Archive of Our Own

Castiel knew beforehand what would happen if he rebelled. He has seen what happened to the Fallen since he was fledgling; the ones that weren't kicked out with Lucifer were paraded around and tortured in front of everyone to deter such behavior.

Castiel remembers one angel trying to stick up for a Fallen one, and remembers the angel being forced to kill the Fallen one and then herself in front of all the other angels, young and old. He remembers being deeply upset by this, and he remembers being punished severely for crying over what was dubbed an 'act of God'.

Heaven likes to make examples of those that don't follow the rules. Gadreel, the angel who allowed Lucifer in and was imprisoned indefinitely because of it, is an example of that. And now Castiel is becoming one.

As he said, he knew before what the act of Falling included—the slow descent into humanity. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion. The frightening world of emotions, unfamiliar and forbidden to angels, who are to be objective and logical in all actions, cold and obedient soldiers even when not on a mission. There's no relaxation, no love. There's only purpose and mission and obey.

Admittedly, Castiel never liked it, and certainly never followed it, instead spending his free time in the peaceful personal heaven of a man not unlike himself that enjoys a simple life flying his kite. But regardless, knowing the effects of Falling and experiencing the effects of Falling are two different things.

The first thing that catches him off guard is how…lonely he is. He's spent his entire very long existence connected to all the other angels all the time, but now that his contact with Heaven has been abruptly severed following his death at the hands of Raphael and subsequent resurrection, everything is so…quiet. The angels aren't allowing him to hear anything they're saying—in fact, Castiel can't even feel them anymore, and he's struck by how much that thought pains him. He feels so alone now, and being separated from Sam and Dean on his search for God isn't helping.

(The fact that an angel is never meant to possess an empty vessel contributes to this, as Jimmy's soul had already gone to Heaven by the time Castiel had been revived and placed back into Jimmy's body. He hadn't realized how comforting the quiet hum of Jimmy's soul had been until it was gone, hadn't realized how much lonelier the vessel would feel when it was just him in it.)

It's a little more bearable around Sam and Dean, though. They don't really make an effort to include him, of course, and only call on him for his powers, but he still feels more…connected when he's around them. Grounded, even. It's not the same as he'd felt when he was mentally connected to the angels, but it's…manageable.

Then, he begins to feel more effects. One tepid afternoon, he's sitting in a diner with Sam and Dean. Sam's eating a rather unappetising Cobb salad, but Castiel's eyes are locked onto Dean's burger, watching as it drips ketchup onto the table whenever he takes a bite. Sam and Dean are talking about a case, but he can barely pay attention, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Cas, you okay?" Castiel's eyes snap to Dean's face, finding that he's frowning. "You're staring at my burger like it just spit on you or something."

"I'm fine." With an effort, he looks over to Sam, even as his vessel's stomach twists uncomfortably. "Who do you suspect the witch may be?"

Sam and Dean exchange a look, but continue talking about the case. Castiel tries to use his grace to settle his stomach so that he can focus on listening, but quickly finds that he's unsuccessful with both.

-

The more time that passes, the worse it gets. His stomach begins growling at him as he's heard Sam and Dean's stomachs do occasionally, usually preceding a meal. He gets thirsty too, but as he becomes closer to the Winchesters, they begin offering him celebratory beers. It's sort of a tradition, so even as he ignores his hunger, he quenches his thirst and matches them shot-for-shot, what's left of his grace preventing him from becoming truly intoxicated.

It's not that he doesn't realize he's Falling, because he does know that. But something about actually acknowledging that and dealing with it… He can't. He can't handle that right now on top of the looming threat of the Battle between Michael and Lucifer and his inability to locate the one Being who might be able to prevent it. So he ignores it, even as his wings begin aching after every flight no matter how brief and his grace twists into itself in discomfort, like it can't tolerate being around him either.

Following a hunt that they probably only take him on to get him to stop thinking about the God that they insist doesn't care, Castiel discovers a few more things about Falling. He flies in between the demon they were hunting and Sam, the demon's target, but when he goes to smite the creature, his grace jerks away and rebels, and he's unable to call it forward.

