Somehow bleak against the pitch darkness of the night, several moments of glaring light marked the descent of a single spark through a star-painted sky. They had been decreasing in number and frequency for several nights now... since that night when those cold and bitter lies had suddenly and viciously stolen so many precious things from so many people. Gently, as if the phantom wound itself was still tender to the touch, Castiel rubbed his fingers across his neck where that Angel Blade had torn so quickly and so effectively at his skin. Of all possible outcomes in this strange and seemingly eternal war between Heaven and Hell and the human race, he had never foreseen this particular turn of events. He had never even come close to predicting that it could come to this. To Heaven being so far out of reach. To his brothers and sisters falling to the ground in grand displays of light and heat and faraway screams he couldn't even hear anymore- though something deep in his gut refused to let him forget that they were screaming. To look inside himself and know that there was nothing truly familiar there anymore.
A soft breeze tugged along the edges of the almost-unfamiliar trench coat which still hugged determinedly to his frame. The trees in that small hideout so isolated from all civilization whistled with some hint of melancholy, bowing to the efforts of the wind he could feel so much more sharply than before. Cas's footsteps fell easily in with the noises of the darkened hour, his form almost blending with the shadows as he advanced towards a beacon of hope in the surrealism of this world he had once considered more of a battlefield than long-term shelter.
A small scuffle between the idle car door and the muscles in his arm played out briefly as his own force was resisted by another. The gravitational pressure was hardly noticeable, of course- it was just a simple door- and yet... the slight physical effort of his arm's motion seemed to descend onto his shoulders with a tangible emotional weight. It was difficult and painful, this newfound sense. He had known emotions in the past, of course,as far as he had been able to tell... but they were so much stronger now; so much more definitively present than they had once been. A nasty sort of bile rose up in the very back of his throat as he laid himself down across the back seat of that car in the middle of the woods without a sign anywhere of of noisy and often chaotic human civilization.
His shoulder-blades contracted together reflexively so as to fold those wings he could still feel as solidly as ever, as if to keep them from being forced into awkward or unpleasant positions by the confines of the vehicle. There was a painfully audible silence, no feathers sliding across metal or plastic or the material of the car seats themselves and no extensions of muscles and tendons responding to the subconscious commands he had so effortlessly issued in the past. Just a pair of phantom limbs now, nothing more. He could lay himself down in a small space and have no need to adjust for the full breadth of his form, and that in itself was suddenly a very unpleasant realization. No wings, no halo, no "angel radio," no powers, no...
The relative silence of the night broke with a heavy anxiety, punctuated almost smoothly by the approach of footsteps which Castiel was surprised to find were still very distinctly familiar to him. In a land where once-familiar things were rapidly becoming foreign, the sensation of recognition was almost uplifting. The sound of each step was clear in its weight and in its bearing, as indicative of all he held dear as this car itself was. He stayed completely still, one hand pressed against the bottom of his rib cage as if to emphasize the rise and fall of his chest as his lungs processed a supply of oxygen which felt, somehow, much more bitter than before. Quietly, Castiel's eyes slid towards the rear-view mirror just in time to watch the halt of a pair of legs just beside the still-open car door. The figure froze there for a moment, evidently wary of things not being as they had been left.
"Who's there?" quick and gruff and equal parts defensive and aggressive, that trademarked voice very clearly demanded a minimum of information; if not reparation of potentially perceived damages.
"It... it's just... me, Dean," the words rose hollow from his lips and fell promptly down upon him, feeling as much like lies as any words Metatron had ever spoken to him, "It's just... Castiel."
