Title: I Through My Window See
Rating: T
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Warnings: Swearing, Mild Violence
Summary: AU. When Castiel remains human after Lucifer is defeated, the Winchesters get him set up in his own apartment – and then promptly leave him there, hoping he'll start a new, normal life.
Written for the 2011 Dean/Castiel Big Bang.
Author's Note: There are three gorgeous, talented amazing people to whom I owe my first born children (whether they want them or not). In no particular order: cugami, you beautiful, amazing artist, you, thank you so much for the time you put into this cymbalism219, my beloved beta who tore through this monstrosity in record time and gave it most (if not all) of its much needed direction, I will never, ever be able to thank you enough. And of course, the darling 9_of_Clubs who patiently sat through at least a solid 24 hours of me bitching and who held my hand through the entire process. Love you all!
Chapter One
"We got a hunt in Missouri," are the first words that Dean says upon letting himself and Sam into the tiny two-room apartment that Castiel spent the night in. The words hold only a breath of hesitation, a slight inhale somewhere in the middle of the sentence like he hasn't quite thought it through all the way. It's hardly an introduction befitting the arrival of someone who remained at the motel down the street, but Castiel accepts the potential urgency of the situation. He still doesn't quite understand the necessity for separate lodgings, however. He could have just as easily stayed with the Winchesters as they could have slept here with him, but Dean's confusing argument for the separation was at least adamant enough for Castiel to remain in the lonely apartment when they departed for the evening.
He had expected their return in the morning, but not like this. Not with bags in hand and car keys dangling from loose fingers. Dean drops his own duffel to the ground with a loud "thump" that makes the former angel startle.
"You have Bobby's number in your phone, right?"
There are fewer numbers in Castiel's cell phone than there are fingers on his left hand and it takes no consideration at all to nod in answer to Dean's brusque question. He has had the older hunter's number for months, though no need, as of yet, to call him.
The older Winchester nods and there's a strange look in his eyes as he does, one that Castiel can't quite comprehend, though he does recognize the expression on Sam's face. The younger of the two appears to be upset about something, guilty even. Certainly, Sam has mistakes to atone for, but with the apocalypse so recently averted, Castiel had expected more in the way of jubilation.
It's a strange position to be in, standing just inside the doorway of the little apartment, facing the two brothers as though welcoming them into his own home. If Castiel does indeed still have a home, this most certainly is not it. "Are we leaving now?"
Sam's face, if possible, darkens further and there's a sudden tick in Dean's jaw.
An all-too-human wave of nausea takes control for a moment and Castiel is hard-pressed not to stumble back at the realization of what they are doing. This apartment, the trip to the grocery store down the street, the new fake ID and the stolen credit card; all of it is beginning to add up much more clearly in his head and Castiel does not like the sum total. Not just a place to stay for the night, not just supplies for the road ahead, not just preparation for another hunt.
"Are – " It's Castiel's turn to hesitate, voice breaking midway through his words, " – you leaving now?"
"Yeah," Dean answers quickly. There's no sign of apology in his voice, no indication of reluctance or commiseration, just that same business-like demeanour he's been using on Castiel all week, since the day they forced Lucifer back into the pit and the night that followed. "Gotta deal with this head-hacking Jason Voorhees thing." He shoulders his bag once more with a shrug, "Don't know how long it's going to take us, so don't wait around or anything."
The nausea Castiel is feeling only rises higher. "Where would I go?"
Sam looks like he wants to say something and though Castiel's formerly angelic gaze has been reduced to a diminished human one, he notices the younger Winchester's reluctance. Sympathy. Pity.
Perhaps most damning of all is the way that Dean notices too, and sends his brother out to the Impala.
Sam has the decency to murmur a soft, "See you, Cas," before disappearing. Leaving Castiel alone with Dean.
"Will I?" Castiel replies after Sam is too far away to hear. He's not asking Sam, though, he's asking Dean.
The hunter turns back towards him with a confused glance from where he's been watching his brother's retreating figure. "Will you what?"
"Will I see you?"
Dean lets out a chuckle that even Castiel can recognize as not being entirely genuine. "Of course you will, Cas. We'll be around." There's a funny, pinched quality to his voice that Castiel interprets as amusement, though he's not sure why Dean would be amused at this particular moment. "Use that credit card, eat three times a day, and call Bobby if any shit goes down, okay?"
Humanity. Summed up in three, simple actions.
"Okay, Cas?"
He nods, nothing more than a sharp, downwards jerk of his chin. "Yes, Dean."
The tiny bedroom rattles with the force of each rumbling blast of thunder. The intensity of the vibrations seems to shake the building's very foundations, causing the bed to quake and shiver as though at risk of coming apart in pieces completely. The covers, still crisp with freshly purchased newness despite not having seen the inside of a store in five months, had been tucked carefully around Castiel when he first lay down to sleep, but are now bunched around him in a pool of fabric.
