Hey guys! Thanks to everyone's wonderful reviews-I've been inspired to pick up the story again. Can't stand to disappoint.

So-sorry for the short chapter, I'll give you guys the next on from Cas' POV as a consolation prize. ;)

Thanks, and hope you enjoy!

-TheEliot

I lean back from the two men across from me, breathing hard. I reach up to pull a strand of hair from my face, and realize that my cheeks are wet—I've started crying. I will the tears into nonexistence and dissipate the blood under my cheeks that is causing my face to become flushed. I'll get over it all much more quickly if I pretend to be unaffected.

And if I can't convince myself, the least I can do is convince the Winchesters.

Though it might be rather difficult considering the images they've just seen.

I peer up at them under a curtain of my hair and try to gauge their reactions. Sam seems more shocked than anything, and his calculating mind is spinning with the possibilities and— I realize with amusement—with the sheer academic joy of having glimpsed Greece in the first few decades of the Common Era.

Dean still seems to be attempting to recover from the shock of my—well, rather shocking—memories. His face, pale from a deep immersion in my emotions, begins to flush, and I realize with a jolt that he is becoming angry.

"Dammit, those feathery dirtbags haven't changed at all over all these years! Shoving their way into people's lives with their self righteous bullshit and their cult-y propaganda and leaving everything a screwy mess—those fucking douche bags have some serious shit to answer for. Next thing we know it'll be Cas tryna shove an angel blade down our throats again—"

He stops abruptly as a thought seems to come to him, and he—thankfully—doesn't notice me wince at Castiel's name. He has pauses in he middle of the room, and is craning his neck slightly, as though listening and looking simultaneously—

Oh no.

I thought I'd have more time.

The sinking feeling in my chest is making it hard for me to breathe clearly as I hear Dean whisper into the ether "Cas, buddy, you gotta come down here. It's hard to explain, but—it has to do with angels, I think. It's important. Just come."

Before I can prepare myself, before I can even force my mind to stop working at the sluggish speed of humanity, he has materialized just behind Dean. I shrink into the shadows, hiding my Essence and hoping to remain unnoticed for at least a few blessed seconds. I take this opportunity to study him, switching mental gears to allow my mind to move at its own pace.

The world slows down.

His new vessel is thinner and shorter than his last, the one I knew. I take in the tan coat, the slightly hunched shoulders of a scholar, the dark hair, the pale skin. Full lips. His movements are awkward, scattered and confused—the way I remember him from my childhood. Angels may be renowned as graceful, but that certainly doesn't come from the way they handle their Vessels. He's lost everything he learned from the beauty of the humanistic Hellenistic Era. It's really quite sad. I would wager to bet that he's quite forgotten how to dance.

I see him stiffen as he listens to Dean's hurried account, see his body pivot and his muscles tense. So he does remember me. I may have been a career move for him, but at least I impacted his life. Ugh. I'm pathetic.

His body finishes it's turn and he is facing me, he is looking at me and I see his eyes.

I am trapped.

I am swallowed by the vastness of those eyes, blue now, not the shining silver I know, but deeper, older. It isn't the color that captivates me—it never was. It's the light. His eyes are molten light—no longer moonlight, though. Now they are a summer sky. And I—I am still mesmerized.

I step into the light of the rising moon and watch him trying to recalibrate his system. His breath is coming fast now, and the emotion I expected—hostility, irritation—isn't there.

The only emotion shining from his eyes is fear.

What did I do to deserve this?

What kind of abomination inspired that kind of fear?

Dean can help me with this. He'll attack me if I'm evil—I don't have to worry about my own label anymore.

I continue staring into Castiel's eyes, waiting for some sign, some falter, some glimpse of warmth.

I am denied.

There is only loathing. Only terror.