"Cas?" that one word was so shocked and so relieved and so disbelieving... the man staring up at the ceiling of the car felt his stomach drop abruptly, without warning, and his heart pick up pace slightly and a warmth spread to the tips of his fingers which tapped nervously along the skin covering the now-fragile bones which encased his vital organs at the same time that a surgical type of cold rushed down to his toes. What were all of these physical sensations? What were all of these emotions? They were the same ones he'd felt before... most of them, at least... and yet here they were all crying out, all vying so desperately for his attention. They were mixed and muddled and powerful, and for a long moment he wasn't entirely certain whether he was happy or sad or guilty or relieved to hear Dean Winchester's voice speaking that name. All he really knew for sure was that it hurt. All of it hurt, in his muscles and in his blood and in some... intangible system within him which infected every sense he had. It hurt. Everything hurt now that he had no wings and no halo and no Heavenly status in any interpretation of the term Was this what it was to be human, then? Painful? Was this what he had been cursed to, then: suffering?
There was no real break between Dean's sentences when the odd catch in his throat at last relinquished to him the ability to speak, questions pouring out with just a fraction of a breath to signify the places where punctuation most probably should have been, "You're alive? You're- you're here? You found us? How? What happened? Did you-? Like they-? Are you, uh... are you, y'know... okay?" the pacing of his words slowed with the lightened weight of his steps, his feet touching almost gently onto the ground as if he was trying not to wake a sleeping child. The Hunter leaned into the frame of the car, his forehead pressed against his arm. Tattered edges at the bottom of his trench coat, dirt on his hands, his tie barely hanging onto its loosened grip around his neck, and there was something about the way he seemed to be sinking down into the seat... Cas wasn't okay, and yet Dean found himself asking anyway. Wanting to hear a lie, maybe, so he could accept or deny it on the angel's terms.
"I'm alive, yes. And I didn't... fall, like they did, if that's what you mean," the man's normally controlled voice faltering and breaking and fraying as if to match his coat when he mentioned what had happened. Why the Hell did everything have to hurt? His mind howled out to every plane of existence he knew in the same way a child would resist a time out: it wasn't fair! "I..." the words trembled very slightly as they reluctantly left him, "I was made... human... before Metatron sent me down here."
"So Naomi was telling the truth after all, huh? About Metatron being the bad guy in all this, I mean," Dean confirmed, an itch of movement beginning to creep into his feet. Human. Castiel wasn't an angel anymore... he was human. Something about that... Dean had to move, had to walk around, had to... do something. It wasn't right.
"Yes," yet again, the man who was no longer an angel experienced the intensity of another painful emotion, a heaviness settling on him as it slowly dawned upon him that even those emotions which had been so strong as to destroy him in the past would be different now... even guilt, which he had felt in plentitude over the past few years, was going to be different, "she was."
"I'm sorry, man. I really am. I know how... I mean, you trusted him and hated her and in the end... I just... I get it," he fell to a crouch, watching the up and down of Cas's hand with the steadiness of his breathing. Somehow, it felt more human than any words Cas could have said. Somehow, that steady breath was affirmation that the angel he had known wasn't, exactly, an angel anymore. His eyes moved quickly, refocusing on the ground as if the composition of dirt and sticks and leaves could distract him from the pain which practically emanated from the man in the backseat of his precious car. Things had been going sort of alright for a while, but now... even Cas was messed up, of all people; and after Dean had thought, inexplicably and irrationally, that he could never be broken again. A brief song played through the trees, another breeze pulling almost adamantly at loose hair and the ends of coats and then giving way to several minutes of stillness as the two men waited in silence for one to say something- anything, really. They needed each other's voices, needed to know for certain that both of them were truly alive and unharmed, and yet neither knew how to make his own voice work the way it should.
"It's empty," at last, still broken and shaky, Castiel was the one who spoke. His free hand pressed close to the material of the seat beside him which rose along his side, as if to absorb something of it into himself.
"What's empty?" quieter and more confused than he intended, Dean looked back up at the hand which seemed to be attempting to meld with the car that contained it.
