PART 1

CHAPTER 1

Two weeks later…

Castiel tilted his head back, squinting up at the sky and trying not to let himself become distracted by the changes that the clouds underwent as the wind blew through them. Over the past week, Castiel had found himself continually becoming lost in thought, staring at various aspects of nature. Now, though, he needed to focus.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, and frowned.

"Hey," a voice snapped from beside him, and a second later, Castiel felt someone shake his shoulder. He blinked and turned to the man standing next to him. "You still in there?" the man asked.

Castiel frowned again, his forehead furrowing in confusion. "Yes," he finally said after a moment. "I am here. There is nowhere else for me to go." He wasn't quite sure why the man didn't know that – it seemed quite obvious to Castiel that he was not able to leave his body – but nonetheless, he had no problem with answering.

The man gave Castiel an odd look, as though there was something wrong with his answer, though Castiel didn't bother to question what the problem had been. Over the past week, he had grown accustomed to receiving odd looks. He decided that simply putting up with other people's judgment and confusion was easier than trying to figure out what he had done wrong.

The man just lifted his stake and tapped the end of it against Castiel's. "Then your break is over," he snapped. "We all gotta do our part."

Castiel nodded, and quickly stabbed a piece of trash beside his foot, then lifted his stake to push the trash into the plastic bag that he was carrying for this purpose. "I'm sorry," Castiel said sincerely. "You are right." He had been living for the past few days at a men's shelter provided by a church. In exchange for the food and shelter that they were given, the men were asked to provide various types of labor for the church. Today, they were picking up trash that had scattered across the grounds during the parish picnic that had been held the previous afternoon. As Castiel has been staying at the shelter for the past seven days, and had no plans to leave in the immediate future, it wouldn't be right for him to do less than his fair share of the work.

The man had already turned away, spearing his own pieces of garbage, but Castiel still felt compelled to offer an explanation, to make sure that the man knew that he had not meant to shirk his responsibilities.

"It was the angels," Castiel said, once again turning his face skyward. He wasn't entirely sure why he did that – he could hear the angels' voices no matter how he stood or where he looked. But for some reason, looking towards the sky made him feel more connected to them, somehow. Perhaps it was because people always pointed toward the sky when they spoke of Heaven, or perhaps it was for some other reason that he didn't know, but whatever the cause, Castiel often found his eyes pointing upward of their own accord.

"They're being particularly talkative today," Castiel added, then quickly clarified, "Well, they are often talkative, but particularly today. Their voices are fainter today than most days, though. I can barely make out what they're saying. It makes it very difficult to concentrate."

It wasn't as though Castiel could hear every word that the angels said. On his best days, he might hear a phrase or two, maybe even a paragraph of speech if he was lucky. Mostly, he was only able to make out a word here or there. Even so, he was generally able to make out the basic topic of their conversation. Today, though, it was eluding him completely.

The man once again had an odd look on his face, and more pronounced than before. "Whatever," he muttered, and quickly walked away.

It wasn't exactly an unexpected response. He had learned that most people became uncomfortable when he mentioned the angels, though he had yet to figure out why. He had had plenty of chances to observe this reaction, as he had made a point of mentioning the angels whenever possible. After all, it was clear that the angels were preparing for something important. The people deserved to know, so that they could prepare however they could.

He was swiftly learning that most people didn't want the information that he could provide, though.

Castiel returned to work, spearing bits of trash as quickly as he could to make up for the time that he had been staring at the sky. But he still kept one ear tilted upward, as if that would somehow make it easier for him to understand the distant voices.

"Castiel," a voice said from behind him, and this one was entirely human, with none of the otherworldly quality that the angels possessed.

Castiel turned, and saw Father Garcia standing there, his hands clasped in front of him and a pleasant smile on his face. Castiel recognized him instantly, of course – he was the priest who did the most work with the shelter – though he had not expected the priest to know his name.

"Yes," Castiel said after a moment, confirming that Father had indeed gotten his name right. "Is there anything that I can help you with?"

"Actually, I was hoping that I could talk to you in my office," Father said. He stepped back, toward the main building, and gestured for Castiel to follow.

