Core Residence
If flight was searching, and home what's been found, then the mortal buzz that hummed beneath was what called him, the millennia spent in Heaven only to learn the worth of humanity.
The peculiarity about the avian nature of honeybees, particularly in their wings, was due to how delicate those glass- like limbs were, protruding as translucent petals from a fuzzy yellow- black middle. The thinnest fabric of nature woven against an abdomen of a beast so tiny, and a buzzing hum would ease from the rapid flapping, propelling it into the blue horizon. However, they were bugs, of pestilent nature to the eyes of the ignorant, and life bringers to those of apiarian cognisance. Bees would touch a flower with such frailty, petals unfurling in a welcome gesture, a vivid invitation to pollinate. As man does the same, a brush of a finger against the plant, nature would cower and recoil in disgust, shrivelling like dry weeds from the human touch. How dare such tainted limbs press upon beauty, the corrupt fibres of mortal beings plaguing them, decaying the brilliance, fading, fading, like the evanescent fog of hot breath in winter. And in winter, warmth was in the beehives, a conjunction of filial buzz, a congested home of sisters, the queen with a knowing and watching hum in her wing.
Much of their nature, as the crouched Castiel would reconcile with one, its six threadlike limbs tickling the vessel's finger, was ignored. They bore a weapon, sharp and cruel, protruding and brandished openly. They were soldiers borne to protect their queen, heeding her every word of creation and preservation. Unyielding in the face of danger, and steel through thorax and sting, they attacked if provoked by the evils of man. Blind defence of their queen, as the angel acknowledged, where one puncture could kill. No, the human would merely suffer a swollen limb and react dangerously, rashes heating up and consuming the flesh, or be it a simple mark on the skin. It was the little beast that suffered in the name of their ruler, a sting in the flesh as the tombstone of the bee's grave.
Faced by foes, brothers as he called once, surrounding him like the walls that slowly drew closer and closer, Castiel forgot. A shimmer of silver, sharp and cruel, punctured the grace, the vessels convulsing. Bright white blinded and consumed his sight. It was only until he spun around, the long coat swishing around with an empty sound, that he saw how delicate wings were, tattooed in ashy resemblance. He remembered. A mission already lost through sacrifice. Selfish sacrifice.
His head empty from whispers, Castiel felt the tendrils that held him together, loosen and tense, like a heartbeat. Angels were no mortals, but the allegiance he felt demanded something human. A craving almost senseless, he nearly deviated from flight, twisting himself closer to Earth. Castiel needed to cleanse the dirt from underneath the nails, and wash away the bloodstained palms, turning his head away from the others as he sat in heaven's shadow. Atonement, penitence, he preached it but hypocrites received his fate. A rogue- like palate, the ever-present rough bitterness that scratched in the throat, clawing painfully like a trapped animal. Castiel swallowed and the vessel's Adam's apple bobbed in response. A sin permanently lodged.
A sin always remembered, and his feet touched the Earth again, the vibe of life buzzing beneath the soles.
"Cas, what the hell man?" Dean growled, startled at the angel's surprise presence. He quickly pressed the red button on the remote, and the TV snapped quiet. "Knock or something."
"Hello Dean."
A greeting to quell the furrowed brow of his charge, and the forehead did relax, smoothing the wrinkles into oblivion. The green stare softened in welcome with the briefest quirk of the lip as Dean swung his legs to hang over the bed. Palms flattened the creased denim of the jeans and pulled the shirt into place, quickly and methodically, almost to hide something suspicious.
"Just a warning next time, yeah? I was uh, engaged." Dean spoke again, softer now.
"I relied on your aural familiarity with my wings," Castiel stated. "I thought you were attuned to them? Perhaps I should adjust the frequency."
"Hey, it's fine man. Just knock, plain and simple."
"What activity were you engaged with? You seemed sedentary."
Dean shifted quietly in his spot and shook his head stiffly. He gestured at the television, whilst tucking the remote beneath the pillow. "Just watching TV. Channel surfing, you know. You want to sit or something?"
Castiel looked at the chair that stood openly, almost in invitation for comfort. "I do not require the need to sit."
