Archive of Our Own ^beta

The drugs did kick in not long after that, and Castiel dozed in the car as Charlie procured another bag of groceries and then took them both back to the motel. He stumbled at the motel curb, blinking.

The haze of the drugs made his limbs leaden and his head spun lazily, making him grab for the body of the car. He touched sweatshirt, and then Charlie was under his arm, leading him into the room, where he was promptly dropped onto the bed. He heard her soft noises for another minute or two, and then the warm, blurry darkness swallowed him.

Later, he woke, distinctly uncomfortable. His body ached again, his head felt musty and his stitches and healing scrapes itched. It was the last item that seemed the most unbearable, strangely, and he wiggled around, trying to wake up enough to scratch or soothe or something. The light was gone, by this point, but he had to look at the red digits of the bedside clock to know that it was nearly midnight, and he’d been asleep for nearly ten hours. He sat up slowly, wincing, and feeling in turns sick and starving, his body too warm, and sticky with sweat.

By Heaven, this was miserable.

Pushing himself out of the bed, Castiel walked over to the bathroom, needing to wash the itch off himself. Though he’d observed humanity for a millenia, and he understood the mechanics of showers since running water had been invented, it still took him an embarrassingly long time to get the water started, and then to get it to an acceptable temperature. Then, once he was stripped off and shivering, he was long time entranced by the goosebumps on the flesh of his arm, his mind wandered off into paths unknown. Finally, he shook himself, winced, and stepped under the hot spray, only to jump backwards, some unsavory swear words jumping to his lips. The water felt amazing on his sore muscles, but most of his body was covered with scrapes, and friction burns from his literal crash to Earth, and the water seethed over the wounds like lava.

He’d forgotten to take off the bandages, so Castiel peeled off the wet tape and material, and got his first real look at the stitching which covered the deepest of the gashes. They were reddened, but healing normally--for a human anyway. Steeling himself, he poured out some of the thin motel soap, and carefully scrubbed himself down, and then got out and dry quickly. The relief he’d hoped for had been elusive, and the bathroom was too quiet, too muffled and allowed his thoughts to float down paths he’d rather steer clear of.

Once he was done, his wet hair dripping down his neck, he re-bandaged the wounds, and then grabbed his pain pill bottle. The instructions said to eat with it, so he wandered over to the mini fridge, and peering inside. He saw his leftovers from lunch, along with more groceries from Charlie, and a few bottles of water. Castiel took the sandwich out, before deciding that it was too quiet, and flipping on something on the television. He ate, staring blankly.

The pills didn’t make him sleep this time, so after he felt the effects he just lay there, his body heavy and his head swimming. In that state, he had little control over his thoughts and emotions.

At some point, he fell into a sort of haze, and his thoughts began to dribble forth without his permission. Whirling thoughts about the day he’d sacrificed himself again, the wind blurring his voice, the faces of Sam and especially Dean as he left them. He’d kissed Sam on the head, a blessing, and then Dean more intimately...he’d not expected to have to explain himself for that, he’s not expected to live again. Though he should have. Honestly, he never could die right, as Naomi had said.
Castiel took a breath, felt the ghost of Dean’s lips against his own, and let it out, shuddering. He felt like he was full of broken bones; one movement would shatter him completely.

He wasn’t blind enough to think that Dean wouldn’t mourn him, no matter how much he might wish otherwise. The longer that Castiel spent holed up here, licking his wounds and hiding from the world, the more Dean would hurt...the more angry he’d be when the truth finally came out.

Yet the thought of facing Dean, explaining his actions, of facing Dean’s pain and Dean’s rage...and his own as well...terrified him, made his stomach churn and his heart race, even through the drugs he’d taken. He rolled over, into a clumsy ball and hugged his arms around his chest. He felt tight and tense and so much pressure and he knew somewhere Dean was feeling the same, and he just. Couldn’t.

He gasped, hitched a breath.

How far you’ve fallen, angel. An inner voice, a bitter one, whispered. Fallen, with a capital F.

He was broken, useless, human and weak. A baby not even wearing a trenchcoat anymore. His chest was a painful stone, and a simmering bitterness, a hatred of his shaking limbs, his spinning head, and his uncontrollable emotions rose up, and he turned his face into his pillow. Hiding. Running, always running. It felt like he’d been on the run forever, but it wasn’t just the angels, Heaven, or Hell...he ran from his emotions, so new, so raw. So much. Too much.

Could no one just let him be?

After a while, he slept, and his sleep was deep, but dark. Angels weren’t meant to dream.