Castiel glanced around at the amount of garbage that still needed to be collected, and frowned, the man's words ringing through his ears. It seemed wrong for him to leave when there was still so much to be done, but he also did not wish to disobey Father Garcia's wishes. After a moment, he nodded and followed, pausing only long enough to throw his plastic bag into the large dumpster, and to lean his stake against the side of the building.

Father led him into a small room over to the side of the building. It was modestly furnished, with only a few chairs, a single bookshelf, and a rickety desk that was scratched and nicked almost beyond use. On top of the desk sat a computer, though Castiel didn't know enough about electronics to say whether it was a newer model or not. Based on the other ancient furniture in the room, though, he assumed not.

Father carefully settled himself into the chair behind the desk, and gestured for Castiel to sit as well. Castiel lowered himself to perch on the edge of the chair across from Father and watched the man somewhat warily, waiting to learn why he had been brought here.

Father leaned forward, resting his arms so that they were flat along the top of the desk, his hands folded together. "You've been here for a week now," he began, studying Castiel from behind his rounded spectacles.

"Yes," Castiel said slowly, and inclined his head once. "If I have overstayed my welcome, then I will leave immediately," he added, and ignored the nervous feeling that rose up to accompany his words. He did not have the slightest idea where he could go, except to return to living on the streets, as he had for his first couple of nights last week. He would go, though, if he was no longer welcome here.

But the priest was already shaking his head. "No, no, that's not what I was saying at all," he hurried to say, leaning ever further across his desk. His eyes were imploring, like he wanted to make sure that Castiel knew that he was earnest. "I was just thinking that we haven't had the chance to talk yet."

Castiel relaxed somewhat. "Thank you," he said fervently. Sleeping on the street had not been a pleasant experience, and he was in no hurry to relive it.

Now that he was certain that he would not be cast onto the streets, his nervous energy was replaced with curiosity, and he asked, "Why did you wish to speak to me?"

"I've heard a bit about you from a few of the other men," Father said. "I thought that I should ask you how you ended up in this shelter, so that you can tell me in your own words. It sounds like an interesting story."

Castiel frowned at the word "interesting". In the past days, he had learned that most people used it when they were not truly interested at all. In fact, most people used it as a way to extricate themselves from an unpleasant conversation, as if expressing interest once gave them an excuse to walk away before they could hear anything more. Father Garcia, however, was watching Castiel's face closely, and looked as though he had meant his words.

"I woke two week ago in a strange room," Castiel began slowly, thinking his words out, trying to figure out the best way to phrase his story. "I did not know where I was, so I left the building. I did not have a place to go, so I lived on the street. After roughly a week, a man told me that I should come here, so I have been living here ever since."

"And you have no memories from before two week ago?" Father asked. His voice was calm, as if he were simply inquiring about the weather, or some other trivial topic. "None whatsoever?"

Castiel did not think that someone could know that simply from the things that he had just said, meaning that someone else must have already told Father this. Castiel did not mind, though. It was not as though it was a secret. "Yes," he said slowly, unsure of why he was nervous to confess this. Yes, he knew that it was an unusual situation, and most people had not reacted favorably when he told them. Still, though, it wasn't as though this was his fault. Even so, he couldn't stop himself from awkwardly rubbing his hands together in a nervous gesture, his thumb and forefinger circling the spot on his left hand where, until recently, he had worn a ring. "I don't remember anything."

He must have had a life before last week, but it was almost impossible to imagine. It felt as though he had simply sprung into being seven days ago, as though he had never lived before that day.

Father nodded. "And?" he asked. "I've heard that there was more."

Castiel nodded. "I can hear the angels," he said carefully, watching Father's face closely for any signs of the distress that usually appeared on peoples' faces when he told them this.

Father, however, simply nodded again. "And what do the angels say?"

Castiel hesitated, utterly caught off guard by this question. In the past week, not a single person had asked him this – he usually had to try to make them listen, and was usually unsuccessful. Now that someone actually wanted to know, he wasn't entirely sure how to answer. "Bad things," he finally said.

