Those two weeks may have sped by for Dean Winchester, but for Castiel, those weeks felt like centuries. There was so much to learn, so much to process and analyze and enact. In retrospect, the newly minted human might have overreacted, might have over-exaggerated this experience, but he could do that sort of thing now. Exaggerate, emphasize, explode. He was human, after all.
Human. The word that once brought fondness to his celestial being now brought bile to his human throat. Admiring creatures from afar was one thing, being ripped away from an existence beyond their wildest imagination and thrust into their restrictive, smelly, dirty, aptly-named "meat suits" was another thing entirely. Humans didn't want to be shoved into a statue, even if they thought it was the grandest thing they'd ever seen, so why did they assume that an angel (or anything for that matter) wanted to be purely human?
If anyone had been the most inclined to the insanity of falling, of truly experiencing humanity, it would've been Castiel, and even he loathed the experience.
There was nothing worse for an angel to be than useless. Castiel had always served a purpose, always had a mission and the means to accomplish whatever tasks were assigned to him. Now, he could offer little assistance to the hunters; he had always felt separate from humanity, their communication bizarrely complex and lifestyles bewilderingly cluttered, but he'd always thought that it was due to his species. Falling hadn't granted enlightenment; rather, it fueled his confusion.
The worst part was, he knew exactly what his brethren would say about the situation (or, at least, how they would react before they hated him).
"Our Father never inflicted anything upon His creatures that they couldn't handle," they'd say as they left him to wallow in the dung of mortality alone. Once upon a time, the former angel would've listened to them, would've accepted their decree without question and immersed himself into the mortal world.
It was a load of crap, Castiel now believed. Finally, he could truly understand Dean's strong reactions to his previous quotations of Scripture, and look at what little good it did him.
Castiel had learned, sans mortals and gods, the basics of humanity quickly after exiting Purgatory. The mechanics of existing weren't entirely lost on him, given his extensive observation of the entrancing, if not inferior, race, though the motions of mortality were easier seen than done. Despite this, his encounter with the Winchesters had, in his mind, been sweetened slightly with the knowledge that his presence wouldn't be as bothersome as it would've been had he been completely ignorant.
Even if he had been ignorant, he wouldn't have been a burden on them for long. Quite frankly, Castiel was surprised that he continued to be accepted, continued to remain stagnant.
Surprised. Frustrated. Elated. Depressed. Exhausted. Confused. Infuriated.
Why couldn't humans pick an emotion and stick with it? Why must everything be a jumble, a melting pot of various compositions?
And why was he constantly compelled to be near Dean? Castiel prided himself on not being an overly dependent being, both as an angel and a human, but he had one vice, and that was his desire to stay by Dean. It was comforting, knowing that the man, once his charge, was safe and sound. It was a weakness Castiel couldn't bring himself to expunge.
He had, however, expected the hunter to complain about "personal space," but those comments never surfaced, even if Dean was uncomfortable. The exclamations, though meager in existence, ceased completely once Castiel unwillingly stooped to humanity's level. Was his behavior suddenly rectified by his mortality?
Regardless, it made leaving a nearly impossible feat. Both Winchester brothers were strangely welcoming, despite his weakness. He was weighing them down, though, and he knew it.
The two weeks were agonizing in that Castiel spent his time in constant terror, that he would finally find it in his being to flee from perhaps the most welcoming atmosphere he'd felt in centuries, that he would finally be excommunicated from the group after one too many mistakes.
He spent his time getting used to the onslaught of not one emotion but several all at once. It was overwhelming enough, finding that humans not only felt emotions with the strength of an angel, but it was almost too much to bear when he found that their emotional capacity didn't just equal an angel's; rather, they exceeded their angelic counterparts. Human emotions seemed to have lives of their own; they erupted into blistering light or gaping darkness spontaneously, triggered by the mundane or extraordinary. Sometimes he felt merely to combat another feeling, and sometimes he felt merely to feel, to prove his empathy, though for what he never knew.
What Castiel did know was simple: if the Winchester brothers caught wind of his plight, he'd be cast away before he could blink.
Oh, to be an angel again. To be in control of his surroundings, his time with the brothers, his emotions, his strength. To be free of the nightmares that plagued him daily, his memories distorted into weapons of the night, cutting into his being with the power of an archangel blade.
