Castiel is flying. He is faster than light, than sound. He is the wind. He skirts along the equator, his wings skim the tips of waves on the Pacific; he sees the sun rise over the ruins of Machu Pichu. Castiel is everywhere and nowhere at once.

Time is meaningless.

He sits invisible by the fire of a Bedouin tribesman, stands motionless in the fields of Patagonia, dances alongside the Northern lights in the frozen Siberian Tundra. He watches a small boy in Montana take his first steps, lies beside the cats sunning themselves on the ruins of ancient Rome, mediates, unseen, beside monks in a Buddhist temple; imbibing their serenity.

Castiel is free. He is himself. He is made of grace and fury, ice and lightning, he is sunlight and hurricanes, frost and fire. He is limitless, beyond. He flies and he feels peace. He cannot remember when last he experienced such calm, such joy.

He is in Greece, perched on rocky outcroppings, overlooking the sea, when he hears the scream. Piercing, sharp, it chills him to the very heart of his grace, and he knows he is needed. He leaps, sudden and swift, towards the sound, and yet he is weighed down. Desperation creeps in, he has to move faster, but he is dragged back, held, struggling.

No. No. The voice he recognizes as Dean's calls his name. Castiel must go to him, but he can't. It should not be so. He will find Dean, has to. Castiel feels panic. He has never felt panic before, Dean needs him, but…something is wrong with his wings. He realizes this abruptly and turns to look over his shoulder. They are burning, on fire, crumbling to ash, and suddenly Castiel can feel them burning. It is agony beyond anything he knows; his screams merge with Dean's, and Castiel knows that he won't reach the hunter in time, and then, he falls…

He wakes with a startled gasp in the backseat of the Impala.

"You okay back there?" A gruff voice issues from the driver's seat.

Dean is all right, he's staring at Cas in the rearview mirror. A quick glance to his right confirms that Sam is also safe, leaning against the window and dozing. Castiel exhales slowly, or tries to, his respiration has accelerated; he is sweating, and he assumes that his shaking limbs are caused by adrenaline. It's strange to observe the hormone's effects from this perspective.

"Cas?" Dean prompts.

Castiel winces and levers himself slowly into a seated position. Trying to feel more…grounded. He is, of course, grounded in every sense of the term.

"I am…" there are not really words in any of the languages Castiel knows to describe how or what or who he is. He is a fallen angel, a newly created human, he is injured, and confused, he is in pain on every level imaginable. He recognizes what Dean wants to hear, but Castiel is anything but fine. From what he knows of the hunter, more than a falsehood, he would appreciate the truth. This lesson is one that Castiel has learned over a long and complicated acquaintance that grows steadily more confusing and complex by the hour. So he settles on "uncomfortable."

Dean nods, his mouth a hard line, "That's probably an understatement."

Castiel blinks, that statement is an understatement. Dean is grappling to understand what Castiel is, as Sam says, 'going through,' but it is difficult for even the former angel to comprehend or 'come to terms' with it. He doesn't respond. He moves slightly, wincing as he does so, trying to make the pillow that the Winchesters' stole from their last motel accommodate his form in a way that will not lead to more physical agony. So far, Castiel has not had much luck in this pursuit. He shifts back, grimacing. Even that light touch hurts, but he dislikes lying on his stomach, it makes him feel…vulnerable—another new sensation.

Dean watches him quietly. He watches Castiel more than he used to, or, perhaps, Castiel simply notices it more.

"Another nightmare?" he queries, green eyes intent, concerned.

Castiel glances out the window, watches the scenery fly past; it seems so quick and, yet, so slow. As an angel, Castiel felt their movement as the most infinitesimal progress in a heap of metal, breakable, flimsy, agonizingly slow, and extremely confining. As a human, Castiel is not accustomed to the speed; he finds it disconcerting. Reconciling the two perceptions is confusing.

"Yes," he affirms. Angels do not dream. They do not sleep. When Castiel had been cut off from the host in the End of Days, he had slept, but he had not dreamt, there was still enough of his celestiality to prevent that. Nightmares are new to Castiel, and they catch him whenever he closes his eyes. They are…unpleasant. Castiel does not find sleep as restful as it was undoubtedly meant to be. He hates it exorbitantly, yet it is necessary, much like breathing, blinking, eating, drinking, urinating…Castiel is struggling with these new necessary physical processes, which he alternatively views as fascinating and frustrating. He understands that they are beautiful markers of his father's creation, but they are so limiting…Sleep is, thus far, his least favorite pastime. He does not like to dream. It hurts.

