A/N: So here's another story that I came up with right after finishing season 8. Of course I didn't go into much detail but I love Castiel and wanted to give writing in his point of view a try. Well maybe not first person point of view, but still. Enjoy.

Castiel couldn't fathom how he had done it again. Dean had given him the simple task of drying off the dishes that Sam handed him after dinner was finished. All he had done was taken the dish from Sam's slightly soapy fingers and his hand just seemed to lose all feeling... or something and the next thing Cas knew the dish was shattered all over the place with shards of glass all over his bare feet. Sam had looked at the shards shocked before sending an angry and confused look to him and asking him what the hell was wrong.

Things had been like this since the angels were outcast from heaven. He had broken object after object and when he wasn't breaking things he was sitting on the couch in the recreational room of the bunker and watching mindless TV. It was mostly cartoons and episodes of How Stuff Works, but no matter how much he differentiated the difference between 'how stuff works' and cartoon, he couldn't manage to find something he was good at. Most people were artists or mechanics or worked well on a farm. Some could teach classes at a school or tend to the sick... but not Castiel. Never Castiel.

He often found himself sitting on the couch facing the TV which played these shows and wondering why he couldn't fix things or create things like he used to. He used to fix everything he broke and help make things as best as he could which usually turned out the best... but now...

"Cas." Dean always talked to him with a careful tone of voice these days. After the fall of the Angels Castiel had turned into a more sensitive being, more human, and Dean found that he couldn't joke with the ex-angel like he used to. He could easily see the pain in Castiel's eyes now. "Don't worry about the plate. Sam got it all cleaned up." But these words that Dean often spoke didn't mean much to the graceless angel now.

The act of forgiveness just burned him all the more. He couldn't get anything right anymore except for basic things. Hell, he even cut himself more than anyone should while shaving himself in the morning. And though he nods his head when Dean says these things he can't bring himself to care anymore. Things were broken. Everything was broken. Heaven, The king of hell, the Winchesters even suffered from the incident and all because of him. Sure the fall of the angels wasn't bothering him that much anymore, Gaberiel whom managed to keep himself safe on Earth was on the job, but every now and again the pain of the incident was included in his self hate because he couldn't create or fix things anymore.

'These hands break more than they fix' The thought often haunted him and at these times he would ring his hands together while biting his lip. The brothers saw this as him being nervous but those signs had changed since he had come to know more feelings. The thought that he couldn't create things anymore plagued him in his dreams. Days would go by and he would wonder what he'd do with his life in the future. What if there wasn't anything Gabriel could do and he was stuck like this forever? What if he was plagued to continue breaking things and living life in front of a television?

The thoughts made him think of ending it. Of backing into a corner and destroying everything around him and most likely himself, but he couldn't in the end. He was too afraid of what dying would be like. He was being selfish to live a life where he couldn't create anything and resources were used up because of him. He knew this is what humans called depression. There were ways of dealing with it. Go out and do something you enjoy, eat chocolate, spend time with people... If only they had a solution for 'what to do with depression when you can't do the things you enjoy because you're human and not an angel anymore' but they didn't. The things he loved doing were all things he could only do as an angel. He could no longer fly and he couldn't channel into Angel radio and listen to the voices of his siblings. He recently found out he was allergic to cocoa, so there wasn't going to be a chocolate solution and the only people he knew were the Winchesters and the prophet whom was getting back to his normal life. Often times Sam and Dean were in the library studying up on monsters they hadn't heard of, or they were on a hunt. Cas refused to go with them after almost getting Sam killed for not knowing how to properly aim a gun. Dean tried to teach him but he ended up breaking the gun instead by jamming the magazine in the wrong way.

So again he was left with his thoughts looking at the TV and not even watching it because who wants a broken angel around who only knows how to break things, sleep, eat, and use the bathroom. Fornicating was even a bust when Dean brought home a stripper from one of his favourite bars. He ended up realizing he didn't get it up easily and no one wanted to help him with that problem, so here he was, watching bugs bunny on television. Curled up with his trench coat wrapped around him was about the only way he could keep the emptiness at bay long enough to enjoy himself.

"Cas" Sam's voice was just as cautious as Dean's voice was, maybe a tad more casual. "Dean and I..." A pause. "We need to talk..." His explanation stung Cas. So they didn't need the third wheel in the room while they had conversation? "No Cas, with you. See? That's why we need to talk. You're not yourself." And Castiel could tell that at least they still cared, but if he couldn't create things or keep up with the world then why should they try?

"I'm fine." But even that sounded broken. His voice sounded defeated and dry. Inside he felt the same. Dying. Slowly.

"No you're not." More concern than they should have felt.

"Damn it Cas. We're trying to help!" Dean shouldn't have been losing his cool, Cas thought. He should be the silent one who gave him concerned looks with disappointment mixed in. And All Cas had to do was curl up on the couch again and they would go away, but not this time. This time they pulled on his shoulders and that touch made a lump form in his throat. Unfamiliar. Foreign. And he couldn't stop the emptiness from pouring out. Emotion after emotion dove through the wall and he gave in, but he could never tell them what was wrong. Ever.

"What can I create?"

A/N: So I'm going to just wallow in my feels now. I actually forgot to post this online and now that I went back to read it I'm a complete mess. But I really did enjoy writing this even if it was incredibly sad. Please review and tell me if I should write more stories!