With the response of a gaping mouth, opening and closing like a fish, and the side glance, Dean withdrew from saying anything that could possibly begin to understand an angel's celestial nature. And the angel continued to stand in the stagnant silence, the unspoken words hanging like low, heavy clouds on an overcast day, rain yet to fall and grace the Earth with a warm touch. The mutual familiar caress from a singular glance, green eyes staring up in anticipation at the soft but blank blue, and the former attempted to discern the purpose of Castiel's presence, before uttering a "So?" in a hushed voice.
"I am uncertain as to where to begin," Castiel started, before stopping abruptly, surprised at his choice of words. "I do know where to begin, but the nature of propriety prohibits that avenue of discourse."
"You're an angel- "
"Human propriety."
Dean recoiled, lifting his palms up in defence. Being cut off like that was one thing, but to spit out the word human with such a low regard was outright…
"I do not mean to be condescending. I am adjusting to social- "
"One thing, reading someone's mind like that doesn't follow social norms or whatever. You and I? We've talked about stuff like this, so come on man, spit it out," Dean cut in.
"You. Myself. Pie." Castiel voiced most eloquently, staring down at his charge, impressed that his message was sufficiently delivered.
Clearly, the last word triggered a spark in Dean, and he hopped up before slowly sitting back down again. Indeed another spark was catalysed, a reminder that he was waiting for Sam to come back with what he found on their somewhat dormant case. He had little to contribute, because the internet rendered nothing, and anticipated that his brother was more successful in his research. Of course Sammy would always find something, being a freaky encyclopedia of everything and using that brain to search for any possible lead.
"Sorry Cas, I gotta wait for Sammy to come back, unless you can bring the pie here."
The said angel smiled knowingly. "Convenient that we are at a diner," he commented, finally seated on the red leather of the booth, glancing sidewards where Dean sat opposite.
Dean whisked his head around, swivelling quickly to realise where he was before returning his gaze at Castiel.
"Seriously Cas? When you ask, you wait for my response before you poof me someplace with your angel powers."
"I construed your abrupt eagerness towards pie as an affirmative response," he replied, as a large apple pie appeared on the table. The waitress then placed the cutlery down, and sauntered off towards a dirty table.
"Yeah but…" Dean started before the wafting sweet scent of cinnamon and apple found its way to the hunter's nose, and like muscle memory, he slid the fork and knife from its rolled napkin and dug in. The first bite was a large fistful of pastry and filling, a slice carved with surgical precision. Mouth bulging, with golden speckles of pie crumbs dotted around the lips, he smiled in approval as the appetite was sated.
"Also with your inherent craving, arousal and absolute vacancy of your mind, it was prudent to salvage your state before it transgressed into volatile blasphemy," Castiel listed promptly and Dean nearly choked on his pie. Aptly so with the apple, but the angel made sure it went down before his charge began to speak once more.
"This- that was private. Privacy, Cas, seriously. A man's got his needs and all."
"You suggest preference in your brother discovering you in such a state? Procrastination should be spent wisely, and not with a lesser substitute."
"I was not procrastinating," Dean mumbled as he put another piece of sweet pastry goodness into his mouth.
"Sam will be back soon," Castiel remarked, ignoring the blatant lie. There was something domestic in watching Dean consume the pie, like the caressing warmth of reassuring steam when one would first cut into the pastry, obscuring the vision with a misty fragrant bliss. The dish itself was meant for two servings, but the hunter had already delved into and consumed a third without any hesitation. The shimmer of the steel knife began to incise the flaky golden top, etching itself carefully around to carve a small mouthful. It was a perfect balance of filling and pastry. He waited for Dean to eat it, and to relish in the chewing.
"You can ask for some you know. Don't have to stare at it so longingly," Dean spoke, waving the pie stabbed by the fork. "Open up."
"Angels do not require sustenance." Castiel recoiled, pressing his lips together as the piece of pie approached closer to his mouth.
"Requirement and desire are two different things. Man, how you were looking at the pie, I swear you wanted to make out with it. Now open up." The pastry tapped against the angel's lips and they yielded, taking the serving whole and pulling the fork out of Dean's grasp.
It was a curious blend of textures on his vessel's tongue, and the sensation tickled Castiel's grace. A smooth warm spice of cinnamon danced around the chunks of apples and the diced fruit melted into the thin pastry. Combination of syrupy viscosity and the light crunch of the crust, the final flavours lingered on the palate even after swallowing. No wonder man liked it. An artistic composition, if Castiel could say so himself, even though his celestial nature overrode the majority of the somewhat human experience with an awareness to molecular compounds.
