Chapter 79.
Cas looked at the moss growing on a nearby tree root. It seemed important, suddenly. So did the light on the trunks around him and the rough, scuffed patches on Dean's boots. There was a smell of damp soil and a cold feeling in his hip, caused by the way he sat and all of these things, he knew, were human things, the senses of his vessel, unboosted by his grace.
They were also things of the Earth. In Heaven's halls of administration, there were few variations in heat and light and such things went unnoticed by the angels most of the time anyway. Sometimes, when Dean or Sam slept in the Impala, they complained of aches in their shoulders or legs and he tried to be sympathetic, but angels didn't really have that issue.
He was glad he was feeling some of that now. The Empty was not a place of sensation. The memories of what he had felt, as an angel and as this sub-angelic mess, would be important to him, before eternity burned them away. They would buy him a little delay before all that was him was torn apart and reconfigured as a storm of regret and loss.
This feeling of Dean, sitting beside him, the sounds of his breathing, the movement of his feet as he settled in a new position, the strained silence of his not asking that shouted loudly a declaration greater than any spoken assurance of love, these were all human things too.
Most angels never knew the pleasures of friendship, the deep peace of another being beside them who, without saying a word, could make them feel protected and sheltered and loved. Most angels never looked closely enough at humans to see how fine and strong and pure and compassionate they could be and he had human brothers whose hearts he knew better than his own ... much, much better.
His life only seemed tragic when he viewed it from a human perspective. Here, with his human family, he felt the sorrow of an ending to his love affair with Jules, the impending loss of his brothers and his dear friend Sarah, which was all very ironic, when humans were the ones who lived with the certainty of a brief life and inescapable death.
In angelic terms, he was a success story. He had laughed and loved and had even had sex once. He had listened to Def Leppard in an old car on an old highway and heard Dean urging him to sing along, when both had known he could not sing. He had rolled around on the bank of the creek with Jules, in a state of undress. No other angel had done that. Jack had chosen him as a father, an adoption so absolute that he had never stopped seeing Jack as his child and never would.
Angels existed in lofty disinterest, serving rules they did not question enough to understand or understand enough to question. Angels were uncomplicated and dull and driven by nothing but the programming hidden in them at the beginning.
He had lived. Fine, maybe mostly for the past ten years, but there had been flashes of it before that.
The "crack in his chassis" that Naomi had complained about had been questions, doubts and uncertainties and they had troubled him as much as her, until a hunter with little patience for the prejudices of Heaven had seen that little flaw and treated it as a feature. He was not broken, but had potential. Dean had taught him what to do with it and yes, it had broken him, but then it had remade him as something new, neither angel nor human. Perhaps the only label to fit him was Winchester.
Most who went to the Empty were all but empty themselves. He was not and that was why it was both easier and much, much worse for him. He had more to lose and more to wail about in his own head in the endless litany of regrets that denied any peace to those lost in the deep sleep of the Empty. He also had more to cling to in the dark. That was the thing to focus on.
"You're too quiet." said Dean, "What are you thinking?"
Cas wished he had been thinking something not related to the Empty, so they could talk about it. Talking about things with Dean was one of the best things in his life and keeping secrets from him was one of the worst. Just to look in his eyes and see the hurt look when he withheld something was painful to him, but he was not clever enough in the arts of deception to dissemble.
"Hey, Ground Control to Major Tom." said Dean. He snapped his fingers.
Cas turned and looked at him. He said nothing.
"I don't like this." said Dean, "You're too disconnected. Can you focus for me?"
"I'll try." said Cas.
Dean smiled encouragingly. "Good. Are you doing okay?"
Apart from having the Empty hanging over him and being separated from the woman he loved and having to keep Sam, Dean and Sarah at a distance, he was. "I think so." he said. He looked at Dean hopefully, wanting one of them to believe it, but Dean's eyes were full of concern.
"Tell me how to help." he said, "No secrets, no interrogation. Just tell me what I can do."
"I'm okay." said Cas, trying to sound like he meant it.
Dean turned his head to look off to the side. Even when he was turned away, Cas knew what he was feeling. He knew that set of his shoulders and the tension in his neck. He knew that Dean was wounded by his inability to be honest and he hated the fact that he could never tell Dean the truth.
Cas stood up and walked a few feet away.
Dean's head whipped around. "Where are you going?" he said.
"Nowhere. My hip was getting stiff." he said.
"Which never normally happens to you." said Dean.
"I know, my fault for losing my grace."
"I just mean it's weird and new for you." said Dean, "I was trying to be sympathetic. Thought I'd give it a try, instead of yelling at you. I don't seem to be very good at it."
"Never mind." said Cas, "At least you've got your looks."
Dean smiled. "So you do listen, sometimes." He stood. "I think we should go in and get some food. I'll bet Jules is hungry and you might be too."
"I think I am a little." said Cas.
"See? I found a way to help." said Dean, blinking rapidly.
"You always do." said Cas.