Sometimes, Castiel kind of fucking hates his job.
Like today.
"I have a new mission for you." Zachariah is a royal dick, and talks down to Castiel endlessly, but nothing paranormal happens without Zachariah knowing something about it.
"What is it?" Castiel's only been home for barely a day after his last mission for Zachariah and he doesn't exactly have the abilities he used to. He needs sleep. And food. And maybe another cigarette. And probably some more alcohol.
"You know, Castiel, I'm starting to think that you're getting ready to retire, looking at how little you've done in these past few months." Castiel can practically hear Zachariah smirking through the phone.
"Go fuck yourself."
It's not the most original thing he's ever said, but it's exactly how he's feeling right now.
The faint ghost of his original powers he's managed to cling to all this time is finally starting to fade, and he can feel exhaustion settling in his bones, migraines forming in his temples. He isn't who he used to be, and Zachariah knows it.
"Twelve year old. Asian. Parents don't speak English. Latin did nothing. Be here in six minutes."
Castiel doesn't reply, just hangs up and grabs his coat. Fuck mortality. Who needs sleep and food when there's coffee and cigarettes
"My name is Castiel. Castiel Novak, asshole. I'm going to send you back to Hell." He likes making an appearance. His name carries a weight to it that anybody or anything who's ever been involved with the paranormal could recognize.
The girl's eyes flit to solid black as she smiles sweetly. "It's been a while since we last met, Castiel. I see you've changed. Shiny new last name and all."
Meg.
"Are you going to go peacefully, or are you going to make me force you?" In truth, Castiel isn't quite sure he could force any demon back to Hell unaided right now, not with how his powers are waning, particularly not something like Meg.
Meg primly uncrosses her hands, the sigil for binding a demon to a body carved into her palms. "I don't think you can. I think you're Falling, Castiel, faster than before. I think you're scared and almost powerless. I think you couldn't send me back if you wanted to."
That pisses Castiel off more than it should.
Maybe because for once, he knows that a demon isn't lying.
"Watch me." Castiel's pride won't let him just perform the standard vanilla exorcism and leave, not after Meg told him he didn't have the ability left in him to exorcise her the way he used to.
"No, Castiel."
He ignores her.
The fight is brief. Castiel is winded and exhausted, but despite Meg's demonic abilities, reality remains that Castiel is a full-grown adult man and Meg is in the body of a twelve year old.
Meg laughs as Castiel pins her to the floor, one hand on her throat.
"What's funny, hell-bitch?"
"Everything, Castiel. You see, Lilith is free. She's free and she's going to set old Lucifer free and they're gonna get you…"
Castiel presses his palm to her forehead before she has a chance to finish her sentence, and suddenly, sulfur-scented black smoke is choking out of the girl, vanishing into the floor. It's over. Meg is gone.
It takes all of Castiel's strength not to collapse on the floor. His little show has left him hollow inside, the dwindling remains of what he used to be almost completely gone now. It will be days before he's got enough juice to do something like this again.
Fuck. There was a time when he'd taken down an entire legion of hellspawn on his own, and now something as easy as sending Meg back to Hell practically fucking crippled him.
Zachariah stands in the exit to the apartment, holding the wad of cash the girl's parents had given him.
Castiel snatches the entire bundle of money as he leaves.
"Hey, I need a cut!"
"I'm out of commission until next week because of you." Castiel shoves the money into his pocket even as he rummages for a cigarette with shaking hands. "I need it more."
He has to lean against the wall as he waits for the ever-faithful Becky to show up with his ride back home, trying to seem casual. His fingers tremble as he lights his cigarette—even his body is starting to fail him.
Castiel wonders if this is how normal people feel about getting old. He used to be all-powerful, all-knowing. His original form could have burned out the eyes of unworthy mortals and his real voice could have shattered glass.
And now?
Castiel has almost nothing. Just memories that fade every day, powers that grow weaker by the hour, so much knowledge crammed into a human brain that it actually gives him headaches, a failing mortal body, and a chain-smoking habit.
Yeah. Sometimes Castiel really fucking hates his job.
Castiel wakes up coughing, barely managing to stumble to the bathroom before it got too bad.
He spits blood and phlegm into the porcelain sink even as he continues to cough. The contrast of the red blood against the white is drastic.
