A/N-I've really messed up here, but this is the start of the old fic, before I deleted it. I don't usually make all these mistakes. I don't think. I'm not sure how well it flows now though. Also, this is now posted on A03.
Castiel was painfully human. He had all the basic needs of a human, all the complicated needs of a human- all the problems a human would have. But he wasn't human- he was an angel. A warrior of the Lord.
It wasn't natural. It was wrong for him to actually become his vessel- for that flesh to become very much his own flesh. He'd been powerless before, but it was different. Now he was just a soul bound to a lump of mortal meat.
Humans were weak and vulnerable- susceptible to all sorts of things angels were not.
Castiel found it very uncomfortable caring for the needs of his new body.
It always needed something- food, water, alcohol, sleep, washing, shaving, entertainment, warmth, then cold, then warmth, then cold.
He hated shaving the most- the feel of a blade hovering too close to his throat- literally skimming over the skin, but he had to do it. Dean said so.
"You look homeless." Dean handed Castiel a disposable razor, with the intention of it not being as disposable as the name made out.
"Thank you." Castiel examined the object, looking as happy with his new present as he did wary. He'd seen Sam and Dean using a razor before and had been glad knowing he'd never have to use one. The memory made him tighten his grip on the razor, his whole body tense.
"Don't forget to use soap."
And Dean left.
The angel looked down at the object again and touched his face wondering if there was something wrong with the way he looked naturally.
The thought confused him, the way it made him feel. It wasn't his body afterall- why should he worry about his face, his hair, his skin? They weren't his. And who was Dean to judge his looks and question Gods design?
Despite this, upon Dean's request, he headed to the bathroom.
He looked at his face in the mirror. One moment it would be his face looking back- a reliable, faithful constant in the ever changing shit he was throwing himself into. The next moment would be the face of a stranger- a totally new person.
"Castiel." He repeated again into the mirror, leaning in closer until his breath began to condense on the mirror into a white cloud and smudge his face. "Castiel."
The face looking back at him was not his own. He didn't want to touch it; he wanted to leave and never come back; he wanted to smash the mirror and then scream blasphemy at god until his throat bled, but instead he picked up the razor with shaking hands.
He'd looked at the soap- a small yellowing block that looked like it had been taken from a public bathroom and was full of dust particles. It looked as though it had melted to the sink, and left a dry, grey soap mark on the white enamel of the rim.
He'd decided against using it, like Dean had instructed, and instead covered his face in water. It was a satisfactory lubricant. He tried not to think about how many times he'd decided not to listen to Dean only to have him be right.
He avoided looking into his eyes. They were the weirdest part to look at- they were the part of his face that was the most unfamiliar. Cold blue eyes surrounded by a strangers face.
He had never paid too much concern to his appearance- he looked like any other human; he had a head, two arms and two legs. But this wasn't teenage anxiety, not a lack of confidence. It wasn't a case of feeling too fat, or having a nose too big for his face.
He was a parasite in his own body and mind.
He didn't know what he'd do next, what he'd say wrong in the future- if he could trust himself even. Seems like he always made the wrong decisions, whether it was him making the choices or not. Naomi controlling him like that was unnerving to say the least.
So he avoided looking into his eyes.
"Doing okay in there Cas?" Dean banged the door with his fist to prove the point.
Castiel looked down at the razor. It hadn't even made contact with his skin yet. He was freaking out at his reflection. He felt like he'd betrayed heaven. Things weren't going okay.
He didn't reply to Dean, he'd already left anyway, and nothing Castiel said would actually make any difference.
He wiped the razor through the water. And looked at his face, this time just a glance at the surface- he could pretend he was shaving someone else if he liked- if things got too weird.
One stroke, two stroke, three stroke- he already shaved a third of his face- from his ear to his jaw line and then outwards towards his nose.
It was easy. Like exorcizing a demon when he had his grace. As easy as flying.
He let the blade glide across his face. It wasn't too bad. Not an adrenaline pumping knife fight like he was expecting.
