It's morning again, and surely Castiel has come to hate the light that is brought to him, through the cracks in his window. The only benefit to being a human is the sleep that is thrust upon him, giving him a blissful world of dark, for a few snatched hours. But even that glimmers with memories, of burning stars, and flaming wings that unlike a phoenix simply can't be reborn onto his bare, naked back. Sleep itself, the numbness is a hard feat, the angel at war with the man, an immortal who is invulnerable, fighting with his weak nature, still rebelling against his tired vessel.

The faint light brushes his eyelids, a soft kiss. Castiel flinches away, rolling onto his stomach, wincing as the sheets brush against his bare back. His fingertips graze the blanket, pulling it over himself tighter. Two minutes later he's sweating profusely, stripping it off of his body. He's been running a fever on and off for days now. His eyes crack open, and he scrapes the grit out of his eyes with his grubby fingernails. He watches the dust dance through the cracks in the blinds, a lovely symphony, and his eyes prick with the loss of the deep base and the thrumming pulse of his brothers and sisters, no longer a constancy.

~:~

It's morning again, and Castiel wonders why he still tries. Any man saner than him, who has committed as much wrong as he has would have ended it for everyone by now. It's much easier to fight with the darkness inside at night, because that itself is a worthy punishment, a penance, as he battles with his aching muscles, the phantom twitching of the flexing muscles of his absent wings, and the guilt that resurfaces itself, smothering him. But he is an angel of the Lord, or he was a terrible one at that, but he'd been raised up for battle. An immortal, who'd been acutely aware of every heart beat, the pulse of life, the origins of all the stars in the universe, and now he was forced to live another day of monotonous chagrin, the world drained of all colour, all sense and essence of feeling. The morning doesn't bring with itself a sense of renewal, but only a vague memory of what had been.

~:~

The morning brings the early morning news on the television, something which Castiel has learned to avoid like the Black Plague, because it only brought more news of more chaos, more casualties, of disorientated, ferocious angels lunging out at the public, committing civil wars over dinner tables in restaurants. Some of the reports had been so absurd that they'd almost been funny. He ignores the news of all the bodies, being dragged out of rivers, unnamed and unknown, because he could identify them all.

~:~

The morning comes and Castiel can feel his body dying around him. Every touch burns too cold, too hot. Dean's affirmation of love, as he pulled him into his arms, becomes an internal hell. A light tap finds him cringing away from Sam, from Dean, who watches with hollow eyes, and smiles and makes a light joke, "Am I invading your personal space Cas?" to hide the hurt.

But as light streams and dances outside the window, and Castiel finds himself for a brief moment, he finds himself disappointed in the dawn. For all the fighting he'd expect something brighter, more vibrant. But all he gets is a gentle light, a faint promise of peace, a promise of rest for your weary soul. Castiel could name a thousand mornings which held false promises behind their optimistic sky.

~:~

It had been a bright morning in heaven, when he'd stood as God, his angel blade red with the blood of fallen. The sky had seemed to work at that time, as a pathetic fallacy, and Castiel could still remember clearly his epiphany, as he'd looked up at the clouds a spectrum of light lavender and peach, and truly thought he'd been in the right. Only Castiel couldn't have been more wrong. The morning brings with itself a taunt, it gives you the hope to depend on, before the hours in the day strip you down and snatch your precious hopes and dreams away.

~:~

He blinks, closing his eyes and the light shatters. He grumbles under his breath, cursing in his mother tongue. Everything is too noisy, his ears too attuned to everything in the house, as the angel inside him still yearns to watch, still aches to watch, still finding some sick and twisted enjoyment in watching the trees, breathing the air. It's fricking built into his programming, a buzz of wonder that he can't choke down.

But his job isn't to watch anymore, it's to do. And there is a significant difference. One can know the theory of how the toothbrush functions, but the application of using one is an different matter in itself, one that has left Castiel's mouth bloody and sore, he brushes too hard, too light or too long, to the point where's he's snapped the neck, storming out the bathroom, glaring at Dean who's hiding a grin, a sight rare for Castiel, that he takes a strange enjoyment in seeing, but is still loathe to him.

The idea of it was puzzling to him. When he was an angel, he'd never had to think about such things.

