He found his way to the road by the third day. Being human was irritating, a hinderance - he hated it. His stomach growled, his throat was dry, his head hurt and the branches cut him when they snagged on his skin. The worst of it, though - was the silence. The absolute, utter, silence.
When he was an angel, there was never quiet. There was always background chatter, a steady, never-ending buzz of the Host or the devout's prayers. The loss of all that-he thought he was going to go mad. It was deafening, all-consuming. He could hear only his own thoughts, his own voice rattling around. Dean's last prayer to him played again and again -
"Castiel!"
It was desperate and pained. He had been scared. And then Metatron had stolen his grace, and cast him out. And then they fell.
Thousands of them, falling - and it was all Castiel's fault. He had cried that night. He wept for his brothers and sisters, the ones that had survived his massacre when he had played God, that were probably lying dead on the pavement or on top of buildings. If only he had listened, oh, if only! Again and again, the people around him played him like a fiddle. He was their weapon. Poor, naive, little Castiel, the one with too much heart. The one who thought he was doing the right thing.
A lady had called the police when he flagged her down. According to her, he was filthy, and smelled. He was just happy there was a voice besides his own.
They had taken him back to their station, gave him water, and let him get washed up. Then they asked him questions. Who was he? Where was he from? Why was he out in the forest? Did he have any ID?
He didn't know how to respond. His body hurt, ached all over. He only knew two things : That his name was Castiel, and he needed Dean. He told them as much.
They said they didn't know what to do with him. That they would take him to the hospital, and report him to the local news station. That Dean Winchester and his brother Sam were dead. That they had been on the FBI's most wanted list for years until they had been shot down.
Castiel knew that this was a lie, a cover for the Winchesters, that Dean was very much alive. But it still hurt him to hear those words.
"Dean Winchester, is dead. Has been for years now. You sure you got the right name?"
Castiel nodded. His throat had closed up.
"Is he family?"
"You could say that, yes."
The man squinted at him. "Brother, maybe?"
"I suppose so. I'm not sure."
"Guess we'll just call you Castiel Winchester, then. That sound right to you? Ring any bells?"
Castiel Winchester. He liked the way it sounded. "I guess."
They had taken him to the hospital, where he was treated for dehydration, broken ribs, and a broken wrist. They checked him for a concussion, but found nothing. The officers were frustrated. The doctors were frustrated. He didn't know how he was supposed to pay these people - he had no money, no connections, no friends. His only family had fallen out of the sky. He wept again that night.
The Winchesters didn't come for him the next day. He sat in bed, listening to the television. The news had a report on the 'meteor shower' that happened a couple of days ago. They had a report on Castiel Winchester. They had a report on several dozen confused and delirious people that had just cropped up all over town, claiming how they didn't know who they were or what they were doing there. Cas muted it - it caused him too much pain.
Was this what being human was like? Pain? He was used to feeling much more emotion than his brethren, but this was different. It was like someone had taken the filter off, and now - now it was all hitting him like a freight train. It was too much, too much to bear. He lied about his injuries that night, saying they hurt, and fell asleep under the influence of heavier drugs.
He awoke the next day to a nurse bustling about near him. He was in blissful ignorance for a few minutes, no knowledge of anything. But then it all came rushing back, and he slammed his eyes shut. They hurt. Everything in him hurt.
"So, how are you doing today? Ribs feeling any better?" She attempted to make light conversation.
He said nothing.
"They're going to have to release you soon. You're doing much better."
What did it matter? He had nothing to go back to.
"I heard them saying something about someone trying to contact you. One of the amnesiac patients. Said that you were an angel." She laughed quietly to herself.
Angel. The word rattled about in his head. No, an angel was something holy. Something pure. He was neither. He was the scum of the earth, just as human as the rest. He felt something hot roll down his cheek.
"Hey, hey! What's wrong? What hurts? Is it your wrist?" She sounded worried. She shouldn't be.
He opened his eyes and lifted a hand to feel the tears on his face. The nurse was right beside him. "I hurt." He replied, voice hoarse. "Everything hurts."