Thankfully, his time with the Winchesters taught him how to conceal emotions. That was the only explanation for his continued residence, wasn't it? It had to have been; he of all people knew the levels of avoidance they took to controlling and concealing their feelings. He understood why, of course, but he knew better than to assume that they would stomach his issues.
No, when the angel fled (and flee he would), it would be under his terms, under his control. Castiel would sever ties as cleanly as possible. He'd-
"Cas," Dean interrupted, "we need to talk."
The hunter's declaration ripped Castiel from his musings and sent him into a panic. Had Dean finally figured out his weakness? Castiel should've known this would happen, should've paid more attention to his surroundings, should've donned a stronger mask. He should've known this was coming; Sam's abrupt departure was warning enough. It was as subtle as a bull in a china shop.
The former angel could only stare at the hunter and hope he remained composed throughout the whole ordeal.
"Is everything okay?"
What? Was he serious? "Why wouldn't it be? We're resting in Bobby's home, I'm human, and Sam is off hunting by himself," Castiel replied. It was just like old times.
"Cas, we're doing our best to help you."
Bitter scorn stung Castiel. Were they, really? If they were doing their best, they would've seen though his façade long ago. Confusion arose from his contempt; did Castiel want them to discover his weakness or not?
"And I appreciate it," (did I?) "but you don't have to stop hunting entirely. Coddling me will only hurt you in the long run." (Was that really what I'd call their treatment? Coddling?) "I can help you hunt, if you'd let me. I want to be a hunter, like you and Sam."
Dean paused, his reluctance a tangible presence, a third party of awkwardness, before it melted away completely. The hunter nodded, rendered mute by forces beyond Castiel's comprehension. Despite his friend's hesitation, the former angel was elated, and he allowed the emotion to surface. It was perhaps the first time he'd truly expressed himself in two weeks, and he couldn't help but mourn the moments, past and future, that had to be stifled.
He'd almost forgotten how good Dean could make him feel.
His display of emotion resulted in a smile from the hunter, whose impossibly green eyes twinkled with mirth and hope. The irritating (and certainly inaccurate) hospital soap opera was long forgotten; all Castiel could do was bask in the pathetically meager yet impossibly meaningful moment of affection. He hadn't felt this accepted, this believed in, for decades. He didn't want to let it go.
Eventually, though, the smiles dropped and eyes wandered, Castiel's toward the screen. Dean's gaze was no longer something the angel could see; it burned into him with a startling intensity, though whether it was still fixed on him or just a figment of his imagination was unknown to Castiel.
And he really didn't want to know which it was.
The evening faded softly into night with gentle orange rays beaming into the room, though neither man moved from the couch; their attention centered in a realm seemingly separate from time's relentless grip. There was no reason to remove themselves from their current situation, not when the room was blanketed in peace and the silence wasn't demanding to be filled. The television's empty babble was a gentle haze, one that mixed beautifully with the peaceful silence, lending air the unfathomable stillness of the ocean.
For that brief time, the tethers of their world were loosened completely. Hunters, angels, demons, monsters, empty childhoods; all vanished as the sun slowly descended from the cloudless skies.
Silence fell, accompanied by vulnerable entities unknown to either beings, as darkness and exhaustion lulled them into familiar defenselessness.
Running, always running, Running and falling and running and falling. Over and over again, across dimensions and time. Lost, lost, lost, but that was what always happened to creatures that rejected holiness.
Castiel shouldn't be so unfamiliar with this feeling.
He couldn't help it though; he couldn't help being bewildered by this need, this unfathomable longing.
Over and over again, he fell. Over and over again, he searched for that which eluded his mind but not his spirit, if the descent into mortality granted him such. Over and over again, he balked at the cusp of success and fell.
If only-
A deafening yell shattered Castiel's nightmare, and for a brief, panic-filled moment, he feared the sound to be his. Relief would've overwhelmed the former angel had he not immediately identified the interruption as Dean's, had he not immediately identified the cause of the interruption as a nightmare.