The demon throws its ugly head back and laughs, twisted spikes jolting in time with its laughter as its accomplice digs Castiel's own blade into his side, causing blood to spill down his shirt. Sam and Dean deal with the demons as Castiel stumbles back and pulls at the blade, wincing when it tugs at his skin, at the intense tingling sensation creeping beneath his skin.

Pain. This is how humans feel pain, he realizes. He can't dwell on that for long, however, because when he pulls the blade out of his flesh (which causes even more pain for him to try and fail to ignore, unavoidable and inescapable and…painful), his balance suddenly leaves him and he falls to the floor.

"Cas, you okay?" There's a hand on his back, rolling him over and helping him up. Dean's hand lingers on his shoulder even after Castiel is upright, and he's grateful for it, uncertain if he can currently stand entirely on his own. "Man, he really dinged ya, huh?

"…what? Ding?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Right. Let's get you to the car."

Castiel must fall unconscious, because one minute, they're on their way back to the vehicle, and the next, he's in Sam and Dean's motel room in one of the beds, tucked in and shoes and coat inexplicably missing. The curtains are drawn and the room is quiet. Castiel sits up, only to hiss as the skin at his side is tugged. He pulls his shirt up slightly and finds a neat row of stitches and his trench coat folded at the bottom of the bed. Oh. The Winchesters must have tended to him.

"It was leaking that blue stuff everywhere, so we patched it up until your mojo picks back up," Dean explains, making Castiel jump; he hadn't sensed the man's presence at all, and he knows that has nothing to do with the warding he'd carved into the man's ribs. "You good? You just kinda dropped there, man."

"Yes. I am…weary." Castiel frowns upon realizing that despite just resting, he's still exhausted. But the motel room only has two beds, and Sam and Dean need to sleep, so he swings his legs out from under the blankets and promptly gets tangled in them. "Thank you for taking care of me. I'll endeavor to—"

"Hey, where are you going?" Dean's hand on his shoulder halts his movement, so Castiel settles back on the bed and peers up at him, tilting his head.

"You need to rest."

"Yeah, well, so do you, dumbass, so sit your ass down."

"Dean, I don't need sleep."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Tell me that when you don't look like you're gonna fall over as soon as you're standing." The blankets are pulled back beside him, and then Dean's laying down. "Sammy's grabbing some stuff to restock the first aid kit with, and I'd rather be asleep by the time he gets back, so if you don't mind…"

After a moment, Castiel stiffly lays back down against the pillows as Dean interacts with the television remote. His stomach growls beneath the blanket, and he tries to quiet it by pressing his hands to his stomach, but fails, feeling the organ churning from underneath his skin. He curls onto his side on the very edge of the bed and tries to will his body to be quiet as Dean looks over at him.

"Was that your stomach?" Dean sounds somewhere between amused and concerned. Castiel doesn't answer, muscles tensing without his consent. "Cas, are you hungry? We'll get you something if you are. Just figured you don't need to eat, since you're an angel and all."

Castiel winces and swallows. It feels as if there's something lodged in his throat, but he knows there's nothing physically there. "I'm fine, Dean. Rest. I'll watch over you."

"Yeah, that-that's not gonna happen. Just stick to your side of the bed and I'll stay on mine, huh?" Dean shifts and apparently rolls over. "Look, I know this ain't ideal, but we're low on cash, and Sam takes up enough room for three people, so…"

Castiel's stomach growls again, thankfully more quietly. He wraps his arms around his stomach tightly and ignores it, and he ignores Dean, and he ignores the tiredness and exhaustion seeping into every inch of his grace and the dulled feathers of his wings and the silence in his head. He ignores everything because he has to, and because the alternative is to acknowledge it and be overwhelmed by the implications of his actions.

So instead of acknowledging anything, he lingers until Sam returns and both humans fall asleep before locating his shoes and coat and flying away to a small forest in Kentucky. He truly has nowhere to go, but in Sam and Dean's mind, he's still a powerful ally, still an angel. He just…doesn't want to take that image away from them until he has no other choice, not when they already have so little hope about the apocalypse.