Father Garcia smiled encouragingly. "Could you elaborate on that a bit?"

Castiel nodded, and tried to find the right words. "They speak often about a man named Castiel."

Father tilted his head, looking curious. "And what do they say about you?"

Castiel chewed his bottom lip for a moment, then admitted, "I'm not sure that they're speaking of me, exactly. In fact, I'm reasonably sure that they are not. I can't make out the details of who this Castiel is and what he has done, but I get the impression that he is also an angel, meaning that I couldn't be the one that they speak of." He paused for a moment, then added, "I hope that they are not speaking about me." For one, it would be a frightening thing to be the subject of an angel's focus. But more than that, he could tell from the way that the angels spoke that they intended harm for this Castiel they spoke of – or possibly they had harmed this Castiel already, it was hard to tell. Either way, he did not wish to be the one being spoken of.

"So you were named after this angel, then?" Father asked. "The one that they're speaking about?"

Castiel considered that, and finally said, "In a manner of speaking, yes." Father gave him a questioning look, so Castiel elaborated, "I heard the angels speak the name Castiel, and liked the sound of it. I'm not sure what drew me to this name over the other names that they spoke, but it seemed like a good thing to call myself. It… fits me better than the name that they tell me is mine."

Father Garcia looked hard at Castiel, his eyes almost squinting from the force of his stare. "And what name was that?"

Castiel thought of saying it aloud, but instead, he drew the wallet from his pocket and removed the license from the center compartment, then slid it across the desk so that Father Garcia could see the name JAMES ROBERT NOVAK printed on it. The wallet had already been in his pocket when he had woken, which was lucky, because otherwise he never would have remembered to bring it. It had taken him almost two days to realize that he even had it, and that it contained quite a bit of money. He had used some of the money, but there was still quite a bit left, since there had been an emergency stash hidden in one of the billfolds, which he hadn't found until after he was already staying at the shelter. It made him feel better to know that he had it. One of the other men who stayed here had ever explained the purpose of the credit card in one of the billfolds.

Father Garcia studied the card for a moment, then passed it back to Castiel. "Are you sure that this isn't your name?" he asked. "Because the picture certainly looks like you."

Castiel looked down at the license for a moment before returning it to the wallet, and had to nod in agreement. "I'm sure that this must be my identification," he acknowledged. There was no denying that, not with the striking resemblance between himself and the man in the photo, and the fact that he had been carrying it. "It could be an alias, though," he added after a moment. He wasn't sure why he would have a fake ID with him, but then, there was quite a bit that he didn't know. What he did know for certain was that that was most definitely not his name.

He wasn't particularly concerned with it, though. There were several other things that he needed to focus on instead, such as learning more about what the angels were saying, and trying to figure out why they kept repeating certain names again and again.

Father Garcia was still watching him, but now his face looked sadder than it had before. Castiel couldn't quite tell if it was a new emotion, or if Father had felt sad this whole time and was only now showing it. Either way, there was something else mixed with the sadness, something that Castiel thought looked almost like concern.

"Castiel," Father began after a moment, with the tone of one who was about to impart important knowledge. "You know that…" His voice trailed off, and he looked as though he was searching for the correct words. Finally he settled on, "I have faith that there are angels are watching over us."

Castiel interrupted quickly, to dispel that assumption. "I don't think that the angels are watching over us. Or, not humanity in general, at least," he clarified. "There are two humans that they mention repeatedly, and seem to be keeping a close eye on them." He paused for a moment, thinking over the things that the angels had said, and added, "I don't think that I would want to be either of those men. Being the focus of and angels' attention seems more dangerous than anything else."

"Castiel," Father said again. He took a deep breath. "I believe that angels exist, whether they are watching over us or not. But I also know that humans can't speak with them."

"Well, technically I don't speak with them," Castiel said. "They speak, and I listen."

Father did not say anything to that, and Castiel frowned. The questions had led him to think that Father trusted him, in a way that nobody else had. Now, though, he realized that Father's interest had sprung from a wildly-different source.

"You think that I'm crazy," Castiel said. He did not bother to make it a question.

