Warmth. Unbelievable warmth—I feel like I'm melting, but instead of pain I just feel this inexplicable rightness. Like I'm melting because I'm supposed to.

All I know is that I'm being held again, and not just by anyone, but by him. Somewhere away from this golden pool upon which I float, I am aware of the sobs that wrack my frame, but they don't really upset my peace. I've crawled into myself, and I can feel the broken creature buried deep inside my chest begin to turn its withered head toward the light.

I want to feel this way forever—I want to be trapped in this moment, never forced to leave the comfort of this chrysalis.

Never forced to consider the likelihood that he's holding me out of the need for control, not out of love.

However, I'm forced to pull myself together (for the third time since I got out, I might add—pathetic) when I hear someone growl behind me. I sniffle slightly and feel Castiel's muscles tense. I look up at his face—I can't believe I get to do this, get to be this close to him again, he's still so beautiful—and see that the tension is caused by confusion.

And suddenly I am ripped away from my Angel and pushed out of the way as Dean Winchester grabs hold of Castiel's coat collar and pushes him, pushes him until he has him pressed up against the wall and his voice is so gruff and low that it comes out in a growl,

"It was you? Dammit, Cas, get away from her!"

He shoved him once against the wall, then released his collar with a huff. I feel my knees grow weak and sit down on the edge of the bed. My head is spinning with what I blandly realize is a side effect of disassembling and reassembling my particles, then attempting to ride a tempest of emotion—with the hormones of an adolescent girl and a superhuman sensitivity to emotion and touch. No wonder I feel pathetic.

I find myself caught up in the motion of Castiel's mouth as he argues with Dean—no, not argues—pleads with him and I know their voices are loud but the sound seems to be muffled and to echo simultaneously as the neurons in my brain try to cope with the blood rushing to my lungs and I need to

breathe

The cloudy silver and black mottling my vision dissipate, and I stand up, teetering a bit, and walk determinedly to Castiel, grab him by the arm—Dean barely notices at first, I'm just not in his line of sight, and he's just so angry—and say flatly.

"We need to talk. We're going."

I turn to look at Dean flatly, saying,

"I'm borrowing him for a moment."

As Dean opens his mouth to protest, I shift my body until he is out of my line of sight and look up at Castiel until his blue eyes are all I see. I let time slow, but just for me, so to him a bare second seems to pass, but I can look, just look, into his crystalline eyes—still cold and angry from his encounter with his Winchester. His Winchester. I stifle the feeling of jealousy that attempts to rupture from the bubble of emotion in my stomach. I need to focus on the problem at hand and figure out if I'm staying or—the more likely option—temporarily incapacitating my Angel in order to make myself invisible and sink into oblivion.

And, eventually, move on.

Damn.

But first I want answers.

I refocus my attention on his eyes, which just beginning to grow warm from the softness of my gaze, and try to bury the fear—the fear of my own ineptitude, the fear that he was right to put me there—the fear that he'll try again.

Of course he won't succeed, but the attempt will be quite painful enough.

Without further thought, I open my mind and sink into the surroundings, letting my particles dissipate into the air and bringing Castiel's with me. It takes a bit more concentration to grab his Grace, but I've done it before, and I manage without much difficulty. My mind may think it's been 2000 years, but my body remembers this.

And I am flying. I rise up, and up, and up…

I am flying high in the sky, the sunlight is beating against my arms, my hair, my clean face. The wind caressing and stirring my skin and hair. I am the essence of spirit, I am the flowers and the birds and the grass and the air and the water. I am emotionless, I am senseless, and I am free.

And then I land.

And now I'm Kara.

Now I remember why I missed flying so much.

As soon as my feet become solid enough to touch the ground—damp grass on mud, I think we landed in Scotland—I feel Castiel pull away from me, spinning heatedly so that his back is to me, and the windows to his Essence are hidden from me. I can still hear his thoughts, should I choose, but it's not his thoughts that I want.

In fact, I think I'd rather not hear them.

I see the tension in his back and neck, and the odd urge to massage it out wells up in me. I suppress it. Suddenly my heart feels unbelievably heavy, and I dread the conversation to follow.

The words that come from his unfamiliar mouth shock me.

"Kara—" His voice breaks momentarily, and I see him swallowing some unknowable emotion, "I'm sorry."

I let out a breath I hadn't been holding and just stare, waiting for the catch.

"Kara I'm—I can't—there aren't words—I—"

He's pacing back and forth, always turned away, his hands in his hair, his breath coming fast.

"Kay—"

My breath catches at the use of my childhood pet name just as he turns to face me, his hands pulling at his hair, his face red, his clothes disheveled.

I feel my heart break as I observe the tears in his eyes, the redness around his nose and eyebrows—I want to go to him and let him wrap his arms around me, to pull his head down to the crook of my shoulder and hold him tightly and tell him that it'll all be okay, that I'm fine, that he didn't do anything wrong.

But I can't.

Because he's crying. He's crying.

He believes he's done something wrong.

He's guilty.

He never thought I did anything wrong—I didn't do anything wrong.

He cared about me, he cared about me and he put me there, he put me there and he knew that I hadn't done anything wrong. He was just following orders. Following heaven. Without even a question as to why.

And I can't forgive that.

So I don't take the oh-so-small step across the cavern between us. I don't try to bridge the gap. I don't go to him and stroke his silky hair with soft hands or kiss his tearstained face with salty lips or grip his collar with pale, shaking fingers.

I keep my face impassive and cold to hide the writhing, emaciated creature trapped behind my ribcage.

And I simply stare.

And I feel so cold.