There was something about birds, Castiel thought. The way they were just so free to swoop and soar and take flight. Those wings were almost breathtaking. The freedom was mind-bending.

He had wings too. Castiel knew that he did. He was just never allowed to use them.

Staring out of the window, the angel noticed the old car that Dean Winchester insisted upon driving slowly making its way into the parking spot at the motel, bouncing slightly on the rough gravel and creaking heavily as the boys opened the doors.

Something in Castiel wished that he could go to them. There was a part of him that just twisted when he saw them; something that yearned to be a part of that family that they had, the tight and dangerously codependent family that was all that they had left.

As he watched, the light from the motel caught Dean's eyes just right, and a green glint shot back at Castiel.

He'd only met these boys a few months ago, yet he couldn't stop himself from helping them. He shouldn't be near them. He shouldn't be in their motel room now, yet he was. He wanted to make sure that they were all right.

But he was afraid.

He shouldn't be afraid. He was Castiel, angel of the Lord. He had a family. He had angels who helped him to be who he was created to be. He was a warrior of God. He was Castiel.

But if he was an angel of the Lord, someone who had a purpose, someone who was created to be powerful, someone who was meant to be strong and unbending, why did he feel the need to fly? Why did he feel the urge to spread his wings and wander wherever his heart told him to go? Why did he feel that inexpressible desire to glide towards the Winchesters, like they were a song that was leading him home?

Home wasn't in the backseat of a forty-year-old car, traveling around the country with two brothers who couldn't go a day without snapping profanity at each other. It worried him that Castiel had to remind himself of that. Home was where he was from, home was heaven, home was with his garrison, where he knew who he was and his mission.

He hated this confusion. He hated that he had to be the one who had gotten through the gates of hell. He hated that he was the one who had left that scorched handprint on Dean's shoulder, that Dean had even discovered who he was, that he had been forced to make contact. Castiel didn't even like taking a vessel. This man was devout, and he had prayed for this to happen, yet there was something about taking him away from his family that made Castiel uneasy. The way that the little girl had looked at him when he had walked away in her father's body had been haunting him.

Castiel shouldn't have anything haunting him. He should be moving through his mission without regrets. He wanted to receive revelation, to know that he was doing the right thing, but there was something in his heart that told him that there wasn't quite the truth that he had once known in his superiors.

He was a bird with a string tied to his ankle. He was a nightingale who longed to sing out and fly towards the voice of truth, the voice that he didn't know who it belonged to.

There was a possibility that the voice belonged to Dean Winchester.

This was a possibility that Castiel didn't want to acknowledge.

This was a possibility that he didn't want to acknowledge, yet it was still a very potent one.

Castiel was looking for a voice to lead him to the truth, a song for his sanity, someone with wings who resisted the control that others tried to put on them. Someone who was everything that Castiel wasn't. He wanted to be something more than the angel that he had become over the ages, the follower, the one with the blind faith. Everyone he knew doubted; he was the only true believer that he knew. He had faith. He did. Sometimes, though, he just didn't understand his need for confirmation.

He felt lost. It was irritating, like a bug bite that was constantly rubbing against the sleeve of his trench coat. It was as if his wings had been imperceptibly clipped, and he had yet to notice that he couldn't fly.

But then again, maybe he couldn't fly because he wasn't making the choice to. Maybe he had clipped his own wings, maybe he was making a choice to stay grounded. Castiel's wings were too cramped; he needed to spread them and soar.

There was something about birds, Castiel thought as the Winchesters entered the motel room and he was sure that they couldn't see him.

There was something about birds, he thought, the rebellious soaring ones, and he was becoming sure that Dean Winchester was one of them.