Castiel used to tell people of the angels he spoke to.
He used to tell his parents and friends, and heck even people he didn't know, and at first they all thought it was just the stories of a child with an out-of-control imagination. And it was harmless, so they let it be and listened to his tales of the angels Gabriel and Michael and their brothers and sisters in Heaven, all the while secretly wondering how he knew their names when they'd never been spoken of before.
They were not religious people; they didn't even have a Bible in the house, so how did he know of them? But in the end they let it be. After all, it was just the rambling imagination of a child.
But then Castiel started to insist, started to get angry, started to tell them that they were real, that angels really did speak to him, so they threatened him with pills unless stories stopped.
And stop they did, because Castiel has learned to blend in now.
X X X
Years Later . . .
When he was alone, Castiel would think.
Years of studying hard in school, throwing himself into his courses at University, and practically immersing himself in work had paid off. He'd acquired his dream job as a doctor at his local hospital, through vicious trial and error.
His parents were proud.
But in those moments at night when he returned to his apartment, empty save for him, and sat down on the couch in his living room he would think. And as he thought he reflected on many things, but always – without fail – his thoughts would drift back to the voices in his head; the angels that still continued to whisper to him, no matter what he did.
Castiel held himself back too much, and he knew it. He pushed himself down all the time, bottling all his emotions and thoughts and opinions up and hiding them from the rest of the world because he was too afraid - far too afraid - of what others would think. Afraid of how they would look at him; that condescending glare, like he was insane.
Because only the insane had voices in their head, right?
The pressure from all he'd kept bottled inside was dizzying, and it made him feel sick, but he had no idea of how to let it out, and so it stayed inside. Forever locked behind a steel door that no one could open. Not even him, because he'd forgotten how.
And so his thoughts ended there, as they always did, because he knew it was a lost cause. No one would ever accepted him if he of the angels that whispered to him, or of the strange pull in his heart that spoke of something more . . . like a greater destiny, perhaps.
People would laugh if he told them that.
It wasn't even up for consideration. He would keep those feelings and thoughts inside, like he always did. He'd hide himself away from the world, afraid of being labeled as a freak and a psychopath. Because he wasn't, he was just Castiel.
Just Castiel.
He never spoke his thoughts anymore, not to his parents, not to those at work, not to anyone. He kept it all secret. He never stood up for himself, he never started fights; ever the peace-maker and the mediator, gullible and kind, and yet used at every turn because people saw him as an easy target. And they took the trust he so willingly offered and shattered it.
Castiel learned not to trust anyone anymore.
Nearly two years after Castiel had started working at the hospital, he was assigned an intern. A man just a year or two younger than him, with dark, cropped hair and bright green eyes and a quirky, self-confident smile.
He called himself Dean.
Dean Winchester.
And he was kind, and funny, and perhaps he had a bit too much of a fondness for jokes and pranks, but Castiel found himself relaxing around him a lot more than he'd ever relaxed around anyone. And he suddenly began hoping that maybe, maybe it would be different this time. Maybe he could offer Dean his trust and not have it shattered like it had been before.
Just maybe.
X X X
"Hey, Castiel!"
Castiel turned, smiling softly as he saw Dean running down the hall toward him. "Hello, Dean."
Dean grinned, "Listen, I've got a new nickname for you. I want you to tell me what you think, okay?"
Castiel's eyes widened, "A nickname?"
Dean nodded, "I was thinking 'Cas', just a shortened form of your name." He smiled, "Well?"
Castiel nodded, resisting the urge to bite his lip, "Yeah . . . yeah, I like it."
No one's ever called me that before.
"Alright then, Cas, guess what? I hear they have pie down in the cafeteria. Pie, dude. Pie. They never have pie. Do you want to go smuggle some out the back with me?"
Castiel felt Dean's own crooked smile creeping onto his face and he lowered his head, raising a hand to cover it. It had always been a slight insecurity of his; smiling, that is, because it always seemed awkward and he felt the need to hide it.
"Cas, don't do that." Dean said suddenly.
"Do what?" Castiel looked up at him, eyes wide. Had he done something wrong?
"Don't hide your smile like that; you look nice when you smile."
Castiel swallowed past the tightness in his throat, "Oh, th-thank you."