He became lost in his head- he moved without having to think about what he was doing, allowed his thoughts to wander aimlessly through his mind.
What else would he have to do as human? The thought of a lifetime brushing his teeth and shaving his face whilst thinking about socks almost had him reeling backwards, almost had him instinctively throwing the razor into the furthest corner like it had burnt him.
It wouldn't have bothered him before.
A life time- perhaps fifty more years- that was no time. He'd spent fifty years watching the sun rise and set before. It had felt like nothing.
He placed the razor on the edge of the sink- barely refraining from jumping on the damn thing until it brought about a large life change- like until it brought his grace back. That would do.
But he didn't. He calmed his breathing instead- he didn't know when it had gotten faster, but it had. Could have been rage, could have been panic, could have been sadness.
He grabbed the nearest hand towel and wiped his face dry- inhaling the scent of mould that had filled the towel long ago. He stayed like that for a long while before emerging- squinting at the florescent bathroom lighting.
It stung his human eyes, much like his once true form would have done.
This was his true form now.
That really did send him reeling. He backed into the wall- hitting the back of head perhaps purposely. The world slowed, his heart with it.
True realisation had hit the former angel like a punch to the face and a roundhouse to the ribs.
He couldn't. He couldn't. No. This wasn't… He…
His father wouldn't help him.
He could still see his reflection- the damn bastard staring back at him with the same blank expression. Just looking right at him.
Blue eyes.
Staring and staring- never looking away. He'd have smashed it, but he had nothing to smash it with. No fight, then flight; his new oh-so-human body helpfully told him helpfully.
He scrambled to the door- it wasn't locked but that didn't stop him twisting the lock vigorously in an attempt the escape.
The world outside was too cold, too big. There could be anything outside. He looked back at the bathroom- knowing blue eyes were waiting for him above the sink.
"Cas?" Dean asked from his room, where the door was open. Castiel agreed- his physical appearance may have warranted some concern. Wide eyes, flared nostrils, tense frame, half shaven face. "You okay buddy?"
"No." He replied truthfully. Thankfully his voice was working okay. He sounded like he always had done- when he was an angel.
Dean stood from where he was perched on his bed- leaving messed up sheets where he once was- like he'd left a ghost sitting there. He stepped forwards to better look at his friend to determine what exactly was wrong.
Castiel stepped backwards.
"Cas?" He asked again, like a broken record player. That was all human's lives were in a nutshell- broken record players. And Dean was broken.
"I am sorry." Was all he said before he turned his back and walked back to the bathroom to finish his shaving job. Just a little falter in the cracks running along Castiel's soul. Nothing big. Nothing he shouldn't be able to handle.
He felt embarrassed- he was just being a little dramatic. It was all just silly really.
Dean decided it was best they didn't fall into lazy routine whilst they were in the bunker. It was easy to do so with few responsibilities like look after his dying brother, a fallen angel, the king of hell and an orphan teenager.
So he had a few simple training ideas for everyone. Or more himself, Cas and Sammy.
Sammy had to work on the shooting range since he was too tired and weak for anything else. It was less for Sam's own good and more for Dean's peace of mind.
Dean and Cas would work on a bit of hand to hand.
He didn't know what to expect, but Castiel really did hammer in the 'warriors of God' impression. He was good, grace or no grace.
Knifes were a popular choice between the two- both bearing a six inch blade with a metal handle coated in black rubber. An ergonomic combat knife just seemed wrong.
Castiel had managed to disarm Dean, who was doing his best to avoid the knife swinging towards him. When he looked into his friends eyes he wondered if he'd actually stop when he gained the upper hand, or if he'd just finish the job.
It would be funny to die in training.
Yeah, he'd averted the apocalypse, come face to face with Satan and been on the wrong side of a fair number of archangels and powerful demons. He later died in his leisure time- training.
He got behind Castiel and kicked him to his knees rather harshly. The angel turned his torso to lean as far round as possible where he began to swing his knife.