Twisting the plate closer to him, and sliding his cutlery from the serviette, Castiel carved a similar piece, following Dean's meticulous example, before waving the said piece in his face. The hunter's gaze quickly shot up, staring at the angel opposite with wide eyes.
"My turn. Open up."
"I- " Dean began to speak before the piece of pie found its place in his mouth.
"Time to go." It was not a request and Dean did not have time to reply, not only due to the fact that the angel just shoved food in his mouth, but because he found himself sitting on the motel bed once more and chewing avidly.
The door cracked open and the flurry of luscious locks breezed through first, before the rest of Sam appeared into the room. In the crook of his arm were several clippings, edges splaying out as if trying to escape the choking grasp and a zip lock bag dangled from his tightly pressed lips. He quickly pulled the said bag from his mouth and placed in gingerly upon the coffee table, followed by the papers, before whisking himself around and nearly bumping into Castiel holding a plate of pie.
"Uh, hey Cas," Sam frowned looking down at the pastry that was half eaten. A fork and knife lay lazily beside it.
"Hello Sam. I do not believe you are hungry?"
"No, not really, since I just stepped into... Let's not recall the image."
Castiel nodded knowingly, before turning back to Dean, who had just swallowed his piece. Quickly, Sam put two and two together.
"Were you just feeding my brother?"
Dean rose immediately. "No Sammy, I can feed myself." He made great effort to wander towards the newspapers and prodded the bag absently, furrowing his brow as he read the titles, sliding his finger underneath the words as he progressed into the articles.
"A shapeshifter," Castiel commented, appearing beside the coffee table and placing the pie down delicately away from the bag. He could sense the increased palpitations of Dean's heartbeat as it lurched from surprise, and noted how his other hand clenched and unclenched like the beating organ.
"Yeah," Sam replied, watching the two askance, "The bag was what I could salvage from its last transformation. Well, the last whole piece. The rest was just slimy and gross."
"And you just watched it transform?" his brother lifted his head from the articles.
"Well of course. I didn't have any bullets on me because we didn't know what we were hunting. Aggravating it wasn't something I wanted to do either, so yeah."
"This ear though?" Dean prodded the bag once more, and then flicked it in amusement. The hearing organ sagged slightly from the painful infliction and he stopped.
Sam just shrugged and lifted his eyebrows, uncertain. "Merry Christmas?"
"Christmas is not until several weeks. I do not understand your odd custom to bestow your brother with a human organ as an early gift."
The Winchesters just stared at him.
The buzz of celestial whispers stirred once more, a nagging sting calling him upward. Ignoring them was almost habitual, but this one pulled on his name, like wrinkled and warm palms hoisting his grace towards the heavens. To heed to the rare correspondence and return to what was once home weaved a singular dreading thread of consequence into his obedience. Why would his superiors require his presence, unless to cleanse his wavering loyalty? Brothers and sisters alike have tried, but the bond was stronger than faith. Castiel's gaze lingered over towards his charge, their faced pulled in mild concern, eyes glinting peridot green and waiting patiently.
"Cas, come on. Don't stop midsentence. Sam and I need to chase this son of a bitch down before it runs off again."
Of course, Dean was in the middle of a case, and Castiel was about to proclaim something, before the heavenly orders dragged him upward. The ground pulled away from his feet and the Winchesters' heartbeats faded and faded until it was another whisper amongst the earthly breeze.
"Just like an animal, carted and drawn up towards his master," an angel snickered from the shadows of the looming clouds, dark and heavy, grumbling like a storm. "You are to be treated, until faith is restored."
A low rumbling swirled around him as many more gathered, twisting the darkness into a void, a vacuum forcing him further and further into the abyssal prison. Castiel's blade sliced the air, a silver streak shimmering against a black canvas, warding away those who lingered too close. Nothing could cease it. Almost helpless, with a sour taste of a fighting chance. Jagged and erratic, he whisked left and right in blindness, blade snagging tendrils of grace. A stream of light haloed his face before another angel dove through and clogged the exit. Run, to fly, just to flee, and feel the life buzz beneath him; Castiel had little room to spread his wings in attempt before brothers crashed into him.
"This is for your own good," they chanted, a harmonic shriek around him. "Your own good!"
"Who summoned me?" Castiel cried out, daring to push his voice through their Enochian derision and the circling, vicious flaps of wings. "Present yourself!"