Dean nodded, his own smile returning, and seemed about to say something else when a nurse suddenly ran up to him and began babbling away about some patient that Dean had administered prescription drugs to the day before. Castiel listened in quietly, allowing himself a soft smile as he heard how well Dean had done, and pretended not to hear when the nurse asked Dean out to go with her and a few others for a drink later that evening, because it shouldn't bother him, but his smile faltered nonetheless.
Castiel shoved his hands into the pockets of his white coat and pretended it didn't hurt when Dean accepted the invitation.
He'd never been invited places like that. Even now when he'd learned how to blend in, he still didn't exactly fit in, and people could always tell the difference. So to everyone else Castiel was just the strange, quiet doctor; kind, but silent, and a bit unnerving if you stared into his violent blue eyes for too long.
No one ever just came up and asked him to go out for a drink.
"Hey, Cas. Why don't you come with us?"
Castiel started out of his thoughts to see Dean staring at him expectantly, "I'm sorry?"
"Well, my friend Meg and I were going to go get a drink with a few other guys. Do you want to come?"
Castiel pretended not to notice the slight look of panic that crossed over Nurse Meg's face when Dean presented the invitation; instead he just focused on the smile Dean was offering him, and the warmth it brought when Castiel realized that Dean was going out of his way, just for him.
"Yeah, I'd love to."
The night didn't turn out at all like he expected it to, though.
Dean came by Castiel's apartment so they could go to the bar together – since Castiel didn't know where it was, though apparently it was just a few blocks away, within walking distance – and they set off, Dean chattering away, obviously excited that Castiel was going with them.
"You seem a bit on edge, Cas."
Castiel started slightly, still not used to the nickname, "Well, I don't really do this often."
Dean smiled. "Don't worry," he put a hand on Castiel's shoulder, "Just stick by me and everything will be alright."
Castiel offered him a slight smile, but when Dean turned away his smile fell as he suddenly realized something. The angels had been silent for the last few minutes, which was very uncharacteristic of them. Usually they never left him alone, just continued to whisper and whisper and whisper.
It would probably drive most people mad, but Castiel had heard their whispers in his head since he could remember. They were normally a comfort to him, actually, and now without their whispers in the background, everything felt silent and suffocating.
He is the instigator.
Castiel blinked, eyes widening as the whispers suddenly started up again, and frowned. What did that mean? The instigator? Who were they talking about?
Then again, the angels were always spouting this and that, and Castiel would often catch snippets of conversation that didn't make any sense, so that probably had nothing to do with him. Instead, he just brushed it off and reminded himself that he was going to have a good time that night with Dean and the rest of his co-workers from the hospital.
"Cas? Hello?" Dean waved a hand in front of his face, startling him out of his thoughts. "Earth to Cas?"
"Oh," Castiel started, "Sorry, I was – uh, lost in my thoughts."
Dean smiled. "No problem, I just wanted to tell you that we're there."
Sure enough, Castiel looked up to see the large neon lights of a sign proclaiming the name of the bar to be The Roadhouse. Interesting name; nonetheless, it looked pretty welcoming and not at all shady, so Castiel followed Dean inside, relaxing a bit as he saw Dean wave at the bartender – a pretty girl with auburn hair – and saunter over to where the rest of their co-workers from the hospital were sitting.
"Hey, guys." Dean said, getting their attention, "This is my friend. I'm sure you all know him?"
"Oh, yeah," one guy, who Castiel remembered was a nurse named John, "Doctor, I've seen you around the hospital."
Castiel smiled hesitantly. "Yes, hello, I'm Castiel Novak," he said, introducing himself to those at the table who might not know him.
Dean grinned and clamped him on the shoulder, "Just call him Cas," he said, offering Castiel a chair and taking the one next to him on the left. "And I'm Dean Winchester."
The nurse, who'd invited Dean before, Meg, smiled at him, batting her eyelashes. "Well, you both already know me. So I'll let the others introduce themselves." She pointed at the others at the table intermittently and they all named off, as if on a roll call, until they'd gone all the way around and back to Castiel.
I doubt all be able to remember all their names, Castiel mourned inwardly. He'd never been good with names.
