Castiel
/Cas-ti-el/
1. meaning "my cover is God" or "Shield of God"
2. "el" (hebrew theophory), lit. meaning "of God"
When the angels finally stop falling Castiel begins to walk.
The forest thins away and leaves only vast scrub land under a blazing sun. It's not long before he's forced to strip himself of his coat, jacket and tie. Eventually even the shirt untucks itself. He's never known heat before, never realised how stifling the body can become, how uncomfortable it is to be soaked in sweat. Eventually he finds a road.
Its empty.
But it gives him something to follow, so on he walks. At some point the jacket drops away, left to the dust and wind. He wishes he'd realised at the time, it feels somehow disrespectful that its fate was so. The knowledge that its gone sends strange spasms up his throat. Castiel gasps and clutches at it, suddenly fearful.
Its horrible tightness, thick and choking. He tries to remember to breathe as his knees hit the dirt.
The pain doesn't disappear but eventually is lessens enough for him to stagger to his feet and continue. The trenchcoat and tie remain firmly gripped in whitened knuckles and later, when the sun has slunk away, Castiel is glad of their warmth. He's never known cold either. Its much worse than the heat.
He walks until he passes out, waking only when his body finally lets him. Twice its with rain tapping relentlessly against his skin, but he doesn't mind that, he drinks all he can. Later he'll even drink from the puddles in the road, ignoring their foul and oily taste on his tongue. He walks because theres nothing else he can do. And all the while he fights against a strange choking pain in his throat.
Time stretches out indefinite but at some point between the colourless hours a car drifts to a halt beside him. He almost doesn't register it, nearly sun-blind from staring at the bleached road for so long. He staggers to a halt and blinks at the woman behind the wheel.
"Where're you headed?"
It takes him a few moments to remember to speak. The woman seems... kind. She has a rounded face and light eyes. He can't see her soul anymore, but enough of it shines through her little smile and open face.
"Kansas."
"Kansas?" her eyebrows raise in surprise. "You've got a hell of a long way to go."
He doesn't know what to say to that.
"I ain't going that far, but I can take you to the next interstate. There'll be more people there you can ride with. Or, y'know..."
Castiel nods, he can't seem to stop staring at his shoes.
"You don't really look like a hitch-hiker."
He glances up at that. The woman is looking at him with faintly narrowed eyes, lips pursed, and he can almost see the invisible assessments flying through her head.
"You look more like a murderer."
He looks down at himself. His trousers and shoes are dust coated, flecks of dirt spattered across them like constellations. His shirt is sweat soaked, plastered to his back and smeared with ragged earth from his nights in the wilderness. Her eyes shift up to his face with its raw skin, beads of sweat, unkempt hair and mud stains.
A man in the middle of nowhere in nothing but a filthy suit.
No, he wouldn't trust himself either.
He opens his mouth but falters with what to say. How can he even begin to explain? His shoes are full of blood. All around him the road stretches away into vast nothingness, in front and behind is empty land and emptier skies, and he's just so tired.
In the end he just says, "please," and tries not to think about how his voice cracks on the word.
The womans eyes soften a little.
"I've got a gun," she quips, "and I will definitely shoot you if you end up being a serial killer..." Castiel minutely shakes his head. "Well, come on then."
She leans back and thumbs at the passenger door. It takes a second to register, then Castiel is pulling open the door and collapsing into the seat as politely as he can. He stows his coat and tie by his feet and slumps backwards. The car is cool and safe.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
The woman nods and kicks the car into motion without another word.
Under the whistling of the wind Castiel watches the world blur past. Its been so long since he stopped his body is screaming protest; legs aching, feet throbbing. It even feels hard to breathe, the pain in his throat returning with vengeance. Castiel tries to ignore it.
As the miles are eaten away he finds exhaustion takes him. His head keeps slumping forwards, heavy and weighted like a stone wrapped in cotton wool. Pitiless fatigue threatens him on a knifes edge, he has to struggle to keep awake.
He almost drifts off once, only jerking violently backwards when visions of falling stars seer across his brain. For a few terrible moments he's almost paralysed with it, his heart beating a thunder, his head pounding.
Then the woman is holding something out to him.
He almost flinches backwards before he realises its a bottle of water. She waves it around a few times and he takes it with trembling hands.
"Figured if you've been walking out here you've gotta be damn thirsty."
He gulps it down so fast he nearly chokes.
"Jesus, take it easy."
Castiel stifles a cough and fights his impulse to guzzle yet more of it. He takes a few more controlled sips before saying, "thank you."
She nods again. "I've got plenty more so you go ahead and finish it."
"Thank you."
He seems to be saying that a lot, probably too much but what else can he say? Perhaps this is what his life is now, a world of thankyous. Relying on the help of strangers because he can't help himself anymore.
"You sure you don't wanna go to hospital or something?"
"No... just," he swallows, "as far as you can take me."
"Uh-huh," her voice sounds doubtful, "and you'll be alright?"
No.
He nods into his lap.
"Well, I'm not much of a small talker so you can sleep if you want,' she taps her fingers on the wheel. 'It'd probably be a hell of a lot less awkward if you did."
He doesn't know how to react to that, and thinks maybe saying 'thank you' again might be pushing it. But before he can think further she flashes him a quick grin.
"So, whats your name?"
He stares through the dash and watches the great expanse stretch itself away in endless dust.
"Cas."
"Cas?" she thinks about it for a while. "Huh."
The strange pain in his throat flares again, squeezing the muscles together, blocking air from rushing in. Cas sits in silent struggle, forcing it down and away. It takes agonising seconds and it refuses to disappear completely. His muscles tense, his head aches, his eyes sting so mercilessly he has to look up to stop them overflowing. And then he realises what it is.
Its sorrow.
"Cas. That short for anything?" the woman asks.
"No." his voice is barely a whisper. "Nothing."
Cas
/k-ass/
1. Latin root - cid, cad, cas - meaning "to fall"