Dean simply stepped backwards before the angel stood to his feet, brandishing his knife. The fight wasn't over.
They continued until Dean managed to disarm Castiel, taking his weapon.
Eventually the fight escalated into one of the few times Dean won in a knife fight against the born warrior, until Cas was back on his knees.
Dean pretended to slit his throat, like how all fights ended- one of them miming out the fatal last blow before they resumed their starting positions and went again. And again. And again.
Without warning Castiel smashed his head back into Dean, even though the fight was concluded and Dean had won. It seemed pointless to Dean, who still held the knife and had actually killed Cas.
He scrambled to shaky feet and darted like a scared animal to the far wall looking betrayed back at Dean who was somewhat confused at the scene that was unfolding. Naked instinct- Dean could easily recognise it from his years of hunting. He knew what survival looked like.
Castiel was back there. Where it all happened. Where his grace was mercilessly removed from him. The moment his life was turned around. He couldn't do anything- he was helpless. It was happening. Part of his identity was being removed and used against him and all the other angels in heaven.
He was being picked apart into separate pieces- his soul and his grace. Why would Dean do that?
"Cas?" Dean tried to look smaller- figured it would help. He couldn't make things much worse he didn't think.
Castiel's eyes were looking somewhere else- looking somewhere much closer to his face. It only lasted seconds before he was back looking at Dean with a creased brow.
Dean was out of ideas. This shit wasn't meant to happen. They were meant to drink whiskey and hallucinate.
Castiel was breathing too little, too fast as he observed the world through wide blue eyes.
"Whoa, come on Cas." Dean tried to get them to laugh away the situation- go back to everything-is-okay-land. "It's okay. Seriously dude. You're fine."
Castiel shook his head and his eyes crumpled.
This wasn't happening. He was better than this- stronger than this. It was a human thing caused by his body. His soul was untouched- it wasn't him who was broken, it was his meat-suit. Anything could happen, but it would be okay, because it wasn't his soul.
"Come on Cas." Dean tried to encourage the angel, but figured he could only be so helpful without being near to his friend. Castiel didn't want him near, that much was clear when he tried to shrink away into the wall and become one with the Batcave.
Castiel continued to shake his head.
Every little movement across the room had his heart banging on his chest until he felt like it would explode. He felt vulnerable. Like anyone could, at any time, just pop in and kill him, and then he'd be dead and that would be it.
He would be dead. No longer on Earth. Just gone.
Dean managed to overpower him, he was just human. It could have been a real fight- Dean still would have overpowered him.
But that wasn't the problem.
It was the memory of Metatron that had set him on edge. It was like he was back there, and he just wasn't recovering from the shock.
Dean approached Castiel carefully, silently.
Castiel stood on almost vibrating legs, weak and drained. He just wanted to collapse and never wake up. But not die.
His eyes and nose stung.
The wall behind his back was too cold, much like floor beneath him. He wasn't sure when exactly he had sat down, or when Dean had sat next to him, or when he began to sob into his friends shoulder and his friend patted his back in an awkward but meaningful way.
"'t's okay." Dean half whispered.
Cas liked the way Dean didn't say 'You're safe', because they knew he wasn't, and he didn't say 'it's all over now', because it wasn't and never would be, and he didn't say 'everything's okay'. He only told the truth and for that Cas could believe him.
Could take comfort in his words. It was okay because they were all still alive and they would fix all this and Castiel's soul was still untouched.
It didn't make sense, but the notion was comforting, so he kept repeating it in his head. 'It's not my soul. It's not my soul.'
He had a better understanding then that, but that was okay because he was okay. It's okay. It's not all okay, but it is okay.
"Thank you." He whispered.
"Don't mention it." Dean replied. And even though Castiel was okay, Dean didn't let go and nor did he. They could stay there for just a little longer. Forget the world for a while.
Cas stayed true to Dean's request, and didn't 'mention it'.