Dean taps his fingers on the wheel. Castiel stares at the movement. It is mesmerizing. Castiel's senses are different, they are new. Angels do not see or hear the way that humans do. When Castiel had been using a vessel, he had still experienced the world primarily as a celestial being, with a thin veneer of humanity encasing him. When he had looked at Dean before, he could see him as Jimmy did, with human eyes, but more than that. He could see the resonance of Dean's soul, flashes of emotion, of thought and feeling, he could see Dean's essence, the strength, the purity, the flickers of grace from when Castiel and raised him, touched him, he could see all of those things beneath and behind the physical casing, and it was beautiful, wondrous, now…Castiel can no longer see as he once did. He feels blind. He cannot perceive Dean's soul with his grace, because his grace, what had made him Castiel, that is gone. He cannot reach out and brush against Dean soul as he once did; it makes him feel isolated.

"You, uh," Dean interrupts his musings, "you wanna talk about it?"

Castiel is aware that this offer is one that takes effort. Dean does not like to discuss things of an emotional nature, excepting in extreme circumstances. Even so, Castiel is not sure that he wants to divulge the nature of his dreams. There is a common pattern, though repetition, rather than desensitizing him, only makes it worse, and he is not ready to share. He glances to Sam sleeping, somewhat peacefully, and feels a flare of jealousy and nerves. He does not want to talk about his dreams in front of Sam either. He thinks this sensation might be self-consciousness; it is unfamiliar, and, like many other feelings, distasteful.

"No," he replies finally. Dean nods, his jaw is clenched, and Castiel wishes that he could see Dean as he used to, knows that he never will again, and feels a constriction in his chest. He wonders if he might be having a heart attack, but reasons not since there are no other symptoms. Strange that he should even contemplate that possibility, but he has a beating heart now, and it is required to maintain his vitality.

"Don't blame you," Dean affirms. His eyes are spending significantly more time focused on the reflection of Castiel in the mirror than the road. Castiel does not know much about driving as such, but he is relatively certain that this is not the safest way to maintain their course. The intensity of Dean's stare makes Castiel want to squirm slightly, but that only results in pain, so he glances down and away from him instead. When he looks back up, Dean is still gazing at him. Castiel looks back and feels heat rising up his neck. His skin prickles, tingles, completely unrelated to his injuries; it's all extremely odd.

"I have my fair share of nightmares—," Dean continues. Castiel knows that, has intercepted and interrupted and soothed them when he was still capable of entering Dean's dreams to offer comfort. He has seen Dean's nightmares, and they are similar to his own. He wishes that he had the power to save them both. He can see the pain reflected Dean's eyes. He no longer has that gift, and he wonders briefly what use he could possibly be to Dean now.

The hunter finally looks back at the road, and Castiel realizes only when their gaze is broken that he had been holding his breath. Dean's hands clutch the wheel tightly and then unclench, smooth and gentle. Castiel wonders if his cardiorespiratory system is somehow defective because the rapid speeding and slowing and stopping of his lungs and heart cannot possibly normal. He will have to ask Sam about this later; Sam being more knowledgeable of these things, and probably less likely to worry than Dean will.

"—they don't really go away," Castiel does not find that reassuring, but he had not been so foolish to expect that they would; he accepts this as an inevitable part of his punishment, "but, if you change your mind and want to talk about 'em, my door's always open." He raises his brows at Castiel, who recognizes the sincerity of the offer.

"Which door?" he asks.

Dean cracks a smile, and Castiel doesn't get it, but it makes him feel good—Dean's smile, "It's an expression man."

"Oh." Cas tries smiling back, he's unsure if he's doing it right, but Dean's whole posture relaxes in response to it, and Castiel thinks perhaps he's not completely useless if he can still ease Dean on some level, even if he is the cause of the initial distress.

