Castiel opens his eyes and instantly knows something is wrong. He doesn't just feel it, he knows it. In every fiber of his being, every cell, every atom, every particle of his grace pulsating through him, he knows it. There is something wrong.

But the longer he focuses on it, the more unclear the knowledge becomes. It twists in his mind, unraveling, becoming intangible, slipping through his grasp like water, dissipating like smoke until—

Two hazy, unfamiliar faces peer down at him—both smiling, both hesitant. He blinks slowly. He blinks again. The faces become clear.

"Sam? Dean?" he asks uncertainly, licking his lips as if testing the names in his mouth, something about them foreign on his tongue.

But then Sam and Dean are smiling fully, no hesitation, and they're hauling him up and wrapping their arms around him—a hug, his mind supplies—and surrounding him with the warmth of their embrace.

This can't be wrong, Castiel thinks as he happily returns the hug.

Sam and Dean explain his death and his subsequent resurrection to him as simply as this:

Lucifer killed him. It took them awhile, but they eventually found a spell to bring him back. The price of it doesn't matter. They'd do it again in a heartbeat. They'll worry about the consequences later. There might not even be any consequences anyway. We're just glad to have you back, Cas. That's all we care about, okay?

At first, Castiel is furious. After all that he's done to protect them and then they go and potentially throw it all away and risk themselves to bring him back? But then, he thinks, why wouldn't they? Isn't that what they do? Saving people, hunting things. Family doesn't end in blood. You're family.

The phrases run through his mind like they're scripture, like they're burned into him, like they're the only thing holding him together.

"Cas. …Cas. Cas! CAS!"

Dean throws a wadded piece of paper at him to get his attention which Castiel catches without looking, and still without particularly paying Dean any attention.

"Castiel?"

His eyes snap over to Sam with a laser focus. "Yes?" he asks.

Sam smiles at him softly, reassuringly, something else lingering in the look that he can't decipher yet, but then Sam is gesturing to the research laid out in front of the brothers and the look is forgotten. "Do you want to help with the case?"

Castiel's face tightens into a smile—at least he thinks it's a smile—and says, "Of course."

Sometimes Castiel looks at the world and it's as if he's seeing two images overlaid on top of one another.

When a demon flashes its eyes black at him, he thinks he sees horns. A bright, sunny day becomes cloudy and grey and bleak. Lightning flashes and it lights up the sky in reds. Trees turn into spires. Fields of grass and wildflowers become barren desert wasteland.

It doesn't always happen, though, and even then it only happens for a second before his vision returns to normal.

Castiel pulls his blade out of the sleeve of his trench coat and drops it.

This isn't mine, he thinks frantically. But then Sam is shouting in pain and Dean is yelling and all thoughts are driven from his mind except to protect them.

He picks up his blade.

Some nights while Sam and Dean are sleeping, Castiel goes into the bathroom and looks into the mirror. Stares into it for hours upon hours upon hours. Critically examines the face staring back at him, carefully studies every detail and angle of it.

There is something about it that is…

…

That is…

…

The mirror cracks beneath his fingertips, splintering into a kaleidoscope image of a hundred different faces that still aren't quite him. Still aren't quite…

Right.

They're watching a movie together, one of their post-hunt rituals now, and Castiel gestures at a scene and laughs. He stops when he realizes the brothers are looking at him oddly.

"What's wrong?" he asks, not understanding the looks they're giving him.

Sam and Dean share a look with each other before turning to him. "It's just…" Sam is the first one to speak. He looks pointedly back at Dean and Dean continues Sam's thought: "You weren't speaking English. You were speaking Enochian."

Castiel frowns in his own confusion and something else must show on his face, some deeper kind of worry, because then Dean is smiling too brightly and slapping him lightly on the knee. "It's okay, dude. You were an angel for a lot longer than you've known us."

There are two memories:

In one memory…

In the other, he is in angel. He was an angel—is a fallen angel. He served Heaven, but then he chose the Winchesters. He fought to stop the apocalypse. He died. And died. And died and died and died. And he came back every time. He's betrayed Sam and Dean before, but he's saved them many times, too. He doesn't always end up doing the right thing, but he tries. He really does try. He's their friend. He's their best friend. He's their brother. He's their family.

There is only one memory.

His sword is in his hand. (No, not his sword.) He isn't sure how he got here. He isn't sure of anything anymore. He isn't even sure of how long he's known that he's unsure or how long he hasn't known that he should be unsure.

"Cas," Dean says in a placating voice with his hands raised like he's speaking to a wounded animal. "Just calm down." Sam is a mirror image next to him, hands also raised. "Just put down the sword. We don't want you to hurt yourself, okay?" Same soft, reassuring smile that Sam always wears around him that Castiel knows now is guilt.

"Why don't I remember?" Castiel shouts. Something hysterical wells up in him. He can't even remember what he can't even remember he can't even remember. "Why can't I remember!?" Something in him crumbles and breaks. His sword drops from his hand. He crumples. Falls onto his knees. Buries his head in his hands.

Sam and Dean swarm over him. A foot kicks (not) his blade away to somewhere that he can't reach. Their arms surround him, holding him, restraining him, hugging him. Lovingly, suffocating. Their words ("It's okay, Cas" "It's gonna be okay") wash over him, but it feels like all they're doing is drowning him instead of providing the comfort that he's sure is supposed to be there.

What have you done to me? His mouth moves to ask the question, but no sound comes out.

("This is wrong," Sam says, shaking his head. "I can't do this. We can't do this."

"Well, it's a little late for that now, Sam," Dean says sardonically as if they hadn't already gone past the point of no return miles and miles and miles ago.

"It's not even him!" Sam insists furiously and, then, sadly, "It'll never be him."

"Don't you think I know that?" Dean hisses, but whatever anger is simmering beneath the surfaces fizzles out and his tone turns somber. "But this is as close as we're going to get.")

There's a boy here and he's almost you. Almost. — "Almost Blue"