Dean's face is buried against his neck, the hunter's stubble rough against Castiel's skin. The angel – former angel – lies safe in the circle of the man's arms as the storm outside continues, unnoticed by the pair in bed.
"Dean," Castiel begins, arching his neck away from the soft press of Dean's lips, twisting so that he's looking at the hunter's face. "Where are you?"
The man's response is so earnest, so full of tenderness that Castiel's heart aches. "I'm right here."
"No, you're – " another loud crash of thunder rumbles through the room as Castiel sits up in bed suddenly, alone, " – not." The last word falls from his lips almost unbidden, a continuation of the dream brought into painful fruition. The swath of blankets dwarf him in the too-big, too-empty bed, mercifully solid beneath him as he grapples with understanding. Dreams – sleep, even – are a new concept to him. Nightmares as well and Castiel isn't sure which the slew of night-time visions he's been having qualify as.
They always hint at that tender relationship he's been hoping for from the older Winchester, the only element of humanity he's everwanted. But they also always end with the realization that Dean is gone.
Not just gone, though. That he's left. Willingly.
He's never been farther from the reciprocation of his feelings for Dean, feelings he'd only just started to realize he even had when Dean decided to leave him.
A violent, wild rumble of thunder rolls through the apartment, accompanied by a bright flash of lightning, as though the storm is so close that the lightning itself is mere afterthought. Castiel wishes he could attribute the dream to the return of yesterday's storm sometime during the night, but he's been having them too frequently for this to be true.
His hands tremble as he grips the sheets, attempting to smooth them out over his legs. He manages to cajole the folds of fabric into a more comfortable arrangement, pulling them up over the thin t-shirt he's wearing to clutch more fully around himself. The layer of blanket serves as a kind of talisman, cocooning him in its protective span.
The soft wool is nothing like the comforting embrace of his wings.
But he doesn't have those anymore.
No Dean, no Grace, nothing. Another flash of lightning illuminates the bareness of the room as though to punctuate this particular thought. Just the bed, a water-stained dresser and a rickety bedside table, teetering on its uneven legs. Not a shred of anything personal to be found, nothing to say who the room's owner is. Which, to Castiel, seems fitting. Even he doesn't know who is or, more importantly, who he is supposedto be anymore.
He has done the opposite of what Dean had asked of him, whether in rebellion or lack of anything better to do, even Castiel's unsure. He's beginning to understand his brother Gabriel's dilemma better here in this squalorous apartment than he ever has before, despite the archangel's penchant for opulence being such a direct contradiction to Castiel's new home. His family, if he is even still entitled to consider them as such, is gone. His head silent, sunny memories of Heaven relegated to remain merely memories.
Although the question had never occurred to him before, he seriously doubts that fallen angels ever see past the Gates again once their mortal selves have died.
The thought leads him to wonder where Michael and Lucifer are now, dead by their mischievous younger brother's hand. Gabriel had managed to fake his own death, performing yet another disappearing act, and though his trickery and fratricide had assisted greatly in the aversion of the apocalypse, it hadn't been soon enough to prevent one falling angel from waking up powerless in hospital. For all intents and purposes, completely human.
The storm outside continues, light plinks of rain against the windows growing into heavier thuds, the rain blowing sideways in the wind. Patterns of thunder and lighting, forked blasts of heat and light working in tandem with the low rumbles continue, escalating, a dance set in motion by his Father and nature.
Castiel thinks longingly of his little Nokia phone, sitting uncharged on the table in the next room. Plugging the phone in to an electrical current wasn't something he had needed to do when he still had his Grace, wasn't something he ever thought about. He doesn't even have the appropriate cable to do so now, no way of calling Dean or Sam or Bobby, no way of finding out where they are.
It's possible that one or all of them might have perished. Five months is a long time to go without contact, but Castiel is fairly certain that he would simply knowif Dean were dead.
It's with this thought and the echoes of the storm that he falls asleep once more, part of him hoping that morning will bring with it even the faintest bit of brightness, something to break up the monotony that is spending each day simply waiting.
It doesn't.
Dawn brings, instead, more thunder clouds, though the storm itself stopped sometime during the night. It's just as overcast inside the apartment as it is outside when Castiel disentangles himself from the blankets that have somehow twisted into a nest of fabric once more. Though he still goes to sleep with the same stiltedness of any angel unused to the need for a full night's rest, it seems that in sleep he's as vulnerably mobile as any human.
The scuzz of cool carpet against his bare feet is a sensation he scarcely notices as he slowly slides out of bed, rising. He folds the sheets back into place, tucking any trailing edges under the mattress. The mechanical nature of the process leaves his head open for thoughts and Castiel does his best to keep his mind clear and empty. Not-thinking is by far preferable to the bevy of panic that's sure to besiege him should he let the floodgates fall. After five months, he's established a routine that, if not entirely desirable, burns through each day.
