The plane banked to the right and Castiel turned his eyes to the window, clutching his knees with clammy hands, his knuckles white. Far below, a dark line of water wound through the trees like a great snake. He swallowed and pressed his teeth together as he felt a cold line of sweat running down the back of his neck.

He hadn't seen the Earth from such a height in a long time. Through human eyes it was still beautiful, but like everything else, dulled. He decided he didn't care for it. It probably didn't help that he was looking at it through 10 inches of acrylic and glass, or that an unexpected panic had crept into his chest as soon as the plane had taken off and settled there like a weight in his lungs.

He could see why Dean hated flying so much. It certainly wasn't the height, or even a concern about the mechanics of the aircraft, but a matter of control. His life-which was more fragile than he wanted to think about-was completely at the mercy of a human. A stranger. Granted, that stranger knew what they were doing, and there were countless fail safes in place should something go wrong, but still... putting that much trust in someone without knowing a thing about them-it set his teeth on edge.

As the plane leveled back out, he turned his gaze back to the headrest in front of him, focusing on a loose strand of hair that had attached itself to the fabric and trying to steady his pulse. It pounded in his chest like a fist, drawing his attention to the hollow feeling that seemed to be intensifying at his core with every minute. Panic threatened to overcome him, and he tried to think of better times. The eternal Tuesday afternoon in heaven. The sound of the ocean. Sitting in the Impala with Dean, driving to Maine to track down Raphael. He focused in on the memory.

He remembered the sound of the engine, the way he could feel it as much as he could hear it, rumbling away. The cool breeze on his face through the half-open window, and the way ruffled his hair. The smell of gun oil and grease, salt and sweat. Dean's fingers tapping on the steering wheel, keeping a steady rhythm as music rang out through the speakers. The way Dean would turn and smile at him every now and then. He thought of that the most. Dean smiling. Wide and honest. It was a rare thing, he knew, and he was grateful to have seen it.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, and though he had stopped the panic, he still didn't move a muscle for the rest of the flight.

When the plane finally touched down in Sioux Falls, he let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding and felt an ache in his jaw. He had been gritting his teeth for the better part of an hour.

In the terminal, Castiel found a phone booth, and as he stepped inside he opened the yellow envelope that had contained his ticket and looked through the papers. At the bottom of the page of tips on how not to draw undue attention to himself on a plane he found Bobby's phone number. He lifted the grubby metal receiver from its cradle and held it to his ear as he began to dial.

A slightly robotic female voice sounded through the beeps.

PLEASE INSERT COINS.

Frowning, Castiel rummaged through his pockets. All the money he had was two fifty dollar bills. He thumbed the coin slot on the telephone and looked around the terminal. The smell of hot food hit his nose with force as his eyes landed on a pizzeria. Almost instantly his mouth began to water as he remembered the taste of meat and cheese, and he was no longer sure if it was just some form of Jimmy's memory that lingered in his vessel or an actual taste he had developed himself.

He approached the counter where a gangly teenager leaned, yawning.

"Hello."

The teenager stood up straight and spoke in the monotone of someone who has been saying the exact same thing all day.

"Good afternoon, Sir. Can I take your order?"

Castiel narrowed his eyes, focusing on the menu on the wall. He wanted something with cheese, that much he knew. Settling on the thing that looked the most like a burger, he looked back at the teenager.

"A slice of meat lovers pizza," he paused, "with extra cheese."

The teenager nodded and pressed a couple of buttons on the cash register.

"Anything else?"

"No."

"Five ninety-five."

Castiel handed him one of the crumpled fifties and the kid fumbled with his change. Finally he counted it out and handed it back over the counter, along with the slice. Castiel was still chewing on the crust when he returned to the phone booth. Bobby answered on the third ring.

"This'd better be important."

"I assure you, it is."

"Cas? Are you back in town yet?"

"I just landed," Castiel said through a mouthful of crust as he wiped the grease from his fingers over the leg of his pants, "I hope I never have to travel by aeroplane again."

"I take it you're still human, then?"

"Unfortunately. But we may be able to fix that," he swallowed the last of the pizza, "Do you have supplies for an Enochian summoning spell?"

"Should be able to rustle some up. What are you thinking?"

There was the sound of wheels squeaking and paper being shuffled as Bobby flicked through his books.

"Only an angel can restore my grace."

The flicking stopped.

"The spell's the one with anise and valerian?"

"Yes."

"Got it. Hope it works. Those two idjits have gone off to fight Pestilence on their own and I don't like their chances."

The unpleasant feeling in his chest came back, and Castiel suppressed a groan as his heart stuttered. Inwardly he begged his Father to keep them safe, but on some level he felt certain that He wasn't listening.

"How do I get to your house?"

After he waited for Bobby to check the bus line, Castiel hung up the phone and hurried out of the terminal, following a series of signs which eventually led him to a bus stop. He sat down and waited. And waited.

He tried not to think about Sam and Dean facing Pestilence on their own, but he couldn't stop the images from flashing behind his eyes. The two hunters coughing, retching, dying. Powerless. It wouldn't so much be a fight as it would be laying in a room while Pestilence stood over them, smiling, as their insides rotted away.

By the time the bus arrived, he was so pale and sick with worry that the driver almost didn't let him on for fear he would vomit. She watched him warily in her rear view for most of the journey. It wasn't until he caught sight of Bobby's street 35 minutes later that a little of the pallor left his face. He'd be summoning Gabriel in less than an hour. As he stepped from the bus and walked toward the rusted gates of Singer Auto Salvage, he felt a twinge of hope.

Soon, he thought, I'll be myself again.

And, honestly, he really did try to believe it.