This was not what he had prayed for.
Secretly, in the deepest, most private places of his mind, Jimmy had always yearned to be a part of something greater. Most of the time, for most of his life, he had kept this yearning hidden, tucked beneath the daily routine of Normality. He went to work, had a family, and tried to pretend that, as a child, he didn't fantasize about saving the world, battling faceless, God-less hordes, his righteousness his only weapon. He knew it was silly, so he told no one. (well, except for Kristoff, a boy in his first grade class who had always been happy to play the leader of the imaginary horde.)
So, when an angel came to him, asking for his aid, he was awed, maybe a little frightened, but contented in a way he had never known. This, after all, was proof that he had been right. God had plans for him. He was meant for greatness.
Certainly, his wife was troubled. It's possible that, were their situations reversed, he would have been, as well. It was unfortunate, perhaps, that he had never told her of his lifelong fantasies. Maybe then she would have understood that this, while mystifying, and incredible, was his destiny. He had known it all his life.
He wished he had listened to her. He hadn't, of course. And, now, here he was, locked inside his own body. There was battle, but he was no leader. He was barely an observer, and the only thing he felt was the pain of his wounding (something Castiel never seemed to pay attention to). Angels healed. So, his body healed, as well, but that didn't mean he didn't suffer. Castiel, likely because of his seeming invulnerability, didn't pay attention to his pain. Sometimes Jimmy thought he just couldn't perceive it, but he soon realized he was wrong.
It wasn't that Castiel wasn't aware of his pain. He was just indifferent. It was an alien concept to him, and he was a soldier. Jimmy's pain was temporary, and ultimately trivial. There were larger issues. Which was true, Jimmy supposed. What little he had gleaned of the situation was certainly dire, and the heroic part of him (or the part he had always believed to be heroic) wanted to be as indifferent as Castiel was.
He couldn't. He spent much of his time crying out to God to spare him this torment. He had been starving for months. He had been bloody, and battered, beaten and broken, for what felt like forever.
It wasn't forever. It had only been months.
But forever was coming, and he would still be here, locked somewhere inside himself, begging an absent God for release.
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