Until then, he'll be as useful as he can and hope that that might help make up for how useless he's going to become as he inevitably grows weaker and weaker.

-

He's so pathetic that he sometimes surprises himself. Sam and Dean had gone to Bobby's house following a hunt, and Castiel and stayed with the self-excuse that he could watch over them and make sure they're truly safe, at least for the night. Instead, his balance began waning and his vision grew blurry, so he sat on the edge of the couch for a moment until he could reorient himself. He'd only meant to sit for a moment, but of course, that's not what happened.

What happened is that his awareness came back slowly around the time that the sunlight had reached Bobby's sofa. There's sound coming from the kitchen, indicating that everyone is already awake and had undoubtedly seen him.

Figuring there's no point in sitting there any longer and contributing nothing to anyone, Castiel rises and enters the kitchen, finding Dean at the stove and Sam and Bobby at the table, plates and steaming mugs of what might be coffee in front of them.

"Well, look who rose from the grave," Dean remarks, not looking at him and his tone not offering anything. "Have a nice nap?"

Castiel bristles. "I didn't sleep."

"Right, 'course not. You just so happen to enjoy collapsing sideways on the couch and snoring."

In another dimension, his wings droop guiltily, feeling as if he's being rebuked by a superior instead of a friend. Possibly because he views Dean as above him, having long since realized Dean is a better man than Castiel could ever even dream to be—if angels dreamed, that is. Where he once followed his superiors because he had to, he now follows Dean because he wants to, another foreign concept to him.

But he cannot allow Dean to realize just how weak he's becoming, so he says quickly, "I…apologize for my carelessness. I'll endeavor not to allow it to happen again."

Dean turns around, a plate of steaming eggs, sausage, and toast in his hands, which he then pushes towards Castiel, expecting him to hold it, to eat it. "Cas, it's okay if you need, y'know, sleep or—"

His stomach rumbles quietly, and Castiel's wings prickle defensively. "I have to go," he interrupts swiftly before his vessel gets any ideas. "I have…something to take care of. Elsewhere."

He flies not to a place on Earth, but to a different dimension, hoping to re-evaluate his grace. Before he completely disappears, he hears Bobby say, "There's something up with that boy, and I've got a bad feeling what."

He tries to ignore the statement as he looks over his grace, its shine noticeably gone. He looks…sickly, almost, his feathers dull and heavy, his wings numb more often than not. Losing his wings is the final part of Falling, and from what he's heard, it's definitely the most painful one. Many don't survive it. Many more wish they hadn't survived it, as the pain never really leaves. Castiel shutters and spends a traitorous few hours wondering if he'd done the right thing by rebelling against Heaven.

He knows he has, objectively, but right now, he's just almost wishing he'd done the selfish thing and turned away. His life would be a lot more…simple if he hadn't, more certain. He'd always have orders to fall back on, whether he wanted them or not, and the mountains of fear and dread settling comfortably in his core wouldn't be there.

Yet, as he thinks about Sam and Dean and what they could've gone through, he finds that there was never much of a choice at all. Inaction is never the right choice. Still, he can't help but be glad they're human and incapable of looking at the more obvious signs of his failing grace…

-

Castiel's usually able to repress his angelic instincts—the ones long since all but ground out of him due to his status as a warrior of Heaven, forbidden from feeling or experiencing anything close to comfort—with a few stern thoughts and a pinch of grace, but that was…before. Now that he's begun Falling, he's much more…vulnerable. Things that he's been trained to suppress are suddenly almost impossible to ignore, and he's not sure how to handle that.

He tries to fight it, but there's only so much he can do, and before he's aware of what's happening, he's fixing the blankets on Sam and Dean's motel room beds long after they wake up and leave to continue their hunt (Castiel himself had fallen asleep the night before, but all alone in a small forest in Idaho, out of the Winchesters' sight). He doesn't even realize what he's doing until the door opens behind him from where he's straightening the curtains.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Dean chuckles, and Castiel spins around quickly, feeling caught. "They've got maids for a reason, buddy."

