Castiel fell. It was expected, in a way.
It didn't really matter, anyway, because when he fell, two strong boys picked him up, dusted him off and handed him a tan jacket that once was his. They took him for burgers, handed him a beer and bone handled knife and never spoke of it again. He was a hunter. A brother.
Castiel Winchester lived in the back seat of a well loved car, with two strong men in the front. One who sang loudly and out of tune, and one who planned for the worst no matter what. They bought him clothes and dressed his wounds, they taught him how to play cards and win money.
Castiel Winchester lived in the spare bedroom of a dead friend's house, with two old men who couldn't climb the stairs anymore. He made them food and helped them eat, he washed their clothes and he wondered why he, too, was not old.
Castiel Winchester lived. The two fresh graves had no flowers placed on them, and the car rusted in the driveway.
Castiel Winchester lived in a rundown shack in the middle of nowhere, and the world turned and twisted around him. His phone rang occasionally, and he would pick up the bone handled knife and leave in a well maintained classic car. He would sing loudly and out of tune and always planned for the worst no matter what.
Castiel Winchester lived, despite the slices on his wrists, the bullet in his mouth and the poison in his blood. When there was no other option, people would ask for his help, and he gave it, gruffly and unwillingly – like a precious gem he had hoarded.
Castiel Winchester lived a hundred lifetimes. No one remembered his brothers, or their names, or how they had lived and died to save so many and received nothing at all. His skin was dusty where the detritus of the shack settled on his unmoving body. Forgotten and Fallen.
Castiel Winchester lived when all other things died, the shack that crumbled, the forest the burned, the earth that swallowed him whole and covered his skin in dark brown mud and insects. He never heard another laugh, or saw another soul, not in a thousand lifetimes.
Dean Winchester, heaven around him, sang loudly and out of tune in the driver's seat of a well loved car, his brother beside him planning for the worst, and the fallen angel in the back, learning how to become a man. He smiled in the rear view mirror and never knew that the people beside him were not reallywith him in his perfect world.