"We all summoned you. We are all here to correct your ways. As brothers, it is a duty."
"As your brother, you respect my decisions!"
"The demoted one, we are not obliged to listen to you."
The brightest white pierced the dark, shattering it like a mirror, bursting the shadows into obsidian shards. They splayed and pinned him down, forcing him to kneel, recoiling from the light, hands up and wings flared in surrender.
Castiel was blinded, and forgot.
"Split up. We surround it behind the block," Dean gestured to Sam, leaning against the boot of the Impala. The taller Winchester nodded as he checked his silver bullets, and clicked the magazine into the gun.
The older one looked up towards the sky, the night drawn above the skyscrapers and the concave moon hiding shyly behind the fiftieth level of the business high-rise. For once, clouds were only mere grey wisps that curled almost invisible on the dark navy evening canvas. A clear night was a good night, Dean thought. Hunting was easier with high visibility.
With a nod, they slinked into separate alleyways, guns held firmly in hand, finger tapping lightly on the trigger. Sam had progressed further with his longer lunges forward, head swivelling at each crunch behind and before him. A bird flapped nearby, and up went the barrel, only to be eased down again in realisation. He blinked slowly, easing his sight into the growing darkness, and large bins and trash bags appeared into view. Inching forward, footsteps heavy but carefully and quietly placed, Sam meandered towards them, cautious at how they rustled in the windless night. The weapon clicked into play and the sound stopped.
It was only then he realised the path was blocked with a brick wall, preventing him to go around and meet up with Dean. He cursed silently before hurrying back the other way.
"Not a chance, kid."
A blur shot out from the shadows and struck him in the temple. Another clocked him on the jaw hard, as if the fist was of steel. Sam spun, vision twisting the colours of night, black, blue, yellow of the stars and moon. His balance failed him and he crashed into the bins, bursting the rubbish bags as he splayed on to them, mumbling Dean's name. His gun clattered against the concrete, millimetres away from his fingers, but too far to pick up. A stained light tan whisked into view, before the black consumed his vision.
A brick wall. It rose higher than anything climbable, with pieces jagging out as footholds, almost tempting Dean to scale it. However, the top was swallowed by the night sky and now was not the right time to test if gravity worked. A mumbled crash echoed and he twisted around, gun pointed straight and firm, but the still, stagnant night greeted him. He had to get to Sammy before the shapeshifter got his brother and he ran the way he came, the long alleyway a flurry of dark brown blurs as he rushed forward.
He knocked down the man that swayed as he walked, and Dean whisked his gun around, finger itching to click the trigger and kill it before it retaliated.
"Jesus Christ!" Dean blasphemed.
The man slowly etched himself up and Dean offered a hand, pulling him to his feet. He swayed and the Winchester had his arms held open as support, but the ragged stranger managed to find his balance.
"You're- you're wrong." He stuttered.
His face was scratched and scarred, like fine red wire lacerating the flesh, crisscrossing endlessly. Dark brown stubble littered the chin unevenly, crawling its way down the neck. The coat was damp and hung heavily where the moisture clung on the fabric, draping off the man's thin frame and drooping shoulders. His face was clouded with a film of dirt, and sweat was a thin sheen on top, plastering the grime onto the skin. Yet those blue eyes sparkled and shone bright like the stars at midnight, pleading and sad.
"C-cas?!" Dean placed firm and steadying palms on the angel's shoulders, staring into those eyes. "What happened to you?"
"I've been cast out."
"What?" The Winchester immediately dropped his hands by his sides, gaze still locked onto the blue stare.
"I've Fallen, Dean. It just happened, and I've no… no recollection."
His dirty palms clenched, so human in anger and frustration, and he cast his head down away from Dean's unrelenting eyes, looking at the cement ground.
"Fallen? What do you mean?" the hunter probed softly. He knew what it was, but something, just something to break the heavy fog that pressed onto his shoulders. His hand loosened on the gun, and he caressed the barrel absently with a finger, feeling the cool metallic chill beneath his calloused flesh.
Castiel shrugged, a stutter of the shoulders, eyes still looking away. Ashamed. "My wings. They've been severed."
He edged closer to Dean, slow and steady steps forward. Castiel's low and hollow voice spoke once more. "What do I do?"
Dean looked at the fallen angel, the tie still flipped backwards and stained with dark splotches, the white shirt now dull and greying, and the oversized trench torn and raggedy, all so close and familiar.
