Raw animosity danced in Castiel's stomach, singing his organs and tissues until nausea rose into his throat, screaming a demand to be let out. His lungs ached to cave under the pressure of all he wanted to yell out into the cold night at which he stared in to, but his body knew instinctively to snatch air in and give it back no matter what he felt. His eyes, frozen on a spot in the sky, wanted answers. With a crinkled brow, he stared at the clichéd misrepresentation humans had of Heaven, and pursed his lips, feeling the weight of his coat on his shoulders.
Where are you?
Cold wind whipped his face, sending a prickled of frozen fire through his eyes when it met with their moisture. His fingertips trembled, and he slowly moved his neck to look at his hand. In front of him, he flexed his fingers from the fist they had curled in to, and studied them carefully in the light falling from the moon, as though he might be memorising every rise and fall in the pattern of his skin. His brother's hands were capable of great evil; were his, too?
Why have you done this?
His brother Gabriel had once told him that he had the hands of a warrior, that he shared the hands of his brothers. But brothers torn apart and killed, who cared less for each other than they did for their ownership of Heaven's power were not brothers in Castiel's weary eyes. He let his hands fall to his side.
That familiar anger of betrayal flared inside as he considered each of their faces carefully.
Often mistaken for a mere catalyst of God, a man with no heart and a pre-programmed mind like a message machine, Castiel sometimes let his thoughts tread on his faith.
This, however, hurt less than the betrayal of his brothers, the proof of lack of love, because, he knew, his faith had been a doormat for evil for a great amount of time.
Do you still exist? He blinked up into the sky.