A/N: And now back to a depressing song fic. Song from an anon on tumblr. Also fills the prompt from jelena789 of Cas as human missing the Winchesters.

Song: "Radio Nowhere" by Bruce Springsteen
Setting: Season 9
Characters: Castiel
Summary: Castiel has lost his grace. And he's just lost.

"Radio Nowhere" - Bruce Springsteen

I was tryin' to find my way home
But all I heard was a drone
Bouncing off a satellite
Crushin' the last lone American night

Castiel stumbled through the woods, twigs and branches scratching at his face and hands. Screams echoed through his skull like a drill, and he bowed forward with his fingers digging into his scalp. Images of comets plummeting to Earth in fiery brimstone and flaming wings were seared into his mind's eye. His brothers and sisters. All of them, violently cast down without warning from their home.

Castiel had been trying to save Heaven, but he'd destroyed it instead.

He staggered from the trees and onto a road. Their clamorous voices filled with terror and confusion sent pulses of pain through his temples, and Castiel squeezed his eyes shut against the assault.

And then angel radio went silent, and the absence of the anguished cries brought both relief and crushing, unforgiving finality.

This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?
This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?

Castiel sat in the passenger seat of the vehicle that'd nearly run him down. The driver had offered, whether out of guilt or kindness, to give him a ride to the nearest town. They didn't speak, and the cab was filled with only the rumble of the tires over uneven asphalt.

Castiel stared at his hand. It stung mercilessly where gravel was embedded in his palm, the pain sharp and intrusive in a way he'd never felt before outside the bite of an angel blade. No matter how much his thoughts bent toward making it go away, the tissue didn't knit back together and the blood didn't disappear.

But the physical pain wasn't as bad as the silence. For the first time in his long existence, Castiel couldn't hear his siblings, couldn't reach out to them, couldn't feel the thrum of Heaven's power through his grace. Because his grace was gone. Cut out and sacrificed in a spell that left Castiel as bereft and lost as his family.

He curled in on himself, overwhelming emotions of grief, despair, and guilt compressing his chest as though they possessed tangible weight. He was alone. Alone and adrift, and he didn't know what to do.

Was anyone alive out there?

I was spinnin' 'round a dead dial
Just another lost number in a file
Dancin' down a dark hole
Just searchin' for a world with some soul

He found a church. He didn't know why he ventured inside. He knew all houses of God were empty. Perhaps he merely hoped for a semblance of Heaven to act as a balm to his battered soul.

There was a woman, praying. Castiel's heart gave a pang. He'd thought about praying. Every time he'd been faced with an insurmountable challenge, he'd prayed for guidance. For strength. His father had never once answered him. And now, his pleas would be lost in the cacophony of every other human soul calling out to a God who left a long time ago. And with the angels cast out of Heaven, there was no one left up there who was listening at all.

The silence ached deep in his chest in the void where his grace used to be. Castiel folded his arms around himself, wondering if there was enough life left in him to survive this, or if he was going to continue to be beaten down and hollowed out until nothing remained but a worn out husk of a once divine, supreme being.

This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?
This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?
Is there anybody alive out there?

The rain drummed down in droves, pattering the puddles that pooled up from its ceaseless onslaught. Castiel huddled under a bridge to escape the downpour, but his sneakers were soaked from sloshing through standing water and his socks and the hems of his jeans were damp as well. He shivered and his stomach cramped with hunger. It'd been a day since he'd eaten.

He wished he was with the Winchesters, tucked away in the warmth of their Men of Letters bunker. Dean had told him to get there, and he was trying. But it was such a long way without the use of his wings and he didn't have the means to procure direct transportation. Most of the time he walked. His leg muscles burned and his feet had blisters, but he kept going. The only other option was to lay down in a ditch and die.

Still, it would have been nice if Dean had offered to come get him... But maybe Sam was still hurt. Castiel wondered if the angel Dean had found was able to help or if Sam was still sick. Or maybe some other trouble had befallen the Winchesters, maybe as a direct result of Castiel's horrendous failure. And he wasn't there to help them.

He couldn't even help himself.

I just want to hear some rhythm
I just want to hear some rhythm
I want a thousand guitars
I want pounding drums
I want a million different voices speaking in tongues

He longed to hear a friendly voice. The angels were hunting him, blaming him for helping Metatron get into Heaven and cast them out. Trying to explain that he'd been deceived didn't matter to them. Metatron was out of reach, and Castiel was an all too vulnerable target for them to mete out retribution on.

He longed for Sam and Dean, in the dark of night when he huddled in alleyways behind dumpsters, and even when he was walking down the street and people crossed the road to avoid him. He longed for the rumble of the Impala to round the corner.

Castiel imagined Dean's rock music in the car. He imagined turning the volume all the way up to crush the crippling silence.

Tucked away in forgotten shadows and piles of refuse, Castiel wept for the voices of his brothers and sisters.

I was driving through the misty rain
Yeah searchin' for a mystery train
Boppin' through the wild blue
Tryin' to make a connection with you

Sam and Dean came to get him. Castiel had been stunned when they'd barged into April's apartment and rescued him from the reaper, and now he felt so much gratitude and relief he thought it might choke him.

Sitting in the backseat of the Impala, Castiel basked in the gusts of heat coming from the vents and the voices of his earthly family as they caught each other up on what had happened. Castiel didn't admit how close he'd been to breaking down. But now that he was with the Winchesters again, he thought that maybe they could pull him back from the brink of the abyss he'd been teetering on.

This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?
This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?
Is there anybody alive out there?

"You can't stay here."

Castiel felt numb, barely aware of his legs setting one foot in front of the other as he found himself wandering the streets again, bereft and alone. Again. He'd left the bunker hours ago after Dean had told him he couldn't stay. Castiel didn't understand. He thought…they were friends. F-family. They'd come to find him, had brought him back.

But apparently it was just out of kindness to give him some food and clean clothes before sending him on his way. Dean didn't give much of a reason, hedging between Sam still being in rough shape and it not safe. Castiel read between the lines. Dean couldn't spare the time and effort to take care of a useless, broken angel. And after the havoc Castiel had caused recently, and all his mistakes leading up to it, it was little wonder Dean didn't trust him. Castiel understood that, but it still hurt.

The sky was gray and threatening to unload its misery upon his head. Fitting, that would be. Castiel looked around. The streets were empty, not a soul in sight. People were probably tucked away safe and warm in their homes.

The silence was back.

Castiel wondered if anyone was alive out there.

Was he alive in here?

I just want to feel some rhythm
I just want to feel some rhythm
I just want to feel your rhythm
I just want to feel your rhythm

He found himself in Rexford and managed to secure employment. He'd had to lie, go by an identity he'd stolen from a wallet someone had lost. He hated himself for it, yet had done it anyway. The Gas-N-Sip wasn't much of a living, but at least he could sleep in the storeroom instead of parks or under bridges. He learned the menial tasks of his job and they became routine, a rhythm he tried desperately to lose himself in. There was also a steady stream of customers who broke the silence outside of him.

Unfortunately, there was no cure for the silence within.

Castiel fell into the monotony.

Heat the nachos. Stir the slurpee machine. Scrub the bathroom toilet.

He tried not to think about wings and bright lights and divine glory.

This was a human rhythm now, and the only thing he had left to cling to.