Dean turns up the radio, and Castiel struggles (in vain) to get comfortable. They are driving to New York because Chuck had sent them an email, and, in the wake of Castiel's news from heaven and new human condition, they had had no real other lead, option, or explanation. Travelling and moving, that is what the Winchesters know best. Hitting the road in the Impala was a comfort for Dean especially in the wake of so many life-changing, universe-shaking 'bombshells.' Sam had been willing to go along with it. Castiel honestly had no opinion; he just wanted to go where they went. Bobby had endorsed the venture over the phone (after a long period of profanity and confusion in response to Castiel's condition and news from heaven).

Their progress along the East Coast is slower than it would usually be. This is because of Castiel and everyone knows it. They need to stop and get him moving, change his bandages, make sure he's all right. They're acting like they don't mind much, but Castiel has a harder time reading them with senses he's only half sure how to use. The Winchester brothers' words and body language had always been accompanied by spiritual expression, now they are not. Castiel is struggling to learn this way of seeing and hearing, when he feels more than half deaf and blind.

Castiel was given the backseat because it had the most space for him to spread out. "You'll be more comfortable," Sam had assured him, but Castiel has rarely been comfortable since he fell. Touch is the most confusing sensation of all. Angels are light and energy, for them, touching is metaphysical, spiritual, it is a brushing of grace the interpretation of celestial resonance. Physical sensation of touch is extremely different. It is alien. It is more confusing than anything else (except perhaps the internal grappling of his new soul's emotions, which make Castiel understand, to some degree, why Sam had resisted the reinsertion of his own soul; it is unbelievably erratic and overwhelming).

It hurts, being touched, or perhaps it is because he has never experienced it before. It burns and itches, it is sharp and shocking. All touch is uncomfortable and jarring. His skin is sensitive. He cannot interpret half of what it tries to tell him. God was merciful enough to leave Castiel with enough grace that he could heal more quickly than normal; he was merciful enough to drop Castiel near the Winchesters; not that Castiel mentions these things to Dean, who seems inclined to want to murder Castiel's father. Castiel is not surprised by this, he's not offended, he's almost pleased? But he knows that course of action would end horrifically and therefore does not do anything to kindle those feelings in Dean.

The raw skin on Castiel's back and arms hurts, it aches, it's tight and itchy (which is apparently a sign of healing, but difficult to tolerate). The bandages chafe, but at least they protect his skin from coming into direct contact with anything. He is wearing one of Sam's flannel shirts, because it is large enough that Castiel and all of his layers of gauze and salve and tape could fit comfortably inside without any added pressure or constriction. He's wearing a borrowed pair of Dean's jeans, the least damaged ones, with a belt to keep them from sliding down Castiel's slender hips, and a pair of boxers that Dean said he could keep (something about sharing underwear is apparently unsanitary or taboo or both). He's wearing socks and a spare pair of boots. The collar of his shirt catches at his neck. The boots feel heavy and awkward; the jeans rough and abrasive. The pillow against which he leans adds pressure to his back and it aches, hitting bumps in the road jolt and send reverberations of shock through his body. Castiel laments that he shall never grow accustomed to his humanity and that is part of his punishment, a slow descent into madness, encouraged by sensations that he cannot tolerate, interpret or manage. But he catches Dean looking at him again, feels that odd constriction in his chest, and realizes suddenly that the Winchesters won't let that happen. He's grateful.

Dean puts in a cassette when the station they had been listening to goes to commercial; Castiel is soothed by the rhythm of the music. He is used to hearing the Host, the deafening silence that has been left in the wake of his fall longs to be filled. Sam wakes shortly thereafter.

"Mornin', sunshine," Dean greets.

"Asshat," Sam retorts, and Dean smiles proudly. Castiel understands that the boys are speaking a vernacular of English that belongs solely to them.

"Delaware?"

"Maryland."

"Nice," Sam yawns, turning in his seat to look at Castiel.

"How are you feeling?" Sam's kindness and concern are apparent and obvious. He's much easier to read than his brother. It astounds Castiel more every day that someone with such a generous spirit could be the handpicked vessel of Lucifer.

Castiel is running out of words to describe his situation, "Disoriented."

Sam frowns, "Are you dizzy? Do you feel sick?"

Castiel tilts his head, "No."