Fixing the mussed sheets uses up exactly two minutes, which leaves him only twelve hours and fifty-eight minutes to go until he can pull them back once more and sleep through the end of another day without Dean.
Being without Dean means being without purpose.
Changing out of his sleepwear and into Jimmy Novak's familiar, mussed suit eats up an additional six and a half minutes. The tie goes limply around his neck, sometimes facing the right way 'round, but that only by fluke of the moment. More often than not it's flipped backwards. The entire ensemble has begun to give off an unfortunate odor, something he had never needed to contend with in his prior two years of wearing it.
It needs to be washed. He doesn't particularly care.
Breakfast is for the sake of sustenance only, in accordance with Dean's second rule, though Castiel's not entirely certain when he began to think of them as rules. During one of the days leading up to their departure, Sam suggested eating grapefruit for this particular meal and while he usually has three or four of the fruits in the otherwise mostly empty refrigerator, he's down to his last grapefruit quarter. And he takes no especial joy in eating it.
Spending the rest of the morning watching the world go by through his fourth floor window is much more difficult when the distance is compounded with his weaker, no longer angelic eyes.
Sitting still for long periods of time is harder, too. His mortal body can't last for more than twenty minutes without twitching or some discomfort cropping up. The first time one of his legs had gone numb from lack of movement was an alarming experience. If his cell phone had been working, he would have called Dean. As he would have the first time the hunger pains started or the kitchen taps had stopped working.
It's been a week since a mechanical issue of either his body or surroundings has presented itself that would make him consider asking Dean for help. Although there's a fraction of pride to be felt in this, Castiel doesn't intend to adapt. He doesn't want to be human, he has no interest in learning how to cook or change a fuse. The fact that he islearning how to exist without his Grace is more upsetting than joyful.
So he waits and he prays.
Waits for a sign, for death, for enlightenment, for a black Impala to pull up in the street out front.
The following night, a cold snap descends on Sioux Falls and Castiel stares at the thermostat for a solid ten minutes before attempting to twist one of the dials in a favorable direction. The hiss-pop that the vent emits as soon as he does is enough to make him snatch his hand away.
He curls up in a bundle of blankets that night, too cold to actually sleep. The shivers continue to rack through his thinning body long into the night.
Early morning brings Sam Winchester to his door.
The arrival seems... anticlimactic at best. Castiel isn't sure what he had been expecting, though there was certainly meant to be more feeling and fanfare, not the hesitant knock on his door that yields to Sam entering the apartment. Perhaps it's only because Castiel didn't see the Impala out in the street as he had been expecting to for the past five months. Perhaps it's because it's Sam that he sees first.
The Winchester looks unchanged. Blissfully so. Plaid shirt, light jacket, faded jeans. His too-long hair is mussed and unkempt, one side flattened from where Castiel assumes with a mixture of delight and jealousy, he had been resting his head against one of the Impala's windows.
And then there's Dean.
Castiel's eyes move expectantly past Sam's broad shoulders, peering past him for a glimpse of an easy smile, car keys twirling around a slim finger. But there is no one.
"Cas." Sam's voice seems hesitant, too formal. "You look..." He seems to be grasping for the appropriate word and settles on the same one Castiel himself had just thought of for him, closing the sentence with a disjointed "the same."
With Sam, the statement is at least true. He looks no different now from when Castiel last saw him months ago. He looks tired, as though he's halfway through finishing a hunt and it's exactly how the former angel would have pictured him in his head, had he ever felt the need to do so.
It does not apply, however, to Castiel. He has seen himself in the dirty bathroom mirror too many times not to notice. Whereas Sam's unwavering appearance is a result of good preservation, Castiel has a different word for his own appearance: stale. He's twice had to take the pair of scissors found in the kitchen drawer to his hair – his inexperience at styling shows – and shaving has become a necessary part of his every day routine. For the most part, he looks the same, but in a used-up, run-down kind of way. There's a difference in his eyes, in his stature, in himselfthat even he can see. How could Sam not?
They're standing in the doorway now, just as they had been when Sam and Dean first left him, but unlike then, Castiel steps out of the way to allow Sam further into the apartment. They had never made it past the threshold before their goodbyes and it's with some relief that Castiel watches Sam make his way into the small living area, closing the door behind him.
"So... How are you, Cas? We haven't spoken in a while or – "
"Not since you left, no." Castiel interrupts, voice a deeper growl than he means it to be, harsh from disuse. He's not sure why he's feeling so defensive all of a sudden. After all, this is what he's been waiting for, isn't it? For Dean and Sam's return, for purpose?
