He had never seen the world so still. Countless millennia he spent on the earth and none of it could compare.
He remembered being told to wait for orders, orders that would only come sparingly throughout the eons. He remembered seeing new life spring from the dirt before going extinct. He remembered the harrowing silence when all life within a region was suddenly gone.
He had seen landforms change, mountains move, lakes carve into the land as if they were giant bruises, and then dry up leaving large craters and valleys. He remembered how the world was always changing; how time was always moving. The only thing he could not remember was how he ever passed the time.
Time was never the enemy. The enemy was always the demon uprisings that occurred over the ages. The enemy was the ever looming threat that Lucifer would one day rise from his cage. He could only prepare for action. No matter what amount of time would pass, he would always look forward to facing another event in his life. Waiting was simply part of the process.
Perhaps he would spar with his brethren, learning new fighting techniques. Perhaps he would only stare out into the sky and wonder where heaven existed on the planar existence of men.
Perhaps waiting was something he only ever did. And perhaps waiting was the only thing he truly knew how to do. The only problem he faced now was further understanding his earlier abilities to wait for any amount of time under any environmental circumstance.
In days past he could wait for years in the desert under the unbearable sun in the blistering heat. He was able to wander the rainforests of South America and never worry about contracting any sort of illness or affliction.
He could walk among the peasants during the Bubonic Plague and never gave a second thought to physical contact or even being within the general vicinity of the ill. He observed the borderline ritualistic burning ceremonies, held to burn the bodies of the deceased to prevent the spreading of the plague through post-mortem contact without so much as batting an eye.
He did not fear the mortal world, Castiel. He was given grace, power, mastery over his dominion, and above all, immortality. None of which he had within his grasp; none of which could help him now.
Castiel huffed into his hands as he'd seen a man do so at the gas station down the street. He rubbed them together before placing them against his chest. He was cold, colder than he'd ever been before. He was wet, wetter than he'd ever been before. He was exhausted, more exhausted than he'd ever been before.
His breath only added a bit of warmth to his cold chest, forcing him to rub his hands together again. He clung tightly to his sweater, drenched from the from the torrential downpour that he found himself in. He had no food, no shelter, and nowhere to go besides the alley he found himself settling into.
He spent the last of his money on food. He spent the money before that on water. He'd spent the money before that on basic toiletries and a small bag. He'd spent the money before even that on a personal phone call with Dean Winchester, the man who gave him direction on where to go, but no help as to get there.
He longed to be in the bunker; to be wrapped up in a warm blanket with a warm beverage surrounded by warm, familiar faces. He thought of Dean's reaction to him again after the angels fell, and he thought of the condition that Sam would be in after encountering Ezekiel. He pondered deeply of Kevin's condition, and tried to remember the names of any other prophets in the event that Kevin's future was compromised.
He coughed, and he felt a horrible burning sensation in his chest. He coughed again, and again he felt the burning rising from his chest, through his throat. He continued to cough, each one brining more pain than the next.
Tear welled up in his eyes. As if he were a lost three year-old child, he began to cry. The pain only fueled his wailing, and he began to shout the word "Why" into the sky, almost accusingly.
"How could you?!" he shouted, "Why would you do any of this? What gave you the power to create such a creature capable of feeling anything like this?"
He couldn't breathe, the pain was too much. Instead he hacked and hacked, before heaving.
His entire body lurched in time with his stomach, and he stumbled out from his corner in the alley. He'd never been sick to his stomach before in his life.
He heaved, and heaved, and only small amounts of bile came up.
The rain seemed to wash away the vomit on his chest, but it did nothing to reduce the dirty feelings of shame Castiel began to develop.
"What gave you the right?!" He asked one final time looking up into the starless sky, obscured by the rainclouds. The water droplets beat and bounced off his tear-stained face, destroying and eroding what little sense of life the man had.
Castiel then turned his attention to the roads. It was entirely dead, and silent besides the beating raindrops bouncing from the roofs and street. He'd never felt the world so still before now. Not a soul was out on the streets or the road.
He looked down, disavowed. He sank to the sidewalk. Wet, cold, and in pain, he began to pray. He began to pray for the safety of Dean, and Sam, and Kevin, and any other human he could think of that he had encountered in his life.
Castiel quietly included his words to God:
"There is a world out here lord, one that you created that probably needs you now more than ever…"
Castiel stood up, ignoring the pounding rain and the burning in his chest. He began to walk with only one destination in mind, the Bunker.