"Lay off him, Dean," Sam says tiredly, dropping into one of the beds. Castiel's fingers twitch with the urge to either heal him or ensure that he's carried into a peaceful sleep, but with his grace so weak, he knows he can't do either. "If he wants to fix up the room a little to distract from the bloodstains we left on the towels, we might as well let him. It can't hurt the security deposit."

"It's just kinda weird," Dean huffs back, sitting on the other bed up by the headboard, boots propped up on the bed and getting a slight amount of dirt on the sheets. "I mean, he's an angel, not room service. Next thing you know, we'll walk in to find him in one of those little apron things dusting the door frames and—what are you doing?"

Castiel pauses, looking down at his hands to find that he's holding one of Dean's boots, the other halfway off. "Um…" Grappling for excuses, he settles on, "You need to rest. You've been awake for more than twenty-one hours and—

"All right, all right." Dean, still in his jeans, slips under the blankets. "I'll take five and we'll get a fresh start tomorrow then." Castiel looks at the blankets tucked up to Dean's waist, filled with the strange longing to pull them higher or to sweep the dirt off the sheets. "Cas? You just gonna stand there, or…?"

"Right. My apologies." He disappears with a sweep of his wings, but later that night, he guiltily flies back and tucks the blankets up to both Winchesters' chins, loathing himself the entire time.

It gets worse, his instincts growing more difficult to contend with.

The next time they're at Bobby's, he's given the task of doing the laundry. Instead of putting anything away, he buries his face in the dryer-warmed clothes and takes a nap. Thankfully, he's alone when he wakes back up, and nobody seems to have even noticed that he'd disappeared. The next time he does the laundry, he manages to get everything put away, but not before thoroughly scenting every article beforehand.

When he begins developing the urge to deliver food to Sam and Dean and even Bobby (even as the thought makes his vessel's empty stomach churn and audibly protest), he realizes that he's…nesting. He's never nested before, having never been allowed to feel…safe or included before, as he somewhat is now. It's strange and unfamiliar and disconcerting, but he can't stop. He can't stop adjusting Sam's collar or fixing Dean's hair. He can't stop straightening the blankets on whatever bed Sam and Dean had spent the night in or fixing the old pillows on Bobby's couch.

"Uh, thanks, Cas," Sam says awkwardly as Castiel takes his fake FBI suit jacket from him to neatly fold for next time.

"Okay, what the hell's going on with you, huh?" Startled, Castiel looks up at Dean with the intent of answering, only for his eyes to lock onto the uneven lapels on Dean's suit jacket. As he goes to straighten the lapels, hands settle onto his wrist, and he's forced to look into Dean's eyes, as if drawn in by a magnet. "Cas, seriously. What's with you, man?"

He silently looks at Dean, watching every slight movement of his eyes, feeling settled for the first time since he began Falling, if just for a second. Some part of his brain thinks of Dean as his mate, something he's realized long before he rebelled for the man. He knows he isn't, knows Dean would likely never feel the same, not when he rebukes Castiel for his ignorance and comments relentlessly on his strangeness, but Castiel can't help but think of him as such.

Sam and, to an extent, Bobby, are something of nestmates—that is, platonic…relatives of sorts that watch over each other beyond what is required of them as soldiers. He doesn't think they'd enjoy the titles he'd christened them with either, so he resolves to keep them to himself. He's already viewed strangely enough by them as it is…

"Okaaay, this is getting weird," Sam mutters, shifting uncomfortably.

Castiel reaches an aching wing out to soothe him, privately wishing Sam and Dean had wings so that they could return the gesture of comfort. Not that they probably would if they did have wings, but…he just misses the comfort of being touched by another's wings, of being wrapped in their grace for a moment that makes every worry temporarily seem insignificant.

He hasn't experienced that in a very long time, long before he rebelled for Dean. Castiel's always been viewed as…strange, always been a problem for the other angels to deal with, a burden to work around. As such, he hasn't been properly held like that since he was a fledgling, instead just watching his brothers and sisters interact that way from afar and trying to recall the hazy memories of the feeling from when he'd experienced it himself.