The accusation has a humbling effect on Sam, who reaches out as though to touch him, then changes his mind halfway. "Look, Cas, we – "
"Why are you here, Sam?"
The Winchester's shoulders hunch and despite being half a foot taller than the former angel, he appears to be completely cowed by his presence. Guilt, Castiel thinks. Sam is guilty. "Dean and I are on a hunt about a half hour north of here and I thought I'd stop in and see how you were doing. You didn't answer your phone." Despite the nervous shift in Sam's movements, Castiel can read the honesty in his eyes. He just wishes it were Dean here instead.
"Is it the same hunt that you left for in Missouri?" He's not sure why he asks, but part of him has naively been hoping that when the hunt was over, the pair would return for him. Logic and reasoning both say that they have long since moved on, but it's something he needs to hear. He needs to know if he's been waiting for nothing. Yes, it's true that with his cell phone out of commission, their ability to communicate long distance has been dampered, but it would have been easy to drive to his doorstep, as Sam has obviously done so now.
Sam's eyebrows furrow in confused consideration. "Hunt in Missouri?" He asks, before realizing what Castiel means and quickly correcting himself. "Oh, that. Yeah. We – uh – we finished that one pretty quickly. Just a Woman in White or something, I think."
And, as simply as that, Castiel's world crumbles. All of the hope he's managed to hold on to that they just wanted him to take some time to adjust to humanity and then would bring him with them disappears in a heartbeat, every moment he has spent since they left rendered completely meaningless. The implosion of his life of the past five months is completely internal, however, and outwardly he appears as stalwart as ever.
"You look tired."
Sam's mouth falls open in surprise and Castiel wonders vaguely what about his comment is at all surprising. "Yeah, I – I mean, we drove pretty much all night and – "
The former angel peers at him. He understands tiredness, but not why people insist on putting it off. When he is tired, he sleeps. Hungry, he eats. Mortality is very straight forward, but now that he has nothing left to wait for, Castiel is fairly certain things are going to get substantially more complicated. "You may rest here if you would like."
Sam must see the heartbreak. "I guess I could crash on your couch for a – " His eyes wander over the room, a general living area with an attached half-kitchen. There is no couch.
"You may use the bed, Sam." Castiel amends. "I have finished sleeping."
There's a strange look in Sam's eyes, one that Castiel can't quite comprehend and the fact that he still struggles at reading human emotions is frustrating. It has the makings of pity, however, and that makes him uncomfortable. He has no desire to be pitied. He is no different from Sam now, totally human, utterly vulnerable. What is there that Sam might have that he does not?
Other than Dean's attention.
"I guess I'll take you up on your offer, Cas." The Winchester really does look tired. "When I wake up, is there anything you need? I have the car, I can take you shopping."
Castiel's next question comes utterly unbidden from his lips and seems to hang in the air for several seconds, hopelessly dangling. It's not until after he asks that he realizes he needs to know. "Where is Dean?"
"He – I – Cas – "
Castiel stares.
"I dropped him off at Bobby's. There's a book that we – and he's – I figured I'd check in with you while – "
"The bed is through there," he interrupts, pointing towards the bedroom door as though Sam hadn't had a hand in both purchasing the apartment and procuring its furniture. "You may sleep for as long as you like."
Sam knows a dismissal when he hears it and bears a hasty retreat into the bedroom, leaving Castiel to his silence and the need to re-evaluate what he's going to do with the rest of his life. For someone who once expected to live for all eternity, the thought of the fifty or sixty years he has left feels like an awful long time.
Four hours or so later, Sam reappears in the kitchen looking, if not well-rested, then at least less tired. Castiel has scarcely moved except to take a seat at the kitchen table, forearms balanced on the wooden surface, eyes focused on something through the distant living room window.
"Thanks, Cas, I needed that." The hunter attempts, hanging back in the doorway as though he's unsure of whether or not to breach the sanctity of the kitchen.
"You are entirely welcome to my bed, should you ever have need of it." Castiel offers, and there again is that strange look, this time accompanied with a hint of amusement that the former angel truly does not understand. He tries again, changing the conversation this time. "You offered to take me grocery shopping. I would appreciate your assistance." Or, more accurately, he needs to learn.
"Uh, sure." Sam crosses the room, apparently more in his element now as he pulls open the fridge door and peers in at the empty shelves. "How are you holding up on food?"
When he looks up again at Castiel, it's clearly in desire of an explanation for the bare refrigerator and the former angel offers the only one he has. "I've eaten already."
"Yeah, I can see that." Sam closes the fridge door again. "How about the cupboards?"
Wordlessly, Castiel produces the unopened box of Fruity-O's that Dean had purchased for him when he first moved in. Sam seems to recognize the box as being the original and hastily pulls the Impala's keys out of his front jacket pocket.