It takes a good five minutes for the coughing to finally stop, and by that time Castiel is even more exhausted than he was before he tried to catch some sleep. This weariness is a more recent addition to the tiredness of his body, a bone-deep ache and longing for what he used to be.
He knows there's a bottle of painkillers on his nightstand, from all that time ago when he'd fractured all the bones in his right foot. It would be so easy to pop a few and let the high slip him into rest…
But, of course, Castiel won't do that. He needs to keep his record as clean as possible.
Instead, he gulps down some cough suppressant directly from the bottle and flops down onto his bed. He's going to need to see a doctor tomorrow—he doesn't need his powers to know there's something wrong in this mortal body.
He hates everything, Castiel decides. He hates everything. Mortality, Heaven, Hell, demons, angels, humans, his job, his "colleagues", his human body, magic, grace. All of it. Everything. Anything.
Castiel debates giving up, but he knows what's going to happen if he does.
So he rises from the bed and flicks on the overhead light.
There's always work to be done.
"How can I help you?" Dr. Singer shoves a cup of coffee into Dean's hands.
To be honest, Dean likes Dr. Singer, and not just because Dr. Singer was the first psychiatrist to ever get any major breakthrough from Sam. He's gruff and to the point, but he's not unfriendly. Sam had looked to the psychiatrist like he was the father Sam had never had.
"Did Sam ever talk to you about a man named Castiel?"
Dr. Singer shakes his head as he sips his own chipped mug of coffee. "Patient confidentiality. Unless this is about Sam's suicide on police business, I can't tell you anything."
"My badge is in my pocket, but if it would make you feel better…"
"Just checkin'."
"I think that this Castiel man might have something to do with his…suicide. 'Castiel' was the last thing he said before he jumped."
"After you woke up from your coma last month, boy ran into my office and insisted that an angel had pulled ya outta Hell. Said he was named Castiel. Had one of his pictures with him too, man in a trench coat smoking a cigarette.
"Confused the hell of me, too. Sam used to be consistent, ya know? The people he created in his delusions were all based on real people he met, but not Castiel. I kept it. I think you're gonna wanna see it." Dr. Singer shifts through a pile of papers on his desk until he finds the right one, handing it to Dean.
It's possible the weirdest drawing Sam had ever done—at least, out of the ones Dean had seen.
The man Dean now recognizes as Castiel straddles Dean's chest as Dean lies in a hospital bed, affixed to a multitude of machinery. Castiel has one palm pressed to Dean's forearm and the other submerged in what looks like a bedpan of water, the sleeves of his dress shirt and trench coat rolled up to his elbows, pentagrams edged in rays tattooed on his forearms. It's clear that Castiel is doing something to him in the picture, but as to what it might be, Dean can't even begin to figure out.
It's fully colored in, unusual for Sam. Painstaking attention had been paid to every little detail, from the tattoos on Castiel's forearms to the readouts on the monitor. It's like someone ripped the scene from a memory. Dean can almost see Sam hunched over the paper, assortment of colored pencils scattered across the surface of his desk, eyebrows knitted together in concentration.
"What the hell?" It's the best Dean can come up with, staring at the picture.
"I got no idea. Sam said it was Castiel pulling you out of Hell. Said Castiel was an angel that'd been ordered to pull you out." Bobby shrugs.
"You think… You think… Sam might've been talking about a real guy?"
Bobby laughs roughly, staring at the blue laminate floor. "Everyone thought you were brain-dead, boy. You were attacked by a serial killer, shot in the back, and hit by a truck. No one comes out of something like that okay.
"Sam was all kinds of torn up. It was bad, Dean. He attacked two orderlies and five other patients. We almost debated sending him to a more equipped facility. But one day, he just…stopped. Did a complete three-sixty in attitude. It was the day he gave me that, talking about angels and this Castiel.
"I attributed it to nothing but another one of his mood shifts, but… You woke up the next day. Perfectly healthy, walking and talking. That doesn't happen. You should be dead." Bobby shakes his head, still looking at the floor.
And that, Dean realizes later, is the moment he knew that Castiel wasn't just Sam's creation.
Castiel was real.
And Castiel knew what had happened to his brother.