Before Castiel could decide whether or not to wake the hunter, Dean's eyes flashed open as he jerked awake. Dean's shudders shook the couch as he panted heavily, eyes boring into the television before them. His heavy breathing intermingled with the soft babbling of the television, creating an entirely different atmosphere, one that set Castiel on edge.
"Are you okay?"
Dean recoiled as he finally acknowledged Castiel's presence, "Jesus Christ," he cursed. "Man you have got to stop watching me sleep. It's beyond creepy now that you're human." Dean stood from the couch and stretched lazily, resolutely avoiding Castiel's annoyed stare. The former angel was well aware of the emotional defenses Dean employed during moments such as these, but he couldn't restrain his own furious defensiveness.
"My 'creepy' behavior has saved your life numerous times. Maybe instead of griping about me, you should guard yourself better," Castiel snapped. "We fell asleep on this couch, and your nightmare woke me up."
"If only your burden on us was as light as your sleeping."
There it was. Castiel knew it all along, knew it was only a matter of time before the truth got out. He only wished he'd had a little more time, but since when did anything go smoothly for him? He should've known that there was no such thing as a clean break, especially when it came to the Winchesters.
Castiel nodded once and roughly shoved past Dean as he left the living room. He needed to get away, needed to flee before anger damaged their friendship irreparably.
"And, for the record, I wasn't the only one having a nightmare."
If Dean thought that was going to bring Castiel back, the hunter was sorely mistaken. Rather than capture Castiel, the reminder merely finalized his decision to leave. His weakness was no longer a secret to the hunter, and it was highly unlikely that it would be tolerated. The angel swiftly entered his room and gathered his few belongings, shoving them roughly into a worn backpack.
"And now he's fleeing. Surprise, surprise," Dean said as he leaned against the doorframe. "Thought maybe since you were human, you'd stop doing that, but I should've known better."
Castiel regretted not packing his belongings sooner; it was foolish to keep up appearances when the situation was anything but murky.
"And I should've known that you'd go back on your word, considering you've done that plenty of times, but I trusted you anyways," Castiel replied. His hands shook as he zipped the bag.
"Well, how can I keep my word when you're always leaving?"
"Dean Winchester, you always blame everyone else for your problems. You never take responsibility for your actions. If you did, perhaps you'd understand why I'm leaving." Castiel moved toward the door, and Dean straightened, blocking the angel.
"Cut the crap, Castiel. I know you better than anyone else, and you leaving is cowardice, pure and simple."
Castiel fought against the warmth that stirred within him at the hunter's words and focused on the bitter taste of the lies he'd told. Bitterness, that's what he needed, not warmth.
"Why are you always so eager to leave?" Dean asked. "Why didn't you come to us right away after Purgatory?"
"Why do you think, Dean? I was an angel, as you love to point out. I had a purpose; I had power. Now, I have nothing. All I am to you is a burden, and I don't want to be a burden. It was foolish of me to stay this long with you." Castiel tried to move past Dean, but the hunter caught his arms in a tight grip.
"You're really not-"
"If you say 'not a burden,' I will smite you," Castiel interrupted as he fought against Dean's hold. He longed for his grace, longed for the ability to flee instantaneously, though a small part of him didn't mind his current predicament.
"You said you wanted to be a hunter; I could show you how," Dean argued.
"When, in another two weeks? Dean, I am sick of waiting, for you, for Heaven, for God. I am so sick and tired of being a burden or a pawn. You call me family, but you treat me like garbage. The only thing I am more sick of than waiting is hypocrisy, and here, I've got both."
"Yeah, well, you aren't exactly a saint either. You complain about waiting for me, but I've been waiting for you, too. I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on. I don't want you to leave, and I won't wait to help you if you stay, but you gotta meet me halfway. You can't shut me out anymore," Dean pleaded.
Castiel stared into Dean's eyes, searching for signs of deception and finding none. Briefly, he wondered if Dean saw the emotions overwhelming him. Shame. Regret. Hope. Wonder.
"I thought you were adverse to 'chick-flick moments.'"
Dean grinned. "There's an exception to every rule, Cas."
Castiel allowed his lips to stretch into a smile, his relief masking trepidation. He was thankful they'd talked, no matter how strange it felt; the sting of the insults and nightmare not entirely expunged, though they were dulled by hope.
Maybe, just maybe, he could finally stop running.