She gave him stronger drugs, and he drifted off into nothingness.
He woke up again later that night, feeling numb. It was a new feeling. He wasn't sure he liked it, but he was grateful that the pain wasn't there. He heard the doctors talking outside his door, saying how he only had two days left before they had to discharge him. But soon they left, and it was silent. He hated the silence. So he hummed. He hummed the hymns that he knew by heart, and cried as he sang. There was no chorus to sing with him. He didn't hear the nurse enter.
"That was beautiful." She whispered as he finished the last notes.
He didn't open his eyes.
"Where did you learn that?"
He just shook his head slowly, tears still streaming down his face.
"Oh. Uh, well, I thought you'd like to know a man came by an hour ago. Said he knew you."
Castiel didn't react. It was probably another one of his brothers. He had mostly given up on Dean coming to find him.
"He was kinda tall, and had brownish hair. Looked like he'd been through hell. Said his name was Steven Winchester, one of your older brothers."
But Castiel didn't hear this. He was tuning her out, hearing Dean's plea play in his head, over and over again. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"Do you need more medication?" She asked, touching his shoulder. He jerked, as if he had been shocked.
"Y-Yes. Yes, please."
The first thing he felt was two hands gripping his own. He was still out of it, the drugs still in his system.
"Dean?"
"Hey, Cas."
He tried to sit up, but a firm hand held him down. "Take it easy. You're leaving in a few hours. Get some rest."
"But - But I've been sleeping this whole time -"
"Please, Cas. Just get some rest."
His voice was cracked and broken. Castiel complied.
He drifted back into consciousness to find his room empty. It figured - was he going crazy now? Probably. It bothered him that he didn't care.
But then the door opened, and the person walking in with a cup of coffee was the person Castiel most wanted to see. Dean seemed surprised to see Cas awake. There were bags under his eyes, and his hair was mussed. It looked like he had slept in the chair next to Cas' bed - there was a blanked thrown over the arm.
"You're awake."
"Yes."
"Feeling any better?"
"If you mean physically, then yes."
Bloodshot green eyes bore into glassy blue ones. A sort of understanding passed between them. Dean threw a pile of clothes on the bed.
"The nurse unhooked you. Get dressed."
And so an hour later, he was sitting shotgun in the Impala, a bottle of pills in his pocket. He was wearing Dean's old plaid and jeans, neither fitting quite right. The cast on his arm itched.
"How's Sam?"
Dean glanced at him. "He's - He's in bad shape. Better, but ... It's pretty bad, Cas."
" ... I'm sorry. I know it won't help, but I really, truly, am sorry."
"I know you are." He sounded resigned.
The rest of the ride back was silent. Castiel hated it.
The first week, he swallowed the pills and went to sleep. He could see the worry on Dean's face every time he left the room to use the toilet. He hated it, absolutely hated it. He was useless, and he knew it, because Dean had to come into his room every day to make sure he ate and drank something.
It was all too much. He was drowning in silence and noise at the same time.
He felt, but he felt too much. Dean had years to learn how to deal with this. Castiel had had days.
And soon, the pills ran out.
And the cast was ready to come off.
Dean literally dragged Castiel from his bed, and threw him into the bath, clothes and all. He sat there for a few minutes, stunned. But then he peeled off the weeks old clothes, the borrowed ones, and began to scrub. The amount of filth that was washed from him was amazing, but still-he still felt dirty.
The cast came off, and his arm looked dirty. He scrubbed that until it was pink and raw.
He ate dinner with Dean that night, few words passed between them.
He swallowed sleeping pills with his brandy to fend off the nightmares, and Dean stared at him with concerned and broken eyes.
In Castiel's opinion, he worried too much.
Dean went off on hunts sometimes. Easy ones, where he wasn't in danger of getting killed.
Sam emerged from his room occasionally. Dean said he was getting better. Castiel wouldn't know.
He could hear them talking, most times. The conversation always drifted towards him. Dean said Castiel was getting worse. Sam said to give him time. The silence was deafening in the bunker. Castiel slept.
Eventually, the sleeping pills ran out, too. So he had to improvise.