"Not crazy," Father said at once. "But sometimes, people have problems that need to be worked out, mentally speaking."

Castiel did not respond. He didn't see what the difference was. Either way, it was clear that nobody believed him.

Father scooted his chair closer to the desk, leaned closer to Castiel. "We can try to get you help," he said, his voice low and earnest. "You're welcome to stay here for as long as you need, until you recover your memories. And in the meantime, we can try to find out where you've come from." He gestured toward the computer. "Why don't we begin by looking up the name James Novak, to see if that offers us any leads. We might even be able to find your family."

Castiel looked down at his hands, not meeting Father's gaze. If he looked closely, he could just barely make out a pale line across his fourth finger. He had given the ring to a woman he'd met on his second night on the street. She had been the one to tell him that it could be of value, and to suggest that he sell it to earn money. Considering that it had been her idea, it only seemed fair that she should be the one to profit. And she had had a teenage daughter that she was trying to care for, both of them living on the streets. Castiel had only had himself. He had not needed the money quite so badly.

The woman had told him that the ring signified that he was married, or had been at some point. But that was ridiculous. The moment that she'd said it, he'd known that it couldn't be true, just as he knew that his name couldn't possibly be James. It was as though the knowledge was a part of him, sunk deep enough that even his lack of memories couldn't dispel it.

Maybe he had siblings, though. He couldn't remember who they were, or even if he truly did have any, but he felt as though he did. So he could look for them, he supposed. But he didn't think that he would be able to find them.

Instead of saying that, though, Castiel asked, "How do you plan on doing that?" His curiosity had won out against his desire to keep the facts straight, especially considering that the facts were going to be quite bent no matter what Castiel did, considering that Father didn't believe that Castiel was telling the truth.

Nobody believed what he said. It was almost enough to make Castiel wonder if he could be hallucinating, after all.

But no, the angelic voices were as real as that of Father Garcia. Castiel was certain of it.

Reasonably certain, at least.

"We can look you up online," Father said, with another gesture to the computer, which didn't do much to clear up the matter as far as Castiel was concerned.

Still, Castiel squinted at the computer, and after a moment of staring, he decided to hazard a guess. "You ask the computer questions, and it will give you answers?"

Father nodded. "I suppose that that's one way to say it, yes."

Castiel narrowed his eyes further, not looking away from the monitor. "Fascinating," he said, and he was talking both about the purpose of the computer, and the fact that he himself had not known that before. It was endlessly interesting to realize that he knew many facts about the world, but was missing several crucial bits of information. He might know the name of a thing, but not how to use it. He couldn't even begin to guess why that might be.

"We'll start by searching for the name James Novak, since that's the one on your ID," Father said. "Hopefully we'll be able to find something useful. And who knows, maybe we'll even find some pictures that can jog your memory."

Pictures. Castiel was still holding the wallet, and now he opened it up, thumbing out the small picture that had been almost hidden in the billfolds. The girl in the image was blonde, and was smiling at the camera. Castiel didn't have any experience with children, so it was impossible for him to guess her age, but even he could tell that she was young. But her face was completely unfamiliar to him. He might as well be looking at a picture on a billboard, or at one of the strangers that he passed on the street.

He had stared at the image for a long time, over the course of many nights on the street, wondering if she could possibly be his family. But he knew that she wasn't. She couldn't be. He felt nothing for her, not even the slightest stirring in his memories. He didn't know why he would be carrying her photograph, but he thought that it had to be the same reason that he was carrying a license that called him by a fake name. It was likely that he had been mascaraing as a fake person, with fake pictures to back up his story.

Or maybe he really did know this girl from somewhere. He didn't know which possibility frightened him more.

Castiel pushed the picture back into the billfold, and closed the wallet. "I don't think that looking at pictures will help me to remember anything."

"We can try, though," Father encouraged. "And you never know what might turn out to be helpful. Sometimes just being around things that you used to know can make a difference."

Castiel didn't look up, and didn't respond.

"Lunch is going to begin in a few minutes," Father suddenly said, his voice abruptly sounding gentle. "You've been working all morning, and anyway, you look as though you need a bit of time to think this over. Why don't you come back to my office either tonight or tomorrow morning, and we can take a look, see what we can find?"