In response to his hug and ignorant of its intended meaning, Sam glances around him in confusion. "Anyone else feel a draft?"

Feeling caught and not sure what to tell either of them, Castiel gently tugs out of Dean's loose grip and flies away without a word. When he tries to separate himself for a few days, he finds himself spending more time obsessively preening his wings than searching for God, his subconscious unsettled from its extended separation from his self-perceived new family.

Not that they think of him as such anyway, but angels are very social creatures, and he can't help but long for closeness whenever he sees them engaging in it, be it a pat on the shoulder or a kicked shin. But that's not Castiel's to feel or enjoy, so he tries to keep his wings, the way angels physically interact with one another—if ever—to himself.

He doesn't succeed.

The next time he goes to the Winchesters to help locate a demon, Dean calls him 'clingy' when he touches his arm to get his attention. He tries to keep to himself and not to stare too much, but when he's not looking at Dean (or Sam or Bobby, sometimes), he's looking at whatever they might be eating or drinking.

He has to drink now. After a two day long headache, he'd finally succumbed and asked for a glass of water at a bar the Winchesters had left only hours before. Then, it's as if his bo—vessel, still a vessel—had been waiting to pounce the second he gave in, and all of a sudden, his mouth is perpetually dry and lips painfully chapped. His heart pounds in his chest, somewhere between too fast and too slow, but painful nonetheless.

So he eventually relents a little and purchases a bottle of water. That night, he wakes up in an empty motel room alone and afraid, surrounded by wet sheets and more shame and confusion than he knows what to do with, enough that he nearly considers calling Dean and asking for guidance, though he doesn't.

That's how he first discovers that he needs to go to the bathroom now, that he's Fallen enough to require such a thing. It's disconcerting and disgusting; urinating is enough of a chore that he considers not drinking solely to escape it, though he's glad that with his refusal to eat, that's the only thing he's had to endure so far.

"Hey, Cas, no offense, but your hair's kind of…greasy," Sam awkwardly says one day, glancing up from his laptop to give him 'puppy-dog eyes,' as Dean calls them. "Are you doing okay?" He's suddenly filled with a strange sensation that sits heavily in his chest and makes his…vessel ache, even as Sam backpedals. "I mean, y'know, it's fine. Just wanted to check in. You've been pretty spacey the last few days."

"I…my apologies."

Sam opens his mouth to say something else when Dean bursts through the door, a takeout bag in hand. The scent of grease is thick in the air, and his stomach growls softly before he presses his palm to it, though he can't take his eyes away as Dean begins going through the bag, unwrapping burgers as he goes.

"Let's see…hippie onion ring burger for Sammy, and a bacon cheeseburger for me." Dean frowns, pulling out a third burger. "Hey look, freebies." He and Sam share a look before they both turn to him, Dean holding the burger out in an offering. "Want it, Cas?"

He eyes the burger warily, shaking his head. "I don't eat." It sounds unconvincing, even to him.

"Yeah, well, my cholesterol's high enough without doubling up, so."

Dean shakes the burger a little in offering, and Castiel hesitantly takes it, immediately feeling the bun stick to his sweaty palms as his dry mouth swallows heavily, like it's trying to force down a stone. He knows there's no going back if he eats this, that the Winchesters will take this as permission to always purchase three burgers, a thought that both fills his heart with warmth at their concern and dread at the whole idea of it.

Aloud, he just says grimly, eyeing the burger uncomfortably, "Thank you."

"Hey, I know White Castle's not exactly gourmet, but it's not that bad." As if proving his point, Dean takes a large bite, nodding to himself and raising his eyebrows imploringly. Castiel reluctantly copies him, amazed by the sudden burst of flavor in his mouth. Seeing his expression, Dean grins. "See? Not bad, huh?"

This, of course, is his undoing. Like it had with the fluids, his vessel begins requiring sustenance, begins craving food and aching when it doesn't receive any. But angels don't eat, so he refuses to quiet his vessel the way it wants to be quieted. Sometimes, if he drinks enough (another thing he loathes having to do), he can deceive his vessel for a few hours.