"I think you're overdue for some groceries, Cas. Have you even bought any food since the last time I saw you?"
Castiel doesn't think Sam realizes the blow that the words deliver. If he hadn't purchased food in the time since they left him, he would have perished from starvation months ago. Kind of Sam to consider this now, after five months.
"Look, Cas, it doesn't matter." He must have taken too long to answer, because Sam is already moving towards the door. "We'll go get you stocked up again. Still have that credit card we gave you?"
It's in the pocket of his suit pants and he pulls it out to show to Sam, who takes it and hands him a new one that he retrieves from his own wallet. "You're going to want this one now. That other one's probably been flagged already, especially if you've been using it."
"I've used it at the store down the street." He comments as though to prove that he has in fact been doing something. It's where he's been going when he needs more grapefruit or the frozen meals that Dean introduced him to before leaving. Sam hasn't checked his freezer, but there are still at least four or five Hungry Man dinners left in there.
Sam doesn't bother to look, though, instead reaching for the rumpled trench coat hanging on an old nail next to the door, passing it to Castiel. There's a hesitance to the way he grabs it, as though he has some particular aversion to touching it. It is, Castiel is willing to atone, somewhat filthy. "Here, it's cold outside."
The former angel dutifully shrugs it on, appreciating its familiar weight across his shoulders. He feels more complete now. More himself and yet also more human in his ragged attire.
"Don't use this new card there, Cas. We'll have to walk down and see if there's somewhere else you can go. Maybe we can get you a job, get you out of the house more."
He bites back the obvious retort that this is a fourth floor apartment and not a house, understanding what Sam's idiom actually means. He doesn't want a job though. Jobs are for humans. He wants a purpose.
Sam leads him through the building, apparently forgetting Castiel's distrust of the elevator and heading towards it. Castiel veers away and into the nearby stairwell. Sam follows, retaking the lead once they reach the street. They pass the corner convenience store that Castiel has been periodically visiting in favor of the 24-Mart down the street. He has never been in here before, not having had any reason to walk the extra distance with the other store conveniently available.
The hunter offers the clerk a polite smile when the man looks up at the sound of the bell tinkling over the door. Castiel decides immediately that he dislikes the sound. The other store did not have a bell, why can't he continue to purchase necessities from there?
"What do you usually like to eat, Cas?" Sam has grabbed a basket from near the door, holding it in the crook of his arm and while Castiel doesn't take a basket for himself as well, he commits the gesture to memory and considers the question.
He doesn't usually like to eat anything. He would greatly prefer not having to eat at all. The things he's ingested since being left to his own devices have been the result of suggestions made by either Sam or Dean and not his own choosing. He can't live like that any longer, however; these are choices he's now going to have to make and his mind skips back to their encounter with Famine months ago. "My vessel enjoys hamburgers."
"It's not your 'vessel' anymore, Cas. It's your body, now." Sam steers him towards the freezers along the back wall and Castiel recognizes the frozen dinner packages. None of these are Hungry Man, though. The other store had Hungry Man. "Also, frozen burgers don't taste so great on the stove and I think barbecuing might be a bit beyond your skill level." He pulls out a package and waves it towards him. "What about this? Chicken and rice."
Castiel doesn't move, eyes narrowing. "Why did you ask what I wanted if you were only going to disregard it entirely, Sam?"
The chicken and rice goes into the basket, followed immediately after with four other frozen dinners. "Even Dean can't nuke a burger and make it taste good. Better to just stick with – you okay?"
No, he's not, though Castiel hadn't registered the light-headedness he's feeling until Sam pointed it out and he's on the floor before he even realizes that he's falling. Hunger, yes, that was the pang he'd been feeling all morning. It makes sense now, even as Sam's huge face looms in his vision, the Winchester hovering worriedly over him.
"Cas?"
There's a broad hand dangling in his face – Sam's – but Castiel doesn't take it. The floor isn't all that uncomfortable now that he's down here, and raising his head only brings about another wave of dizziness that he doesn't like at all.
"Sir, are you alright?" The clerk has joined them now as well and the concern on his face makes Castiel vaguely uneasy. He's not used to people this involved in his well-being. Not used to even having to consider his well-being. It's unsettling.
"He's fine." Castiel watches as Sam diffuses the situation, taking one of his hands to haul him up off of the dirty tiled flooring. There's a quick rush of blood surging from his head that creates a buzzing in his ears and for a moment the disorientation increases dramatically before the world tilts properly back into place. "He's just anemic. Come on, Cas, let's go."
His head starts to clear as Sam all but drags him out of the store and into the fresh air outside. Probably he can't shop in here anymore, either.
"Dude," Sam drops his hand, a scandalized look on his face. "When was the last time you ate?"
