Castiel wanders in the crowds, practically a ghost to those around him. He's a seed blowing in the wind, lost from his flower, searching for a place to land. But there's nowhere he wants to, nowhere safe, nowhere homely. He remembers little from before the lake, and now he's just a confused and fallen angel. He has nothing, knows nothing, and just wants what he had back.
Hello, have you seen these wings? Sir, did you happen to find a halo in the drain? Little girl, do you know if my grace landed nearby? Okay, thank you for your time.
But worse than that is the face. It's a memory, he suspects, the last one he has. It's a blurry one, but Castiel knows it's a face. Or it's supposed to be. He knows from the shape, the random two blotches of olive green, the smears of burnt honey, and the vague roundness. There's someone he's supposed to remember.
And there are feelings. He knows that too. Feelings centred around the face, for the face, strong ones. The answers lie with it, lie with whoever he thinks of every time he blinks, every time he breathes, every time he dreams.
It haunts him, haunts him relentlessly, and only makes him more and more desperate to find what he's missing. Because, whoever he's thinking of, he hurt. And that hurt then hurt him. And that hurt then demanded apology. And after that there should've been forgiveness and love.
He doesn't know where to find the face, though. He has no power to find the stranger constantly present in his mind. He has no friends to spread the word and help him look. And he has no wings to fly.
Castiel feels small amongst the humans, now one himself. He's one of the quiet, troubled mortals he once looked down on. He's a lost soul floating in a sea, treading water pointlessly, unsure just when to give up and drown. He prays to his Father for his wings, for his memories, for the one piece of him missing. He prays for at least a sign as to where to look, where he might find peace, where he might see that face in clarity. But the Lord works in mysterious ways, and never seems to answer him. Eventually, after months, he leans away from searching for his grace and more for the face. Because he figures that his answers really lie there.
Hello, do you know anyone who looks kind of blotchy? I think it's a man. He has green eyes, and either brown or blond hair. I can't tell. Do you know anyone like that? No? Thanks, anyway.
He loses hope, a little more day by day. His quest is pointless and fruitless, only succeeding in isolating him more. Shadows of doubt eat at him, whispering their sour woes as he goes from town to town. With billions of people on this earth, what were the odds of finding this one?
But he has to. He has to find him. He needs him. He has to.
Castiel walks with his head hanging down, defeated and cold beneath a solemn shell. He turns, opening the door to the local dinner, deciding to have one last meal before leaving town to continue down his lonesome path. When he looks up, his eyes fall on a man about to leave. A man with burnt honey hair. A man with olive green eyes. A man with light speckled freckles. The man with that face. He notices Castiel's blue stare, glancing over, making immediate eye contact. Shock fills the green, and the man's lips quiver.
"Cass?" He croaks out, awestruck and speechless.
Castiel opens his mouth and pauses, staring at the man a little longer. All that tribulation, that doubt, that amnesia vanished.
And then, he remembers again.
"Dean," He knows now. He knows everything. He knows that's the man he thinks of, that's the man he needs, and that's the man he cares about. He knows that Dean Winchester is that man.
Like angel wings opening, a smile spreads on Dean's face. And, in that instant, Castiel can fly again.
A/N: Thanks for reading! R&R! I've been listening to Everytime too much.