It's Too Cold for Angels to Fly
A/N: This came to me while listening to "The A Team" by Ed Sheeran. It's really just... well... I have no idea what it is. A drabble-ish thing? Haha, anyway, warning, it doesn't have a happy ending.
He was an angel. That was important to him, so it stuck in his head on repeat, a slick mantra suffocated with bitterness. He knew now that his neurons, his, were working, shooting through his head with every miniscule action and thought that he had, but he was no longer aware of it in a way that was physical—when this had been Jimmy's body, he had been aware of the neurons firing, he had been able to see it, feel it, but now… Nothing. That was oddly disconcerting to him. It was more like his true form, where he couldn't necessarily make sense of the things going on inside his ethereal being, but this was so different. This was human. This wasn't him.
He was a being that had lived for countless centuries, and now, every second that ticked by reminded him that he was getting older, and with age, he would never get back what was lost. Youth. Life. Did he even have a soul at this point, a soul that would go to Heaven? Well, that did make sense. He was fully human now. He was a man, and all men had souls; well, there were exceptions to every rule…
After being kicked out of Heaven, and now out of the bunker, he… he didn't know what to do. He didn't know where to go. Castiel hated to admit it to himself, but he was lost and alone. Never in his long existence had he felt as though he truly had no one or no thing to turn to, but here he was now, and how far he had fallen. And how far he continued to fall.
His brothers despised him, and his other family, well… Apparently, they didn't want him around. He understood why. It was for his sins. He had brought the angels to earth, inadvertently, and that was only his most recent transgression. He had a long list of past things that he had done that should never have been done. He always knew better, and yet, he did it anyway—good intentions, of course. He snorted dryly.
How sad he was.
Shivering, he pulled his coat further around his torso in hopes of blocking out some of the cold. Needless to say, it didn't work, it felt as if the rain had simply… soaked into his bones, with no intention of leaving. He wasn't familiar with the feeling, after all, angels didn't feel temperature, but he was no angel. He had barely been one when he'd had wings and Grace. He was just… Failing.
Failing and falling and…
Human. That's what he was.
He didn't even deserve to fall like an angel. No.
He deserved to fall like a man.