The humanity in him lingers. Even now, whole as an angel once more, Castiel still feels that part of him that was once human, that remembers each sensation and feeling. Sometimes he thinks he's forgetting, the sensation of something more dulling with time. Until he sees Dean.
His closest allies in the war are not afraid to ask him if Dean has become a distraction, and Castiel hears the underlying threat – that Dean is a problem that can be fixed. So he makes it clear to his ranks that he fell to uphold the integrity of Heaven, not for any one man.
Castiel lied.
He still remembers every moment of Earth as a human, brief as it had been. He remembers the smell of the land and the feel of the wind – he remembers the beating of his heart, the tumble of confusion in his gut when their eyes met, the heat and yearning that he didn't understand until after he had been restored as an angel, until after it was too late.
In the rare quiet moments, the stillness between when someone is calling for his aid and the battles that have to be fought, he watches. He watched Dean live happily with Lisa and her son – awkwardly, yes, and not without some trouble, but there had been peace in Dean's life. He watched the aftermath of Sam and Dean's reunion – until letting himself be drawn into it, later, not entirely sure why he went then, of all times.
Still, he watches. He watches Dean struggle, he watches Dean laugh, he watches Dean sleep – all from the safety of Heaven, where his feelings have no form, where his humanity is nothing but a distant memory, an old scar without sensation.
Until he returns to Earth.
Every time it's just a little harder to return to Heaven.
He stands in the dim motel room - Sam on his computer, Dean lounging on the bed with a tumbler of some cheap alcohol - and wonders why he's here. "I cannot drop everything at your whims," he growls to Dean, the heady scent of humanity and Dean filling his not-quite-human nostrils. It used to be that sensory details eluded him – now they assault him every time he returns in this body.
"Wonderboy has some questions for you." Dean uses the glass in his hand to gesture toward his brother, who sneers over his laptop. "Something about new monsters or – I don't know, I forgot two glasses ago." Dean gulps back his drink, and Castiel notices for the first time the pattern of bruises down one side of his face, the split lip. A glance at Sam shows he looks no better. A bad hunt, then.
Sam looks through some books on the floor; he sighs and shoves himself to his feet. "I left the book in the car. C'mon, Cas, I can brief you along the way." He snatches the Impala keys off of the table as he ushers Castiel out the door – and slams the it behind him. Castiel stares back at the wood, as though he could see through it to where Dean is laying on the bed, drinking his alcohol, radiating tension and anger. Behind him in the dark, Sam hisses, "He's off his game."
Castiel looks away from the door, to the concern etched across Sam's features. "I can sense that."
"So, you know, can you talk to him? Or do some sort of angel healing thing to get him of his funk? I can't even get him to talk about what's bothering him."
"This is not an issue to be healed – and I am not a doctor, Sam." Castiel shakes his head, looks skyward – he could not see Heaven from here even if the night were clear, but he can feel it. He doesn't have time to indulge in the emotional issues of the Winchester brothers, however much he wants to go back into that room and fix Dean. "I have to go."
"Castiel, wait!" Sam grips his arm, as though he could do anything to hold Castiel to the ground. "Just... ten minutes. Heaven can wait for ten minutes, right?" Reluctantly, Castiel nods. Sam sags and releases his arm, nodding as he jingles the keys. "I'm gonna go for a drive, get some pie or something. Do you want anything?"
"No." Castiel turns and enters the room again – through the door, because he knows that Dean hates when he appears without warning. He stands at the foot of the bed, awkward and unsure of what to say. Dean is staring at the ceiling with his arms crossed over his chest, looking like he's trying to stay as close together as he can. His glass is empty beside him on the bed.
"I can feel you leering, Cas. Sam send you in here to sort me out?"
"Yes." Castiel closes his eyes and breathes deep, the scent bringing back that poignant ache in his heart – not that he has a heart anymore. He shouldn't even have feelings anymore. "You seem unhappy, Dean."
Dean laughs without merriment, sitting up and reaching to nightstand to retrieve his whiskey, nearly filling the glass without lifting it from the mattress. "Hello, Captain Obvious – you may not have noticed that nothing has changed. Apocalypse averted, Sam's got his soul back," Dean's face twists in a grimace, "and here we are again, self-medicating after hunting some freak. It's like the last couple years never happened – like all that experience was worthless."
As an angel who has fallen and ascended again, Castiel understands. He is a beautiful creature, a whole being designed to serve God's will, but there's a hole where his humanity used to be. "You do good work, Dean. You bring hope and security to the lives you save." Castiel sits on the corner of the bed, looking at his hands as Dean brings the full glass to his lips and drinks heavily. "You lead a hard life, but it is a life that matters."
"Yeah, well, I almost want my simple life back. This isn't the life I want to live forever."
"I understand."