Whenever Castiel's alone (which is growing increasingly less common as he hovers around the Winchesters more and more, always nearby but never close, careful not to be around so much that he becomes unwanted and something to be tolerated), he listens to what little he can occasionally hear over 'angel radio'—which grows fainter with each passing day, not that he ever hears anything useful anyway—or preens the ever-dulling feathers he's now familiar with.

Sometimes, he plucks them with the idea that culling the dimmer, greyer ones will allow new black ones to grow in. But he's not molting and his feathers aren't dimming because they're close to falling out, and he knows that. That doesn't stop him from picking at them however, wincing every time an otherwise healthy feather is plucked from his wing but unable to stop.

To his knowledge, his…friends—a term he uses tentatively, and only in the safety of his own mind—don't know that he's Falling, don't know that he gets…tired or hungry or thirsty now, don't know that he has to shower every few days as his grace weakens to the point where it can't maintain a level of cleanliness for him.

On top of that, he's bombarded by new and often frightening emotions that he doesn't understand. Fear, trepidation, frustration, worry, guilt, shame… Logically, he knows there are positive ones too, but he has yet to feel anything…pleasant. There's an occasional bubble of something almost soothing sometimes (often only present when he's in the company of the Winchesters—particularly Dean—or when he's surrounded by warm laundry), but it's too brief to properly analyze, so he ignores it.

On the bright side (a side he's not used to…looking at), he's been getting better at resisting his more angelic side, though that may only be because he's Falling and it's growing weaker… But if that means he doesn't try to protect Sam and Dean with his wings (not that they can even see it) or prepare a nest he only permits himself to enjoy for a few hours at most—and only on his hardest days in a desperate search for comfort—on Bobby's couch, maybe it can be a…good thing. Somewhat.

At least then, his angelic side and new, human side wouldn't constantly be at war with one another, one demanding physical comfort he hasn't had since he was a fledgling and the other demanding the sustenance he refuses to grant it in fear of that side becoming any stronger. So he tries to maintain a careful balance between the two while fighting off anything and everything his instincts or emotions or human body long for.

It's…difficult to combat two major forces with all sorts of instincts and needs that aren't meant to be fought against or contained, but he manages as best he can even as he's forced to take on more and more strenuous assignments for the Winchesters, including traveling back in time (for which he's still surprised he survived).

Then, they encounter Famine, and Castiel undoes all his progress by eating literally hundreds of burgers, as if his vessel is making up for all the food he'd been depriving it of. From White Castle, of course, because he hadn't eaten more than a few french fries left at the bottom of the container since then. He blames Famine's effect on him on Jimmy, who hasn't occupied the vessel alongside him since Raphael killed him, but he doesn't think anyone believes him.

(On the…bright side, the term still unfamiliar and making him uneasy, the hug he'd received from the cupid was oddly nice, once he'd gotten used to it. Cupids are sensitive to feelings and emotions—as close as an angel can be, anyway—and had noticed his ever-present anxiety in a heartbeat. Nestless angels in the depths of their molts or other times of great vulnerability subconsciously crave contact, and the cupid had evidently picked up on it and attempted to soothe the sharper edges of it. He almost wants to seek out the cupid again, but refrains, knowing that will only put him in danger. Besides, deep down, he knows it's not the cupid that he wants to hug him or soothe his worries…)

Castiel's something close to violently ill once Famine is killed and his effect neutralized, but he doesn't say anything as they drive to Bobby's, even as the combination of unsteady roads and excessive speed make his stomach churn. They have to look out for Sam, who looks shakier and paler with every mile. He's expendable, and his discomfort is not of import. Sam Winchester's discomfort and guilt over actions he couldn't control any more than Castiel could is what's important, not Castiel's…upset stomach.

He manages to hold everything in until Sam is locked in Bobby's panic room, screaming and pleading and writhing in pain. Castiel's hands clench at his sides, wishing he had the ability to eliminate all the demon blood from his system without Sam experiencing such agony, wishing he could whisk it all away with a thought.