Sam seems to get that Castiel is referring to a state of being, rather than a strictly physical condition. Perhaps he can relate from the period of time immediately following his re-ensoulment.

"Maybe we should stop soon?" Sam directs this to Dean.

"You hungry, Cas?" Dean asks.

Castiel considers this question, "I think…maybe?"

Sam smiles encouragingly, and Dean nods, "Good enough for me."

Castiel's first meal had been waffles. They had been…good, he supposes. He didn't really have a basis for comparison. Sam had decided that bland was the best route to take when introducing Castiel's new body to food. He had also forced Castiel to take several multi-vitamin supplements. Dean had rolled his eyes and muttered something about Sam trying to convert Castiel; Sam had replied that he was just making sure that Castiel had the proper nutrients, "he doesn't need to get scurvy on top of everything else; and I'm not going to let someone whose idea of a well-balanced diet is pie and cheeseburgers determine his eating patterns." Dean had muttered that "pies have fruit." Castiel had been too tired to really participate, but he had slowly and mechanically chewed and swallowed what he had been given and everyone seemed relieved when his stomach didn't reject any of it. Castiel felt satiated after eating, and realized some of his previous uneasiness had been due to hunger. He contemplated that bemusedly, and was exceedingly grateful that he had not, as Dean had feared, 'blown chunks,' as that sounded very unpleasant.

Tonight, they find a motel. Pick up some food on the way. Get settled, eat. Castiel decides that waffles are better than cereal, but he very much likes pineapple. It tastes sweet and sharp. His face must show his astonishment, because Dean smiles and laughs. Sam grins too.

He offers them some, and Dean accepts a piece, popping it in his mouth with a wink. Sam seems surprised to see Dean eating fruit without a pastry casing, and tells Castiel that he should enjoy the rest of it on his own.

Castiel muses that such a rough exterior should contain such bright sweetness. He looks at Dean when he says it, and the hunter's cheeks take on a red hue. Blushing, Dean is blushing. Castiel turns to Sam confused, but Sam just turns a laugh into a cough and smiles somewhat knowingly at Castiel. Castiel thinks he's missing something, but he feels like that most of the time lately, so he lets it pass.

Dean goes to call Bobby from the corridor, and Sam helps Castiel with his bandages, and directs the former angel to the bathroom to shower. Castiel washes himself, slowly and meticulously, unsure if he likes or dislikes the sensation of the hot water and steam on his naked skin. He marvels at his muscles and his flesh and the sensation of touch, wonders if he will ever become accustomed to it. Castiel scrubs every inch of his body, slowly and carefully. He gets shampoo in his eyes, which burns fiercely and leaves him sputtering. When he dries himself (again meticulously) always mindful of the new skin of his back and arms, he puts on the sweatpants that Sam had lent him. They are far too long, but they are loose and therefore more tolerable than any other clothing he's worn.

Dean is waiting for him when he exits the bathroom.

"Hey," he says, eyes roving over Castiel's bare torso before looking away. Castiel cocks his head in puzzlement.

"Where is Sam?"

"Supply run," Dean is looking at Castiel again, and Castiel feels hot suddenly, though his skin is chilled, "Feelin' better?"

"I feel clean."

Dean rolls his eyes, "Close enough. All right, let's take a look."

Castiel walks over and sits next to Dean on the bed next. Dean bites his bottom lip and makes a spinning motion with his hand. Castiel turns so that his back is presented to the hunter. He ducks his head slightly.

"It's healin' nice, Cas," Dean assures him, his voice is low and gentle. Castiel knows that it will never really heal. He knows that his back is by no means what humans or angels would consider 'beautiful,' he is disfigured body and soul.

"I'm gonna touch you now," Dean almost whispers, voice low and gruff; he knows that Castiel is unsure and broken, and he is tender with him, like Castiel is precious. It is very confusing for him. "Okay?"

Castiel feels the tightness in his chest again. He really should see a physician if this continues. "All right."