But, they didn't seem to use their names often anyway. Dean was really the only one that said his name – Cas – and Meg kept calling for Dean, trying to get him to fixate his attention on her, because she was obviously attracted to him. It was strange, though. Castiel was a bit inept when it came to socializing, but even he could see that Dean wasn't interested in Meg's continued advances. So why did she keep trying? Was she really that desperate?
Five more days.
Castiel started, jerking suddenly and nearly knocking his drink over. The angels, whose voices had faded to a whisper in the background as they normally did, had suddenly raised their volume, all but shouting inside his head.
"Cas? What's wrong?" Dean's voice startled him out of his musings.
Castiel grimaced and gave the others around the table, who were staring at him with a mixture of curiosity and worry, a sheepish look. "S-sorry, just a headache."
Everyone relaxed, resuming their conversations, but Castiel couldn't get the words the angels had said out of his mind. Five more days – what did that mean? Five more days until what? Obviously it was important; the angels' voices had never exceeded whispers before, but why here? Why now?
What did it mean?
So lost in his thoughts was he, that Castiel didn't feel Dean staring at him, a strange look in his green eyes. And, when Castiel finally came out of whatever thought process he'd been lost in, Dean had looked away, and the moment was gone.
"Hey, Cas," one of the others around the table, a nurse whose name was Jo, asked, her dark eyes fixing on Castiel, "You haven't said much, are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine," Castiel said, summing up as much conviction in his tone as he could, "Like I said, just a headache."
He had to admit, though, he was a bit flattered that Jo had remembered Dean's nickname, and that she had bothered to ask.
People normally didn't bother to ask.
"What does it matter?" Meg said suddenly, waving her hand flippantly, "He's been spacing out the whole time, he obviously doesn't want to be here."
Castiel blinked, "That's not true. I've been listening, I just didn't really have anything to add."
Meg shrugged, "Whatever."
Castiel realized suddenly, from the look she was giving him, that she didn't like him for some reason. But why? They didn't even know each other, outside of when they'd met just hours before. Maybe she was like so many others, though, who thought his presence was unsettling and shied away from it. It definitely wouldn't be the first time that had happened to him.
Meg suddenly leaned closer to him, whispering so only he could hear.
"Freak."
Castiel stiffened, his eyes widening and his mouth pressing into a hard, thin line as memories washed over him. Memories of a lonely childhood filled with books and imaginary friends, bullies who slammed him against lockers and called him freak when his back was turned, prayers to the angels that whispered to him to send him a friend – just one friend, please.
But his prayers were never answered.
He felt his throat tighten and he stood suddenly, ignoring the evil smirk Meg threw his way.
"Cas?" Dean looked up at him, "You okay?"
"Bathroom," Castiel croaked, taking his leave and sliding through the crowd as he headed for the bathroom marked clearly with the large 'MENS' sign on the outside. He was doing now what he did best, even though it made him feel like a coward.
Sometimes there was nothing he could do but run.
He stumbled into the bathroom, glad when he saw it was empty besides him, and leaned against one of the sinks, taking deep breaths to calm himself down as he stared into the mirror, noting the way his blue eyes shined in the light.
Damn it . . .
Why did people scorn him and shun him wherever he went? Why was he so different from every other person who preferred to listen rather than speak? Was silence such a big deal? He rather liked not talking; it let him pay attention to everything going on around him.
So why?
Freak . . .
He knew he didn't belong there. He never belonged there.
So again, like a coward, he tucked tail and fled, unable to even consider the thought of going back to the table and sitting down next to Meg and pretending everything was okay. He wrapped his trench coat tighter around himself and slid out the bar, and no one noticed him go – no one ever noticed him go.
He ran. Back to his apartment, back to where it was safe and quiet and just him and the angels in his head. Back to where he could be himself without having to worry about the judgement others threw over him.
Back home.
And when he got there, it was all he could do to not flop down on his couch and sob into the pillows as the memories of his childhood overtook him. Instead he composed himself, got a cup of tea, and settled down in front of the television.
Peace washed over him, and as he slipped into the warmth and relaxation of sleep, he realized that this was where he felt most comfortable. Here, where he could be himself. In this place he called home.
And in his dreams he cried the silent tears of a lonely little boy whose prayers still remained unanswered.