"In here. It's empty in here," very slowly, he sat up as he spoke, drawing back against the still-shut door behind him without daring to remove his hand from its place on the back of the seat, "Before... everything happened, I could... there isn't really a word for it with these... limited senses. I could... I... I could feel them, Dean. Imprints of souls. Souls that have spent a significant amount of time within this car. Souls that the Impala itself has taken a liking to over the years. Like fingerprints, in a way, only... invisible, intangible, resistant to containment. I could sense them all, like the strings in a spider's web that shine only when the light hits them in a certain way. Like... invisible brands. Yours, Sam's, Bobby Singer's... and I know I never officially met either of your parents, but through these imprints I've felt as if... as if I've been getting to know them, in a way, in sporadic bursts of interaction; John Winchester especially. Even Charlie Bradbury's and Kevin Tran's souls were just beginning to make their marks here before I..." his hand twitched, Dean's face being replaced by the floor of the car.
"You could seriously tell all that stuff was here? You could seriously just... sit in here, and, uh, feel all those... souls?" Dean's eyes traversed the length and breadth of the Impala as thoroughly as they could from his vantage point, as if tracing it for some sign of those things Cas claimed to have seen. What would that look like, anyway? All blue and wispy like Bobby had been when Sam had transferred him upstairs, or was it different for every person?
"Not anymore. But once, yes. Though, even then, there was always one imprint I consistently failed to identify. It didn't belong to either of you, or anyone you seem to know. It was lighter than all the others, yet also more distinct in a way I couldn't explain... not even if I could still sense it now. It was there and it... wasn't, at the same time. It felt almost... familiar, though I could never appropriately place it. I suppose now that I'm... I'll never be able to find out for sure," with a sigh, the ex-angel shifted further back against the door, as if he could somehow force it to open and tumble out of the Impala with his celestial nature restored. It was impossible, of course, but he'd noticed his mind taking more liberties with fantasy in the past few days. It was as if, without warning, he had been given a broader and deeper well of imagination than the one to which he'd previously been granted access. Humans were emotions, yes, but apparently they were daydreams as well. It was going to take some getting used to. The trouble being, of course, that he didn't particularly want to get used to it.
"Did it...?" the Hunter laughed lightly under his breath, holding the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he shook his head, "I can't believe I'm even saying this: did it feel warm, without actually being warm, like, at all?"
Castiel raised his head, his ice blue eyes focusing on Dean's amused expression and then tensing slightly in confusion, "... Yes. It did. How did you...?" Dean didn't have celestial perception of the world around him. Dean was only... human.
"Just trust me on this one," he chuckled again as he responded, focusing his own eyes on Cas's befuddled face, "I've been around you when you do your angelic, divine, smite-y, lay-on-hands, whatever stuff enough times to know what it's like."
"What what's like? I don't understand..." a small spark of frustration bubbled uneasily beneath the veritable melting pot of emotions within Castiel, his lack of understanding affecting him in a way it never quite had before. How long did it take to grow accustomed to these things? How long would it take before he could effectively articulate whatever the Hell was going on with his mind at any given moment?
"You, Cas," with a substantial emphasis on his first word, Dean rose from his position and lowered himself into the backseat of the car to sit down with his knees up against his chest just as Cas's were laid close against his own, making very slow and deliberate motions as if the other man was a frightened animal he didn't want to scare away, "It was you. The weird imprint in here, it was your- your Grace, or whatever it was that son of a bitch Metatron took from you!"
A peculiar sensation pierced sharply through Castiel's heart, the most specific sense of loss he had experienced so far. His fingers drummed uneasily along the seat, his head jerking to the side as if pulled by in knee-jerk reaction to the intangible knife which had been plunged within him. His breathing intensified, small pools of cold moisture gathering at the edges of his eyes. Tears. They had never hurt, those drops of salt-water which so rarely adorned his face. Not like this.
"I... see," the words were mumbled, soft and broken and almost afraid, "Is it... still here?"