He didn't expect to see Dean in the kitchen at this time of night.
"Hey, Cas."
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"I just - uh, why are you up?"
Dean looked up from the table. "I guess I could ask you the same thing."
He sighed. "Dean, I-"
"Sleeping pills run out? Looking for your next fix?" He tapped the cap of a long empty beer against the table.
"Would you just - "
"Cas," His voice cracked, and he looked down. "Do you not remember when you brought me back from the year 2014? Way back during the apocalypse? What I told you?"
Castiel looked down at his feet. The truth was, he did remember. Dean had told him not to change, but he had broken that promise quite a few years ago, hadn't he?
"I told you not to change, because the way you were in there, the way you acted like you- like you just didn't care anymore, and now-" He took a shuddering breath. "You were broken, Cas. You weren't sober, not once, while I was there. I saw the after effects. And now you're - you're forcing me to watch it happen. Cas, buddy, I-" He waited a few seconds, and when he spoke again, his voice was hard. "I can't let it happen. I won't."
"Dean, please-"
"No."
"Just - would you just -"
"I said no, Cas."
His fists clenched.
"Please-"
"No."
"You don't know what it's like!" Castiel screamed, the dam finally bursting. "You don't understand, all my brothers and sisters-I did this, it's all my fault again, and I-"
"I know what it's like." Dean said quietly.
"Do you? Do you?! Do you know what it's like, to have everyone you know and love inside your head at all times, to be able to hear them all - to have that just ripped away?! Torn out?! They fell! ALL OF THEM! Because of me! It's me, it's always me! Again, and I was just trying - I just wanted to make things right, to do the right thing but I - I screwed up. Like always. You told me not to change, Dean. But I broke that promise more than two years ago. You should know better than to trust me, you said it yourself - that sorry wasn't enough, that I could cram it up my ass-" tears were spilling from his eyes again, and he hated it. He hated all of it, the guilt, the silence, the pain, the inconvenience of being human, this weak, pathetic little thing.
Dean was staring at him with wide eyes.
"Sorry won't be enough, will it? Sorry will never, ever be enough, because I fucked up, I fucked up big time, and there's no fix for this - no hole to jump into that will send them all back to heaven - no spell to bring them all back, because they're human-or dead, because of me. They're all gone, because of me."
"And I hate it!" He shouted. He grabbed the empty beer off the table and flung it across the room, earning the satisfying sound of glass shattering. "This guilt -this-this pain-I've been human for a little over a month, Dean! A FUCKING MONTH! And you expect me to just deal with it! They're gone- all of them -they're all gone and I- it's just so silent, Dean- I can't stand it anymore, I fucking can't-" he was gasping for air at this point, tears streaming down his face and dripping off his chin. He stumbled forward and landed in Dean's arms, sobbing.
"They're gone - all of them - and it's just so quiet - I can't stand the silence, Dean - please, it's just so quiet - god, it's too quiet and I - I don't know how I can do this - because I let them fall and now - now they're just gone- and I can't stand it -"
"Hey, shh, hey. Hey, it'll be okay. Alright? We'll get you through this. God, Cas, you'll be alright. I'll get you through this." He murmured, running a hand over Castiel's trembling arm.
"My family -" He gasped.
"We're your family now. Okay? We'll help you." He wrapped his arms around Cas' shaking torso, rubbing comforting circles into his back.
"Oh god, I need you Dean, - please - I need you."
"I'm here, Cas. I'm right here, and I ain't going anywhere."
He let Castiel's tears soak through his shirt, and when they finally stopped, Dean picked him up and carried him to his room. He laid him down on his bed, where Cas stirred and opened puffy eyes. Dean stood up and went to get water for Cas, but the fallen angel stopped him.
"Dean." His voice was pleading.
"I'm just going to get water. You're gonna have a headache when you wake up tomorrow."
"I don't care. There's pills for that. Just - don't leave me."
Dean sighed and climbed into bed next to him. "You're not allowed to have pills for anything anymore."
Cas just gave a contented sigh. He fell asleep to Dean's breathing.
It was rarely quiet anymore.