"You do nothing," he whispered.
"What?"
He recoiled backwards and pointed the barrel at Castiel, knuckles blaring white as he clenched the gun tightly. "You do nothing!"
"Dean, I don't understand." He cocked his head in confusion, squinting the eyes in his trying desire to discern the particulars of humanity. It was performed so naturally, like a reflex, and the grasp nearly faltered.
If only the heart could steady. It was not a thrill or pulse of adrenaline, each palpitation a rib-shaking hammer against his skeletal frame, pounding relentlessly, drumming, drumming. His fingers were glued in position as the sweat began to ease from his clamped hands. The eyebrows knitted tightly, creasing his forehead as Dean began to decide.
"You're not Cas."
"Of course I'm not. I lost more than half of myself when I fell. I doubt I should even be honoured with the name anymore. I'm… different."
It was true that when he spoke, gesticulated, and stood, Castiel's centre of gravity had indeed shifted. Perhaps that was the effect of being drained of grace, without that same power to lean on like a stilt when injured, and he now relied on the vessel to keep him upright and whole. Yet Dean was hunting tonight, and no shapeshifter was seen, even with their absolute certainty of its presence here. By powers of elimination, he could not take chances.
But if this was Cas, fallen and now so human, any mortal weapon can kill him. Dean imagined the silver bullet imbedded in the heart, each beat slowly faltering as the viscous blood seeped through the wound, black and thick, the last whisper bearing his name on the angel's tongue. Perhaps even the whisper would not survive, choked in the throat as life faded from the still body, lips poised and ready to say the final word.
Shaking his head, the cool metallic chill pressed against his own temple and the finger prepared to pull the trigger.
"If you were Cas, my Cas, you wouldn't want me to undo your efforts." Click. The gun prepared itself, the sound resounding through Dean's cranium.
There was no reason why Cas should have saved him in the beginning, because honestly, it was all going to end, either with the bullet in the brain or the blade in the back. Hell or heaven, there was no difference. Yet, Dean realised an angel searching for one human and raising them from the vast burning abyss of perdition was not the easiest of jobs, even for some celestial force. He respected that.
He would rather let go of a kill than kill someone so close. Someone that meant so much to him.
A pattering echoed behind, and whispering Castiel's name in full, feeling every syllable in his mouth, the gunshot ricocheted loud and clear in the dark alleyway.
It was the crack that woke him, shuddering Sam from his unconsciousness. The pungent punch of putrid, rotten bananas and God knows what stung his nostrils viciously, almost burning them, before he remembered.
Dean.
Shapeshifer.
Pushing himself out of the garbage, his head spun and he leant against the brick wall, steadying his footing. His stray fingers brushed away the obstructing locks from his face, but they pulled away sticky and slathered with blood. The mouth would not open either, locked in acute stinging pain, and any attempt to mobilise it made Sam grunt out in pure agony. Using his hand and feeling the cool bumpy bricks, he guided himself downward slowly, blindly searching for the metallic familiarity of the gun. Once obtained, the Winchester etched himself forward and towards the direction of Dean, head and vision still blurring and spinning, colours mixing into dark blue hues.
It felt like hours, but Sam finally saw it, the light tan shape looking over a familiar crumpled body.
"Dean! Shapeshifter!" He choked out, gun fumbling in his large palm, but the dizziness overwhelmed him, spinning Sam into oblivion. He slid down the wall, eyes closed, and a cool touch graced his head.
The weapon spun from his hand, whisked away in a whirlwind, and a familiar finger pulled the trigger. A final shot at the raggedy man, and he fell in a crumpled heap. Red looked inky black in the night, as it oozed sluggishly from beneath the fallen body.
Castiel turned around to look at the Winchester that called out his charge's name, and flew over, tapping gently on the forehead to send him into a peaceful, dreamless slumber, healing the wounds. Returning to Dean, he pressed the gun back into its owner's hand firmly, his mouth pressed in a strict line on the vessel's face. Dean only stared agape as his gazed shifted from the shapeshifter to Castiel, again and again in disbelief.
"Cas… Castiel?" he finally muttered, tasting the full name in awe.
"Do not get yourself in such a predicament again," the angel growled, his hand still on the gun in Dean's palm. "Do not reverse God's orders."
Their eyes met, blue tugging with green, staring unwaveringly, hands joined between them.