Dean sputters over his drink, slams it down on the nightstand – Castiel looks up to see the amber liquid slosh over the sides, follows the line of Dean's arm up to his face, Dean's expression twisted in some disbelief. "You. Castiel, Angel of the Lord and all that bullshit – you've got everything you ever lost, and then some. Once you have Heaven, you'll finally be done with – " Dean is frowning as he gestures around the room.
"You're wrong." Their eyes meet, and Castiel can still feel it, the visceral want unmarred by the confusion of his unaccustomed humanity, and damned if doesn't wish for a second that Heaven would sort itself out without his intervention. He slides closer to Dean, unable to control the impulse to be closer. He never could. "On both accounts. There is... more to my wants than Heaven alone – " and he feels some blasphemy, some shame as he says this, a sin that he cannot wash away or atone because he cannot deny the truth – "and I could not stop coming back for you, even if Heaven were a paradise." Because it could never be paradise without Dean, and that rocks Castiel to his core; he bows his head.
He is not human. He needs to remember this, to hold it close and never let it slip – because if he begins to slip, he is not sure he'll be able to stop himself from falling again. He thinks of Anna, of her lingering kiss with Dean in that barn, and wonders if she regretting having to leave him.
Dean leans forward, close in Castiel's personal space. "Don't go that road again, Cas. Don't get so attached to – "
"I already am. I was a human here; it seems that humanity will always be with me." Dean's breath his hot across his face, the scent of cheap whiskey and the sweat of a long day strong on him, his features so close that they're indistinct. The room is completely still, almost silent but for the sound of their breathing. Their breathing. Castiel stops the motion that had started quite involuntarily. "Dean, I – "
"Shut up, Cas." Dean leans forward to kiss him, a hand falling absently to Castiel's hip. There's a second, just a second, where Castiel almost backs away, but then the angel in Castiel is forgotten as the human in him gives in. His heart begins to pound and his skin tingles and his hands are in Dean's short hair, pulling him closer, letting himself get lost in the sensation of kissing Dean, urgent and slick and oh-so-much-better than he had not dared imagine.
Insistent hands are pushing his coat down on his arms; Castiel loosens his hold on Dean long enough to shrug it off and fling it behind him. They kiss through a flurry of frenzied motion, of Dean yanking at the buttons of his shirt, of Castiel fumbling with the button on Dean's jeans – of just a second apart as Dean pulls his t-shirt over his head, Castiel strips off his shirt.
His breath is quick, his body shudders with each touch – Dean's hands across the plane of his shoulders, the small of his back; his teeth at the curve of Castiel's neck, his tongue past Castiel's lips. Castiel finds his back against the rough motel bedspread, his eyes squeezed shut as he loses himself the ardor of Dean's mouth, his motions instinctual – pulling Dean down, his hips arced to bring them closer. He doesn't want any space between them, any part of Dean's body left untouched.
Dean is peppering kisses along his jawline, his own breathing just as ragged. "I've wanted this forever," he says, his voice gruff and heavy with passion, grinding hard against Castiel through his half-open jeans. Castiel can't answer, has no answer but to yank him closer, to remove the rest of the trappings between them, as if the eagerness of his body is enough to tell Dean, So have I.
"You're dreaming, you naughty little angel."
Castiel tilts his head upward, but he can't see in the nothingness – not that he doesn't recognize the voice. "Balthazar."
"I guess this isn't technically a dream, only humans get that luxury, but you're asleep – these pesky vessels do occasionally need to refuel, and you put that one through quite the workout." Castiel isn't sure what to say, but he doesn't have to try too hard – Balthazar could always fill a silence. "Now, do you have a moment for Logic 101?"
"I would not seek you for logic."
"I promise, one-time deal. You're right this second dozing in bed with a very important human – good for you, about time, we're all very happy, et cetera. And while I for one think this whole war is ridiculous, I think you'd better wake up and skip cuddle time before someone begins to look for you and discovers that this is one weak spot you haven't hardened."
"They would not," but even has he says it Castiel understands the implication, imagines the machinations of his enemies and allies alike – neither side terribly cares for Dean Winchester, after all.
Balthazar chuckles, the sound not entirely kind. "I did, and I was just curious."
When he wakes the room is dark, the warmth and closeness of their bodies almost lulling him back into complacency. After a moment of hard concentration Castiel remembers himself – remembers his station in Heaven, left abandoned. He can feel the press of his duties even in this moment, this moment that could have been perfect if only he had still been a human, if only he had let himself understand sooner. He runs a hand through Dean's hair, gently cups his cheek. Dean's features are less defined in the dark, but Castiel can see when his eyes open.
"You're leaving." Dean doesn't sound angry, but his body language tells a different story. Castiel kisses him, wishes more than anything that he was still human in this moment. He'd die with them all if it meant he could stay for just this night.
"I have already been gone too long," Castiel says, his voice hardly above a whisper. "It's not safe. If I could – "
Dean stops him again with a kiss, and his voice is level when he speaks. "Go. Win your fucking war. Come back."
When Sam returns late in the night, grocery store pie in hand, Dean is clothed and alone with his whiskey once more.