Castiel nodded, because he didn't know what else to do, then stood to exit. His mind was whirling with the things that he had just been told.

He wasn't vain enough to think that he knew better than the rest of the world. Doing so would imply that he was somehow better than everyone else, and Castiel knew that he was no so special. In which case, how could he be certain that the angels really did speak to him? Perhaps the others were right, and Castiel was having some sort of mental problem. It wouldn't even be terribly surprising, considering the memory loss that he had already undergone. If anything, it seemed like it might even be the reasonable explanation.

No matter how he thought it, though, he couldn't make himself believe it. He knew – he simply knew – that the angels were speaking to him.

But that no longer felt like it was enough. He needed some sort of proof, if not for other people's sake, then for his own.

He mulled it over as he lines up to receive his tray of food, and as he wandered over to sit at a random table filled with men that he had never seen before, and during the first half of their meal time. No matter how he thought, there only seemed to be one solution.

"Where can I find a computer to use?" Castiel asked suddenly, drawing the men's eyes toward him. He supposed that he could ask Father Garcia for permission to borrow his, but he would prefer to do this on his own, if at all possible. It would be difficult to focus if someone who thought that he was mentally ill was standing over his shoulder the entire time, even if that person was someone as nice as Father Garcia.

For a moment, nobody answered. Then one of the men a few seats away said, "Public library's just a couple blocks down the road."

"Thank you," Castiel said sincerely. "How do I find this library?"

The man gave instructions, which Castiel carefully filed away in his mind. Then he stood and dumped the last bits of his food into the trash can.

The men generally worked for a few hours after lunch, then had time off for the rest of the evening. Castiel was afraid that he'd have to skip the remaining work. There was no chance that he would be able to focus until he found answers, anyway. If Castiel chose to return to the shelter after doing his research, then he would immediately go to Father Garcia to apologize, and ask to perform extra work tomorrow in order to make up for it.

Castiel was no longer so sure that he was going to return, though.

The library was easy enough to find, even if the man's directions had been a bit off. It was only ten minutes before Castiel was walking up the wide, stone staircase and pushing open the double doors. Once inside, he wasn't entirely sure what his next step should be. The librarian noticed his confusion, though, and offered assistance that ended up being invaluable. Within only a few more minutes, Castiel was seated at a computer, staring at a web page titled "Google" as the librarian returned to her desk, giving him one last instruction to bring her any more questions that he might have.

Castiel hesitated for a moment. Even though he knew what he had come here to do, he wasn't entirely sure how to go about it. Then he squared his shoulders and typed, How do I find someone? He only hesitated for a moment before hitting the search button.

That led him to over a billion results. He blinked, surprised. He had expected one answer that would clear up all of his confusion; he had not prepared to have to sift through so much information. Still, he wasn't about to give up now, so he took a deep breath and clicked on the first result.

The text on the screen declared that he simply needed to enter the name of the person that he was searching for, and it would provide him with the necessary information. Castiel clicked on the white box that seemed to have been provided for his purpose, then thought for a moment before typing, Dean Winchester.

Castiel had heard that name repeated multiple times over the past week, whispered and shouted by the angels at all times of the day and night. No other name was mentioned more, not even the name Castiel, except for possibly the name of Sam Winchester. Castiel assumed that the two were related somehow, and that finding one would be the same as finding the other. He only hoped that he had spelled the name correctly.

Because the only way that Castiel could know for certain that the voices were real was if he verified the information that he learned from them. If it turned out that Dean and Sam Winchester didn't actually exist, that would mean that the voices were simply a figment of his imagination, feeding him lies and fueling his delusions. In which case, Castiel would immediately begin seeking treatment options, to do whatever it took to make his mind work properly.

But if there truly were a Sam and Dean Winchester, then that would mean that Castiel could trust the voices. It would also mean that he could learn about them, to try to figure out why the angels took such an interest in their existence in the first place.

Whatever path his search took, Castiel was certain that he was going to learn something important by the end of it.

But first, he needed to find Dean Winchester.