"This morning." He answers honestly, though suddenly the grapefruit quarter is sitting much more lightly in his stomach. "Why did you lie to the shopkeeper? My vessel is not to my knowledge anemic."
"Body, Cas," Sam corrects again, rolling his eyes. "You may as well be. What did you eat?"
He considers. Sam had been the one to suggest grapefruit to him as a form of breakfast in the first place, odd that the Winchester would fail to remember this. He answers, however, offhandedly.
Apparently it's not the right answer. "That's it?What did you have yesterday?"
Castiel quickly finds himself rattling off a week's worth of food, the same items that he has been eating every single week since being left to his own devices. Each thing a recommendation by one or both of the brothers, all of which are apparently now unacceptable to Sam, who indicates a restaurant across the street and leads the way over to it.
"Come on, we're going to put some real food in you. Honestly, Cas, it's like you forget you're human now."
Castiel bristles at the comment. Of course he doesn't forget that he's human. How could he? There are so many things about being human that, colloquially in Dean's words "suck," that the fact that he is one of them is on the uppermost echelon of his mind at all times.
The restaurant is nicer than any other he's ever been in with the Winchesters before, though Castiel recognizes that it's still not the type of establishment human standards would consider to be "nice."
They're shown in to a table right away, the waitress offering them both a too-sweet smile as she hands over their menus. Judging by the number of people around them – or lack thereof – it's not the most popular time of day for dining.
"This place isn't bad, Cas. Pretty cheap, too." Sam is scouring the menu thoughtfully, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the tabletop. Castiel wishes he would stop. "You should try coming around more often. Get some real meals here."
Castiel doesn't answer. Doesn't point out that "more often" implies he already attends meals at this particular establishment with some sort of frequency. Instead, he glances down at his own menu, whatever nice thoughts he'd had of this place marred by the large gravy stain down the middle of the lunch items. This is always the most difficult part of going out. The number of tiny, seemingly insignificant decisions that need to be made all the time.
In the end, he decides to copy Sam. When the waitress returns, they both order the club sandwich.
"So," Sam begins once the overly friendly young woman has again departed. "Does that happen often? The fainting thing?"
"It depends on how you would define 'often.'" The response comes out more bristled than perhaps it should have, but of all the times he had hoped for one of them to remember him and offer help, it wasn't Sam Winchester he'd really wanted. It smarts more than he had thought it possible to know that Dean really just does not care. And really just is not coming back.
Sam has the decency to at least look guilty, though Castiel is more angry at himself for becoming so dependent on the Winchesters in the first place. Dependent. Falling. Human.
"Did you even try, Cas? I mean, you knew we weren't coming back any time soon, right? Why wouldn't you – "
Castiel looks up at Sam slowly, expressions perfectly schooled, face almost entirely blank.
The younger Winchester's eyes widen. "You mean – Dean didn't – he didn't tellyou?"
There is nothing that Castiel has to say to this that will tip Sam off any further than the look on his own face. Of course Dean did not tell him. And to know that he had planned it this way from the very beginning stings more than he has words to describe.
Sam switches up tactics immediately, steering the subject away from Dean and his inexcusable abandonment. "How about when we get back to your place, I'll help you come up with a grocery list and some menu ideas so you can actually take care of yourself when I'm not around anymore – "
Castiel is on his feet before he realizes what he's doing, rage – such a human emotion – flooding his veins with venom. He's forgotten already that the entire point of this trip was for Sam to show him how to exist without them, but to have the Winchester acknowledge it is too much. He knows what this is about now. He's Castiel, the human who used to be an angel. Weak, pathetic. Incapable.
No wonder Dean doesn't want him around, he can't even feed himself properly.
It doesn't matter, he wants to commiserate with himself. It doesn't. Except that it does and the sharp burn of embarrassment that courses through him is too much. "You left me to figure this out for myself the first time." He announces to Sam, eyes hard, jaw set. "Let me figure it out now."
He doesn't bother to look back as he walks away.
Neither of them ever did.
When Sam steers the Impala back into the motel parking lot, Dean is already there waiting for him. It's the work of luck that he happened to be around at exactly the right minute to catch his brother returning from wherever it is he disappeared off to while Dean was still in the shower and the confrontation begins as soon as he opens the door.
"You just going to fucking take off whenever you feel like it? Where were you?" He's on Sam before his brother can even climb out of the car, hands gripping the edge of the driver's side window even though it means he's breaking his own rule about leaving smudges on the glass.
"Bobby's," is the prompt answer and Dean's eyes narrow, searching for dishonesty somewhere in the open, earnest expression on Sam's face. "Then I went to visit Cas."
He shouldn't care. If he really, truly didn't feel something about this, the thought of Sam going to visit shouldn't make his fingers grip down on the window edge so tightly that there's more danger to the glass than mere smudges. There's no denying the way that the window digs into the insides of his knuckles or the sick feeling of guilt that rises up in his stomach.
