time and the elements - and, more recently, by humans - into something so unique it shone like a star in the scope of Castiel's awareness. It was a forever place made of tiny things; the intake of air into an ant's spiracles, the first sleepy yawn of a wolf pup, the yearning stretch of a sapling seeking light. He searched for his Father, yes, at the behest of a flawed - and yet Righteous - man, and at the behest of his own selfish desires. His scope of awareness was narrowing with every tiny stumble; the slowness of his Fall agonising in the way that he could still so clearly see himself, even as he transformed into something Other.
Frightened by it, he flew more quickly; the endless, pale stretch of a Florida highway, the sharp angles and light (and the darkness lurking in the streetcorners) of Philidelphia, the way his eyelashes clumped together with ice on the slopes of Banff in winter, the lazy grace of Rome and the overwhelming vibrancy of its people, the golden curve of the Salu beachfront and the jellyfish drifting in the shallows, the clever grey simplicity of Munich, the history flowing thick and rich like honey under the boughs of Tower Bridge - Life.
He became less and less, smaller and smaller, but his sense of self grew. He felt connected in a way he never had in Heaven.
Moments before the last feathery tendrils of his Grace left him; slipping so slowly away like water in the cupped hands of a man dying of thirst, Castiel thought, home.
Leather upholstery, rocksalt, family, guns, blood, violence, hope - hope without Faith.
He thought of the Winchesters.
He Fell.
When he resurfaced from the darkness of life without Light, he thought he had lost his sight (not his Sight, because that was lost. But - sight. Human sight). Everything was so dim, so limited. Just his eyes and the body; the stretch and twist of tendons beneath skin, the steadiness of his bones, the beat of his heart (like wings). Even time seemed foreign to him; the winding length of it no longer tangible to him, existing only on the very peripherals of his new self where all was vague and grey.
At the end of the transformation, in those final seconds where he could feel himself tightening more and more, becoming something fixed and heavy and human, Castiel clung to everything he could and prayed.
The Impala was nothing like Heaven, and yet - it became home; his Aerie on Earth, with the Winchester brothers as his strange, dysfunctional flock members. Leather and guns for his 'cloud and harp', human emotion in place of his Grace.
There were times when he'd curl up as small as he could on the backseat of the Impala and wish that he'd never gone to Hell for the Righteous Man, but then he'd think of the confident curl of Dean's predatory grin, of the compassion Sam (abomination, Castiel's brothers had called him - and yet) was so gifted with. None of them were perfect - not Dean, not Sam...and not Castiel. But - maybe they could be a little bit closer to perfect if they all stayed together.
So - they did stay together, and in another set of moments Dean was kissing Castiel; their lips soft and their bodies fitting, and though Castiel was no longer an angel he still felt as if in that moment they were resounding like the voices of Heaven's Choir; communion shivering bright and beautiful in the air between them.
Castiel learnt to kiss, learnt to treasure every tiny touch Dean bestowed upon him. They came together and it was daring, exquisite; kisses and touches and hot, burning pleasure that shook Castiel apart and showed him the beauty of his limited perspective.
And - when it was over, he kissed Dean again; his eyelids, his forehead. A benediction, a blessing; love love love in every generous touch.
He had Fallen, but it was only in the aftermath that he'd fallen in love.
Being small and blind was worth this.
Wasn't it?