Dean hung his head, watching every time he and Sam had crossed his feet over his big brother's within the limited space of the backseat to stomp angrily down on it in a fit over some pointless brotherly argument. Every time they'd leaned out the side windows, sulking because they weren't getting along. Every time he and Sam had been flung back against the window because they hadn't been wearing seatbelts when John had stopped the car a little too fast in pursuit of a monster. Every time they'd quietly sung songs together to pass the time when they were sitting idly on a stake out with their father. Every time they lost toys beneath the front seats and couldn't bring themselves to ask John for help retrieving them. Every time Sam had gotten sick or been tired and looked straight at Dean with those pleading, tired eyes... every time Dean had broken down and given in and let Sam lay across him, head in his lap and exhaustion infectious until both were passed out and even a Hunter didn't have the heart to wake them. Every time they would've had a chance to imprint on this car. Every time their souls would have made some sort of mark.
"I dunno man. I can't sense that stuff like you can... like you could, I guess. I only know Baby does this now because you're telling me about it. But y'know what?" the angel looked away still, lines of tears beginning to trace down along his face, and Dean pushed his own emotions back down as best as he could, allowing only his determination to spill through onto his expression and into his movements.
Cas replied stark and hollow, certain there was nothing left which could relieve him of this pain, of this loss, of this... humanity, "What?"
"It doesn't matter whether your Grace is in this car or not," slightly gruff, as if lowering the pitch of his voice might steady it, Dean followed his old friend's eyes until Cas finally turned to look straight at him with those blue eyes that dodged from one fractured shade to another with all that they held behind them, "'Cause from what I understand, if this is actually how it works, you've got a soul now. Just like all the rest of us miserable, pathetic, sad-sack humans. So screw your Grace! That soul? That brand new, human soul of yours? The one that belongs to you? It's gonna be so imprinted onto this thing, ghosts are gonna stop and try to TALK TO IT. Y'hear me?"
Weakly, Cas shook his head, "Dean... as I understand it, the Impala only retains imprints of those souls it likes. Souls you and Sam like, most often. With all that I've done... all that I've broken... all that I've failed to do... all that I've done to you and to your brother... the way I left you... how could...?"
The Hunter moved close to his friend, the angel-who-was, watching those tear-stained eyes carefully and nodding with some enigmatic acceptance, "So you're saying it imprints our friends, right?"
"Not... Entirely. It's more like... The people you consider to be f- fa- f- fam- family...!" the title caught in his throat, his knees attempting to draw closer to him despite the lack of space already between his body and his limbs. His hand at last slipped from the seat of the car, and something pulled his stomach downwards within him, a panic rattling that terribly vulnerable organ pumping blood within his fragile rib cage. His breath left him sporadically and violently, the man practically hyperventilating beneath pressures too numerous and indefinable to list, "Dean...!"
Calmly, Dean reached his own hand out for Cas to grab hold of, feeling a warmth far different from any of the times that angel had touched his fact to heal him or work any of his other mojo. This wasn't the slightly uncomfortable, imposing, blinding heat of celestial power. This was the gentle, radiating warmth of energies and emotions and homeostasis. This was human, and something about it... Dean squeezed Castiel's hand lightly, assuring him that his Hunter was still there as if reassuring a child that his guardian would not leave him. A small chuckle escaped him, his eyes wandering up and down the length of the car for a long moment as if playing back all the days it had ever known. "Huh. Family. That actually makes sense. I mean, me and Sam are obvious. Then you've got Bobby, and he's always kind of been like a father t' us. Even Charlie's family. I mean... she's like an unexpected little sister, y'know?"
Cas moved a bit nearer to Dean, their knees touching one another now as both huddled up close into themselves, and spoke with a very different kind of fear from before, a wide-eyed sort of terror, "... And me? What am I... to you... Dean?"