~:~

But Castiel isn't an angel anymore. He's a human, trapped in a meat suit that feels too much, hurts too much. So he swallows mouthfuls of liquor to beat the feelings down, until he can drift in his stagnant paradise. He ignores Dean's frown of concern, with a dignified persistence as it became more and more etched into his face. But it was the only way for Castiel to wash away the sin, rooted into his chest, to dilute its pain. A few more mouthfuls and he'll be out for the day.

Waste of space. That's what he is. Breaking everything. He can't even admit that to Dean. Can't admit that every day brings a question of whether it'll be the day he has enough, if it'll be the liquor, or some medicinal pills, or he'll simply stand on the edge of the roof and drop off, delivered to death by gravity, something he used to be able to defy.

"Talk to me."

Castiel swallows down the liquor, ignoring the bile, as his body rebels against the poison. A slow death. That's the way to do it. That's the best method of punishment for his crimes. Don't look Dean the righteous man in the eyes, because you know his worried stare will burn you. He was no longer his angel of deliverance, he was a sorry excuse for a broken angel, a warrior with a lost cause, because Kevin was yet to suss out the tablet, and so Castiel would clutch onto whatever loss of awareness that would be given him. And he didn't need Dean's pity, his laughter at his expense, when he actually tried. He didn't need it.

~:~

But he still notices, still sees, although he doesn't want to. He sees Dean stooped over the kitchen counter, rubbing his face, standing upright to attention like a soldier, as Castiel ambles in, eyes bleary from the alcohol. "You really going to get another one Cas?" He asks quietly, and it sounds too much like come back to me, come home.

But this isn't home. He doesn't have a home anymore. He'd torn the whole thing down.

He grits his teeth, and doesn't make eye contact. He reaches into the fridge, to find its empty, and he glares at Dean who shrugs and looks back defiantly.
"I've had enough Cas." He says softly, his voice calm, and yet cracking the shields that Castiel has built so carefully around himself.

Castiel squints at Dean, bewildered outrage makes his arm lunge towards a nearby vase. It clatters to the ground, smashing into pieces. Dean bends over reflexively looking for a dust pan, cleaning up Castiel's mess.
The room shakes. "I don't need your pity Dean." Castiel growls. "I don't."

Dean just sighs as he looks at him, and Cas tries to hide his trembles, knowing that Dean sees a man who hasn't shaved, hasn't showered in days, whose eyes are red from lack of sleep and yet another hangover. Dean shakes his head slightly, "You've got it anyway Cas," He breathes, reaching for a box of cereal, pouring one bowl for himself, and sliding another bowl across the table to Castiel, with a pint of milk, and a spoon.

Castiel tries to ignore his rumbling belly. Dean smirked, an unhappy smile as his eyes seized up Castiel, rubbing Castiel's nerves up the wrong way. "I've got to get back to Sam. If you want more alcohol, get it for yourself, I'm not buying it for you anymore."

Castiel stared at Dean blankly, as he brushed past him. He tried to block out the ringing in his ears, and the metallic taste of his mouth. His head snaps over to Dean, and his voice straddles out, a pathetic whimper, which Castiel hates. "You know I don't know how to drive." And he'd learn but Dean doesn't have the time, the patience or trust to let him touch his baby.

Dean doesn't answer.

"I need it Dean!" He screams, and his own voice makes his ears burst, and his arms snap up to his ears, and everything is coming to him at once -

Another voice yells, and it's painful and someone is touching him, and Castiel is yelling, trying to break away from his assailant's tight grasp -
"Damn it Cas! Look at me!"

Castiel prises his eyes open, and relaxes slightly as his sees Dean's face. His eyes roll around him, takes in the shattered bowl behind him, and realises that the cereal was for Sam. He swallows down the vomit, the acid burning in the back of his throat. Literally, the only thing that could make this worse was to throw up all over himself and Dean. "I'm sorry, Dean." And he is. He is sorry. He's sorry for being such a waste.

Dean's eyes are wet. "I'm sorry too, Cas." And his green eyes hold a silent plea, please stop doing this to yourself Cas, let me help you.

But Castiel cannot. He pulls Dean off of him again, and watches Dean in silence picking up all the broken pieces of glass and china, trying to ignore the burning sensation of Dean's lingering touch, leaving trails underneath his skin that Castiel simply can't brush off.

He closes his eyes, and tries again to block the world out, but there is still the feeling of Dean's faint imprint on his skin, and he sits and meditates on the comforting thought that it is morning outside, and for once it had given to him more than it has taken.