"Why?" The question is hard, laced with the kind of authority Dad would have used to question an unnecessary action.
"Dean, we lefthim to figure out how to live like a regular human." Sam pulls a face, tilting his chin forward defiantly. "By himself."
He shrugs stiffly in response. "It's not like he's some kind of alien or something. He's a friggin' angel, he knows how the world works." Dean looks away, can't take the smug, pointed expression on his brother's face any longer. This is good for Cas and it's good for them and he says as much out loud. "Besides, it's not like he ever called us to ask for help or anything."
"He thought we were coming back."
Which, okay, Dean will admit was a dick-move, not telling him. But if he'd said outright that they were going their separate ways, what's to say that the angel wouldn't have followed? Kinda defeats the whole 'stay safe and be normal' part of the exercise.
But Sam's still going. "He sat in that apartment and rotted for five months, Dean, because he thought we were coming back."
"So what? It's my fault that he thought – "
"Yes, it's your fault." Sam's practically yelling now and Dean finds that kind of surprising. He never really thought his brother considered Cas a friend. "I thought you told him! You had a whole week to say 'by the way, Cas, we're dumping you here, start a new life without us' and you never did?"
Dean's eyes narrow and his hand slips off the window, leaving a number of smudges in its wake, though he doesn't seem to notice. "So now it's my fault that youthought – "
Sam's tone is clipped, even, and Dean gets the sense that he's done with this. "Why didn't you just tell him?"
He throws up his hands, irritation seeping into his every movement. "I dunno, I thought he might try and follow us or - "
Once again, his brother cuts him off. "Right, Dean, because we're so worth following. Look, I just figured someone should try checking up on him. It's been almost half a year. He's been miserable."
Dean doesn't answer, just takes the car keys from Sam's hand and slips into the Impala behind, leaving his frustrated brother standing in the spray of gravel that shoots out from the back wheels as he speeds away.
He's been miserable, too.
Castiel finds himself visiting the diner again about two weeks after leaving Sam there. It's two weeks spent trying to decide on what to do now that he's truly alone in the world. Part of him – a part that had been so easily suppressed as long as he thought there was a chance of Dean returning – wants to attempt a summoning of one of his brothers. Call on Balthazar or Rachel, beg them for help.
Perhaps it's the result of his newfound humanity that the idea of asking anyone for anything seems shameful. Depending on others is what's gotten him here in the first place, after all, and he's going to have to rely on no one but himself to find his way back.
He starts with throwing out his cell phone. He takes the little device and plunks it into the kitchen garbage with substantially less remorse than he probably should have been feeling. Admittedly, it's not as though he's been able to turn it on in months, but the act of getting rid of it is – to him, anyway – the chance to lose his number, officially preventing either Sam or Dean from ever calling him again.
There is the added bonus of the fact that he doesn't have a copy of their own numbers written down. Short of either of them appearing on his doorstep, Castiel is officially unreachable.
With the phone in the trash and a barren, lonely apartment around him, the former angel knows he needs to go out. Dean Winchester isn't coming back and it would be best for the both of them if he "moved on."
"Moving on," in Castiel's mind, means leaving the apartment more than once a week. He makes a point of going outside at least once a day, finding himself walking aimlessly through Sioux Falls at first, eyes to the ground, never really focused on anything more than whether or not he'll be hit by a moving vehicle as he crosses the street. The 24-Mart stands more often than not at the end of his meanderings, until the day he settles on the diner as a destination.
The two blocks of concrete between it and his apartment become all too familiar, as does the smiling waitress who had once shown him and Sam to their seats and the club sandwich that he continues to order with each visit.
It takes the waitress – Sandy, as her glittery nametag identifies her – exactly six days to ask him about it.
"Hon, you're going to turn into one o' them sandwiches of yours if you don't order something else." Her accent isn't South Dakotan, but Castiel is too unfamiliar with the verbal differences in human dialects to place the region as she slides his plate away from the table, beaming at him. "And what a shame that would be, too. Cute thing like you."
He blinks at her, voice rough with disuse, still not quite used to the attention. "Biologically speaking, that's impossible."
Sandy laughs at this, face contorting into a wide, genuine grin. "You come in here tomorrow and I'll introduce you to grilled cheese, sweetheart."
When Castiel returns to the diner the following afternoon, she does. And then ribs, french fries, chicken parmesan and the diner's menu in its entirety. The bombardment of food on his taste buds of meal after meal has Castiel realizing that there are in fact things he prefers over others.
She gets him to talk, too, and although he never has anything particularly meaningful to share with her, she listens with a kind ear. Dean has schooled him thoroughly in not relating information about what he used to be or what he knows, but when the light bulb in his apartment burns out, she directs him to the nearest hardware store with an amused grin.