"You?" Dean replied easily, airily, with a confidence that had Cas wondering if he would ever possess such surety for himself again, "When I first met you, I was pretty damn sure you were just a dick with wings, just like all the other literally holier-than-thou assbutt angels I knew. I didn't trust you, and I didn't exactly like you, either. Since then you've lied to me, betrayed me, used me, hurt me, literally beat me up a couple times, hurt my brother, and abandoned me for the sake of your own stupid agendas. You broke Sam, set Leviathans loose on the world, and you've almost killed me more than a few times. But..." the wind blew through the car one last time, the breeze as sweet and soft on Castiel's face as Dean's touch, the battle-scarred and work-worn hand of the human soldier carefully cupping Cas's face in a mimic of the healing motion which the angel himself had so recently used, "in the end, you've always been there when me and Sammy have really needed you. You've saved our asses more times than I can possibly count, way more times than you've done anything to put us in danger, and every mistake you have ever made you've tried your damnedest to clean up because we asked you to. You have dropped everything for us, given up all your plans for us; you even took all of Sam's crazy and crammed it into your own head so he wouldn't have to deal with it anymore! You've gotten a lotta things wrong, Cas, I'll give you that, but you've done a whole hell of a lot right by us, too. I mean, we've known each other for all of, what, five whole years already? You've learned a lot since we met, you've come a long way, you've been getting more and more human the whole time I've known you, and the way I see it... we've been family since the day you started rebelling against the guys upstairs for me. We're Team friggin' Free Will! You understand that? I love you, man, and not even Metatron can take that away, okay? If Baby's gonna accept any soul that isn't mine or Sammy's, she's gonna accept yours. Because you're Cas. And you're our family. And your soul is gonna be in this car so long and so strongly, humans will be able to feel it like you used to. You get me?"
Somehow, vision blurred with tears as he nodded, Castiel found that Dean's green eyes were still in focus, softened and narrowed all at once, determined and caring at the same time. No articulate sound would leave him, no identifiable words. Yet there was less confusion now. Over everything, blanketing all of the chaos and turmoil of all these negative emotions, a sense of relief crashed so intensely over him that he rocked forward slightly with the force of it on his back. He was family. He was family to the Winchesters, his Winchesters. The two humans he had always considered his wards, his best friend and the little brother they both looked after. The two who had been in his charge, the ones to whom he had so long considered himself to play the role of guardian... They still accepted him. They still considered him their friend. More than that, they considered him family. They loved him. Dean loved him. And it was as soothing in him as a warm fire to a man frozen, as necessary as cool water to a man lost in a desert, as calming as a lullaby in the darkness of a child's bedroom at night. He squeezed Dean's hand back, the Hunter wrapping his friend within the inexplicably all-encompassing embrace of his one free arm. The night fell silent, as if respecting the sincerity of conflicted tears on denim which smelled somehow of home and the sweet touch of one man's lips on the forehead of his wayward ally- his guardian- his family. The only sound to be heard was the sobbing of an angel who had found his Grace replaced by a soul and his brothers in Heaven replaced by a family of human Hunters.
"Now come on, it's gonna get cold," Dean patted Cas on the back, hugging him a bit more tightly before releasing his hand and lifting him up by the shoulders.
"What is?" sniffling slightly in the wake of his outburst, Cas used the ends of his coat sleeves to wipe moisture away from his face.
"The soup I made. I made a lot, so there's enough for both you and Sam to have some," he answered simply, reaching into the front seat and taking a small black object into his hands.
"Soup?" without thinking, voice crackling with wear now more than fear or sadness or anger as it had before, Castiel grabbed onto Dean's jacket and followed him like a child in this way from the backseat of the Impala, across the ground where he carefully absorbed the sound of his own footsteps trailing anxiously behind those of a man whose every movement was lightened slightly from before in spite of the weight still obvious in his steps, and across the threshold of the Bunker.
"Yep. Rice and tomato soup, just like my mom always made me when I was sick. And now Sammy's sick, and you're... well, not sick, but I figure..." he slipped the black object into his pocket, leaving his hands available to ladle out a second bowl of soup and place it on a tray where another warm container of it already sat waiting to be eaten. Without a word, he tossed the ladle over to a preoccupied Kevin, nodding towards the pot still about halfway full behind him. Kevin nodded gratefully in return before returning to his reading, spoon in hand. Neither said a word about the man clinging desperately onto Dean, neither one questioned either his presence or his behavior. Cas was an angel, and right then... every angel needed some form of shelter. The Tablet had implied that much, even if it was slow in divulging its other secrets.