"It's good to see you Cas," Dean whispered, eyes still wide in shock.
The angel hummed in agreement, and in a blink, whisked the Winchesters back to their motel. Sam lay on the bed, hair and limbs sprawled listlessly atop the blankets, eyes softly closed, and the smallest smile graced his lips.
In sudden recollection, Dean's seated body shook in the coffee table's chair and his eyes trailed over to Castiel, who was prodding the cold half eaten pie that the angel extracted from the fridge. Coat swishing, he wandered over to the microwave, scrutinised the buttons, before deciding to use his grace to heat up the pastry. Scouring for a fork and knife, the plate scraped against the table, pushed towards Dean.
"What did you have to tell me, before you disappeared?" the hunter asked, already carving a slice.
A look glazed over the blue eyes as he remembered. Frowning, he stood taller, unfolding and flaring his wings. Dean could not see them, but it was enough to see the human shrink back in confusion.
"I do not serve man." Castiel looked down at the seated hunter. "And I certainly do not serve you."
A flutter and Dean was left alone with his pie.
To cleanse his navigator senses was to block his connection to heaven, an act prohibited by his Father. It was only through the Fall an angel would lose their celestial tendrils, snipping them free from home's grasp, and losing the affinity to their brethren. For an angel to manipulate a Fall, banishment was a merciful option. And so his feet were littered with disintegrated grace, brothers as mere memories that once swallowed him with their flurry of wings at this very spot. Castiel knelt and graced the killing ground with three fingers, feeling their presence still humming in the fabrics of Heaven. Brothers so misled, Castiel closed his eyes and bent his neck downward, mourning. It was only God's will that they were punished.
And it was only God's will that his senses yearned for Earth, his Father's creation drawing him in, nestling in the hive of human life. If flight was searching, and home what's been found, then the mortal buzz that hummed beneath was what called him, the millennia spent in Heaven only to learn the worth of humanity. Although domesticity was not something Castiel sought, but a longing desire embedded somewhere in his grace, it was innate as sapphire sheen in his ebon wings, sated only by one man.
That one man that threatened his vigilance to watch over humans as creations, and not feel love, passion, fury…
His grace touched the concrete path, cold against his celestial nature, his rigid posture still and unwavering amongst the buzzing crowd that swished around him. People blurred like leaves in the hurricane and Castiel stood firmly in the eye, watching something ethereal in the distance, ice blue and steady. Realising now, only the lightest of touches between grace and man, soft and gentle as the bee touched the flower…
Castiel flew back into the motel, the plate just cleaned and the consumer wiping his mouth. Dean, unaware of the visitor, casually sauntered towards the sink, placing the crockery onto the metallic surface. Twisted around with a firm and familiar hand on the shoulder, the hunter was pressed against the bench by the force of the angel.
"Words cannot begin to articulate what I have to tell you."
"Cas! What did I say about knock-"
It was delicate, surprisingly soft, brushing like a whisper against the lip. Perhaps that was how a wave of celestial intent kissed, even in a vessel, when touching human skin so tenderly, allowing their grace to glide over and buzz peacefully. A tangle of pastry and apple and cinnamon flooded Castiel's mouth, flavours so accustomed to now, he felt at home.
Once pulled away, still tangled in each other's embrace, faces only millimetres apart, Dean hushed breathlessly.
"What the hell?"
The angel just stared, cocking his head curiously to the side.
"No seriously dude. What the hell?"
"That was a demonstration of my fondness towards your existence, Dean. Was it not satisfactory?" Castiel said with the low underlying growl in his throat.
Dean was dumbfounded before uttering, "You know friend, this is a god damn bitch of a satisfactory situation."
Retracting from the intimacy, Castiel inched away in thought, brow creasing. "You misquoted Brokeback Mountain."
"Wait, you've seen that movie?"
Blue eyes bore into the hunter, eyebrows rising in question. "Yes?"
"W- why?"
The angel maintained his gaze, but the features shifted knowingly, with a philosophical poignancy crinkling around the eyes.
"I found it most insightful about the human condition, particularly their behaviour in confined spaces."
A/N: I honestly do not know how this was written, since this is the longest oneshot I've ever accomplished in my lifetime. And in the Supernatural fandom, of which I only joined recently. Very recently in fact, that I'm only partway through season 3, and have not officially met Castiel yet, so much of his characterisation is based upon fanfiction and short YouTube snippets.