He listens to her stories as well. He knows that he doesn't understand much about how restaurants are run, but he had been certain there must be something unusual happening to keep Sandy at the front of the restaurant every day, ready to take his order, until she shares that she was taking every shift she could get to help her boyfriend get through his education at the University of South Dakota.
Once, he offers her his credit card only to have it laughingly pushed back towards him.
"You're gonna need that, sweetie, if you want to keep eating out every night."
He pockets the plastic card and doesn't offer it again. He understands the refusal of charity too well.
"Coffee for me and a half-caff double vanilla latte for my sister over there." Dean waits idly at the counter as the barista gets their drinks. It's unusual to be at a chain coffee place like this one, even more unusual for them to be in an honest-to-God city, but he's always liked Wichita.
When he brings their order back to the table Sam's waiting at, his brother flips around his laptop to show him the screen. "Alma Cemetery. Apparently, a number of people report to have seen things there. Especially at night."
Dean rolls his eyes as he takes a sip of his coffee. Cemeteries are rarely actually haunted. In his experience, ghosts prefer to follow around people they once knew or places they once lived. "Unless it's some sort of Indian burial ground that's going all Poltergeiston the place – "
"Vengeful farmer's property." Sam supplies with that smug look that says he's anticipated Dean's argument and already figured out a way around it.
"Okay, so Old MacDonald dies and they turn the field into the local marble town and he gets pissed?" Another sip of the viciously bitter drink passes his lips. "That's really the best we've got?"
Lips pursed, Sam turns the laptop back towards himself. "There's a couple things out in Roscoe that look promising. Rapid City, too. And there's a college in Yankton that – "
Dean raises an eyebrow at his brother. All three of those places are in South Dakota. In convenient proximity to Sioux Falls. Where Castiel is. Where Dean is absolutely not going, as much as the little voice inside his head insists that he should. "Where did you say that farmer was again?"
"Dean."
"We're in Kansas, let's find a hunt inKansas."
Now Sam's rolling his eyes, running a hand through his hair. "It's been a couple weeks, I think maybe we should drop in and see – "
"There's no one for us to 'drop in and see', Sam. Leave it alone." And then, maybe only because the thought's been bothering him for months since they left the angel on his own, he adds, "If he wants to see us, he'll call."
"How are things?" Sandy asks, about a month and a half since Castiel last saw Sam, over half a year since he's seen Dean. It's a fairly commonplace question and one that she asks every time she sees him. He's halfway through deciding on an answer when a violent explosion of sound erupts through the kitchen doors, drawing the attention of wait staff and diners alike.
"Must be another one," the waitress tuts, moving towards the kitchen. "You wait here, sweetheart, I'll be back for your order in half a sec." She calls out the soup of the day as she retreats, leaving Castiel to take back the seat he's just instinctively jumped up from.
He glances over the menu with narrowed eyes, though he knows the food items practically by heart now.
"Sorry 'bout that," Sandy is back, pencil tucked haphazardly behind her ear.
"Is everything alright?" Not that there's probably anything he can do about it anymore, but it feels right to ask. Dean would have, though he bites back the thought that given Dean's actions, he may not exactly be the best human role model.
"Not unless you can fight off ghosts, sweetie-pie. What can I get you today?"
This spikes his interest and how could it not? He hasn't sensed any restless spirits here in the diner – or anywhere else, for that matter – but then how could he? Without his Grace, he's even less powerful than the weakest human psychic. This ghost though, interesting. "I'm surprised to hear you have a ghost problem. Given the abundance of salt on the premises."
"What?"
"Salt." He leans in a little closer as though to impart a secret of some sort. In some ways, he is. "It has purification properties. Ghosts are incapable of tolerating both it and iron."
The expression on the waitress' face is completely foreign to him. The nuanced levels of both confusion and perturbation too intricate to decipher. Castiel does get that his sharing of ghost-related knowledge was unwelcome, however, though he's not certain as to why. Shouldn't they be accepting of his assistance if it means an end to their problem?
"Ghosts aren't real, sweetie, but thanks for the concern. What we need is bus boys who aren't psychotic nut jobs."
Castiel doesn't know what makes him say it, but the words seem to come out of his mouth reflexively. Even if he doesn't know what half of them mean. "I'm not a psychotic nut job."
She laughs outright at this and he wonders briefly if perhaps she's laughing athim. "Okay, cutie. You just wait right here and I'll bring you your very own application." She moves away from the table, hips swaying. "And a club sandwich. On the house."
She's gone before he can tell her that he doesn't need the house, just the sandwich and his confusion continues when she returns and slides a piece of paper across the table towards him, before setting down his food. "You come here often enough, might as well make a little money, too."
And somehow, Castiel finds himself with a job.