With this brief exchange, the pair left Kevin behind and walked towards Dean's room instead, the door opening to reveal a very large man splayed out awkwardly and breathing shallowly on a bed on the left side of the room. "Hey, Sammy," Dean whispered, setting the tray down on a nightstand which had been cleared off between his own bed and Sam's.
"I hauled this thing in here so I... I mean, he's still sick so I need t'... y'know... watch him. Make sure he doesn't... die, I guess," he beckoned for Cas to take a seat on his own bed, checking Sam's pulse for signs of changes. He seemed the same as he'd been before Dean left. It wasn't any better, but... not being dead was always a good thing, he supposed.
"I- I will- I will watch over him for you, Dean. It's the least I can do, after I..." he swayed slightly, his speech on the brink of incoherence and his bones beginning to ache slightly with a sensation he had not felt in several years- and certainly never with such severity. Was this what humans meant, then, when they said they were very tired? Was this what exhaustion was? Something more lingering and defiant than simply passing out?
"No, you won't," Dean smiled with amusement, lightly putting pressure on Castiel's chest until he fell backwards onto the bed and found himself too tired to move a muscle to get up, "You're huma now, Cas. You need to sleep. This time, you get your four hours and I watch over you and Sam. This time, I take care of you. Alright?"
It was strange to think that he could still smile in this way, through all the turmoil within him, but Cas's mouth gently turned up in gratitude and soft affection, "Thank you. For... everything, I suppose. I'm going to make it right, you know. Everything I've done, everything I've destroyed, I'm going to make it right. For my siblings falling from the sky... For you, for Sam. I'm going to clean up my mistake, Dean, just like I've done whenever you've asked me to. And you're... going to help me?"
"Of course I am," he took the black object from his pocket, fiddling around on its screen for several moments, "I'm gonna get Sammy healthy again and I'm gonna help you put all this... Heaven crap back together again. Let's take baby steps, though. Let's get you guys feeling better first. I've already got something that can help."
"What's that?" eyes falling shut already, Cas fought to stay awake so he could hear Dean's voice just a little longer.
"There's something else my mom always did for me when I was sick or needed to sleep, and I can't really sing for crap, but I wanna do this anyway," he tapped the screen, a music falling over the room as if it had been lying in wait all along, simply standing by for Dean's signal. Cas curled up in the bed, no longer resisting where he was, and felt a pleasant warmth within a space he could only guess was his soul as Dean pulled the covers up over him and whispered almost inaudibly under his breath in perfect time with the song which played lazily around them, "Hey, Jude, don't be afraid..."
Sleepy and fading, the ex-angel managed one last sentiment before slipping into the realm of sleep he had so long been incapable of visiting, "Thank you... Dean."
"Honestly? Thank you, Cas... for still being alive. For... coming home to me. I don't care whether you're an angel or a human or whatever Metatron wants you to be. You're always gonna be my family, and I can't lose anyone I care about right now. So... Thank you," Dean responded to the unconscious man, running a hand through his hair before stepping back and sitting cross-legged on the floor to re-start the song for his brother and his friend as they lay recovering.
For just a fraction of a moment, the human Hunter thought he could sense something of what Cas had been talking about before; like a fire which spread effortlessly and thoughtlessly through its surroundings, bright and very distinctly warm and filled with so many colors which both did and didn't exist that it shone white as if overwhelmed by them all. Powerful, yet kept in check. Not focused, not boundless in quite the same way as the cold warmth he had known before. Kind. For a fraction of a moment, hand connected with this newly human Castiel, Dean could have sworn that he knew what Cas's soul felt like... and he knew that if he paid very close attention, then one day he'd get behind the wheel of the Impala and that feeling would surround him again. If anyone's soul was going to be in that car without directly belonging to Sam or Dean, it was going to be Cas; if Dean was sure of anything right then, and he wasn't sure of much, he was absolutely certain of that.