Castiel was an infant by angel standards—still young enough to find pure, amazed /wonder/ in their Father's creations. If the concept of time had existed at this point, he would have been somewhere around three centuries old—still shaky on his wings, still eager and young and /bright/ with youth.
Their Father warned them that soon—when his next experimental creation, humans, came into being—they would need to use vessels to roam this planet of earth and air and fire and water and pure, unadulterated, capacity to /create/. But for now, they did not need to clothe themselves in a physical form. So little Castiel was exploring the landscape his Father and four eldest brothers had painstakingly molded with their grace from nothing but their imagination.
Castiel had a favorite spot on Earth—a small dip in the landscape added by the archangel of innocence and wit, Gabriel. It was beautiful and calm and serene; a small lake surrounded by trees taller than the angels themselves, their branches hanging as if weeping, forming cocoons of speckled green and gold underneath their boughs. And when the sun, pulsating with energy and brilliance, was at /just/ the right angle, it sent dapples of light through the soft green of the trees that transformed the surface of the lake into liquid gold. The vivid sunlight gilded the green leaves of the trees that were standing still, mourning in a silent vigil.
Castiel wanted to create, too. He had dreams of purple-hued mountain ranges with peaks that kissed the clouds. Of spindly trees topped with wispy billows of deep greens sprouting from sharp crags overlooking the crashing and rolling sea. Of little creatures that swam and ran and soared in the air. Of angel-like feathers on small living things that claimed the sky of this planet. Of beasts with claws and teeth and tails, and of gentle, furry masses that sluggishly rolled through this beautiful plane of existence.
Castiel wanted to create, too.
But he was only a seraph, the youngest as well, and so he made do with viewing his brothers' world, /their/ creations.
He made do with dreams and hopes and /ideas/.
Castiel wanted to create, too.