Dean takes the medicated lotion into his calloused hands and gently begins to rub it into the scars of Castiel's back. Castiel feels Dean's touch all throughout his body and it makes him twitch. He wants to flee from it because it burns, but he also wants to lean into the fire. He experiences something akin to what he imagines is the 'fight or flight' response, though the situation is not dangerous and does not merit such a reaction. He reacts somewhere in between the two extremes and convulses sharply and then relaxes when Dean's hands continue to move in smooth, methodic circles across his exposed skin. Dean pauses whenever Castiel flinches and makes sure that he's all right. Castiel is far from all right but doesn't know what's wrong and so he tells Dean to continue, and Dean complies.

Dean is always the one to do this. Castiel imagines that with Sam this experience would be significantly different. When his back has been given a firm coating of lotion, and Dean has kneaded his muscles enough to ease the stiffness and aches, he gently applies gauze and tapes it into place.

"All right, turn around," Castiel obeys moving to face Dean and settling into a cross-legged position on the bed, "Ready?"

Castiel nods, and Dean begins his ministrations on Castiel's arms. He starts at the crook of Castiel's elbow and works his way slowly down his forearm. The outside of Castiel's arms are more badly scarred than his back, and there is no grace left so they are healing at a more natural pace. The insides of his arms though, are unmarked and smooth. The ointment stings in the wounds, and Castiel winces though he tries to hold still. Deans thumb brushes against the pulse-point of Castiel's wrist, where the skin is smooth, unblemished, and sensitive, and Castiel feels a jolt, a stuttering of his heart, a flutter and warmth in his abdomen, and he knows that it's Dean that is causing that; it feels odd, but good. Castiel wants to feel it again.

Dean is pointedly not looking at Castiel's face, while he continues to soothe his injuries. The absence of his gaze is strange after so much intense staring. The air feels thick. Castiel does not understand what is happening.

Dean softly takes Castiel's hand into his, rubbing lotion into the wounds on his knuckles and ghosting his fingers along his palm. Castiel feels the strangest desire to hold onto Dean's hand—warm and slicked with ointment, trained to kill and yet moving so gently so carefully—and keep it there. He resists that compulsion.

Dean does the other arm and hand, and Castiel has trouble holding still. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Dean wraps his arms in bandages, gauze, and tape, and helps Castiel into one of Sam's flannel shirts. Castiel struggles with the buttons, difficult to manage with his gauze wrapped fingers.

"Let me," Dean's voice is several octaves lower than usual. Castiel shivers when Dean starts to do them up, one at a time, "You cold?" He frowns. Castiel is if anything, much warmer than he has any right to be, he feels like his face is burning.

"No." Dean glances up at Castiel's expression, and smiles softly, mouth tilting up at the corners, soft, sweet, full. Castiel feels it again, constriction, heat, a flutter of his heart. Fight or flight.

Sam comes back in, and Dean clears his throat, shakes his head, and continues with the buttoning more swiftly. Castiel feels a rush of disappointment and anger, which makes no sense, directed at Sam, who has done nothing but bring home more medical supplies and food for the road.

Sam takes one bed, and Dean says that he'll crash in a chair, but Castiel does not want that and he pleadingly looks at Dean.

Dean rolls his eyes, glares at Sam, "He gets that from you."

Sam smiles smugly. He crashes hard into his bed, face pressed into his pillow. Castiel lies on his side of the bed, and Dean lays beside him. Castiel feels better for the proximity.

"Thank you, Dean," he whispers in the dark.

Dean looks at him and his face is inscrutable, masked in shadow, but Castiel feels like he can see him like he used to, soul shining through the green of his eyes, the gentleness of his touch, "No big deal, Cas."

They both know what a big deal it is.

"Try to get some sleep," Dean says. He hesitates for a moment and then reaches out and lays his hand gently on Cas' cheek. It feels like a benediction. Castiel reaches to touch the back of Dean's hand, but the hunter moves back before he can. "I'll be here if you have a bad dream, okay?"

They both know that Castiel will; and Castiel knows that Dean will be there for him when it does.

AN:

Welcome to the first chapter that I have ever written from Cas' POV. I pray to god that I did not fuck it up too badly, because I love Cas and I would not want to put his perspective to shame. Fun fact: the whole 'Dean bandaging Cas up' scene, was not supposed to be that detailed, but the boys apparently had other plans: Team Free Will, and all that jazz.

Thank you so much for reading and reviewing and following this story. You guys are absolutely incredibly. I'd love to hear what you think of this latest installment.