But there's nothing he can do. Even if his powers were still…there, demon blood is toxic to an angel's grace, so he wouldn't be able to do anything, anyway. He can only watch as Sam suffers the consequences of a choice that was never really his to make, as his system fights the demon blood that had been forced upon him after spending so long…'sober'.

When Sam curls over the side of the cot and retches and Dean rushes in to soothe him, Castiel hurries upstairs in hopes to recover before anyone even notices he's gone. Instead, he spends the next thirty-two minutes periodically vomiting. It's a frightening experience, and unlike Sam, he has no one to rub his back and help dull the sharp bite of fear and panic for the sensation he's never experienced before. His wings shudder behind him as raw ground meat his vessel would have had no problem digesting a few weeks ago with the help of his grace now tosses in his stomach violently and burns all the way up his esophagus.

When he finally feels well enough, he slowly goes past Bobby, who's pouring himself yet another glass of whiskey and rubbing at his temples, and returns to the panic room, finding a troubled Dean standing outside the door with his arms crossed as Sam finally drifts into an unsteady sleep.

Dean doesn't ask where he was, and Castiel doesn't tell him, nor does he say anything the next few times Castiel has to leave to continue…expelling. Later that night, however, he finds a bottle of TUMS and a purple razor and toothbrush sitting on the table beside the couch where he's been sleeping (and making nests, hating himself for it every time but unable to help himself) for the past few visits.

For the most part, he mostly just determinedly ignores what he's heard humans call 'hunger pains'. He has more important things to worry about as Joshua confirms what Sam and Dean had been telling him all along, what he'd foolishly and naively refused to believe: God doesn't care. God isn't going to help them.

To quote Dean, they're all 'screwed'.

Unsure of what else to do and devastated by the idea, he gets drunk. It takes some effort, but much less than it used to. Soon afterwards, he discovers 'hangovers' and resolves not to drink again. He thanks Dean for giving him aspirin, but notices how the man doesn't leave until he hands the bottle back.

He becomes…he thinks it'd qualify as depressed after that. He hovers around Sam and Dean and Bobby more, despite knowing his presence is as unwelcome as his 'clinginess,' that he's as welcomed into their lives as he is into the lives of the other angels. Instead of helping on hunts, most days, he just…'holds the couch down,' as Bobby had put it once.

He considers taking medication for it, as he'd heard that's how humans cope, but remembering how Dean had reacted one time when he'd seen him holding a bottle of painkillers (a bottle he'd just picked up for Sam and Dean's depleting first aid kit, intending on refilling it for them while they slept), he decides against it. It's not like they don't have more important things to worry about than his…mental state, anyway.

-

"Well, I'm grabbing lunch," Dean announces, distancing himself as much as possible from the laptop and various books thrown across the motel room's coffee table without actually leaving the room. The Winchesters have been getting rooms with a couch whenever possible lately, he's noticed, but Castiel refuses to acknowledge this. "Any requests?"

"Uh… That steak salad from yesterday looked good."

"Cas?" Castiel looks up, surprised. "You want anything?"

It's a test, he realizes. They're trying to determine how desperate he is now, how weak he is. He shudders to think about what might happen when they realize he's becoming increasingly useless now, knowing what such a thing would mean in Heaven where the weak or rebellious are either rebuilt, expelled, or outright slaughtered.

He tries to appear unaffected, pointedly not looking at either of them. "No, I'm fine."

"Cas," Sam begins, eyes soft with compassion, "it's okay if you're not. We just want—"

"I'm fine," he repeats firmly, but when Dean catches his eye meaningfully, his eyebrows lifted in a silent challenge and his gaze filled with thinly veiled concern, Castiel falters and looks away, something that would earn him a swift but brutal punishment in Heaven. "I…I suppose I could try the sandwich you were complimenting earlier," Castiel relents softly, feeling his face grow hot. "N-not because I need to eat, of course—"

"It's okay, Cas, we got it," Dean interrupts, offering a reassuring smile that Castiel can't help but return, something he's never done as an angel. "Be back in a few. Try to keep your nerdiness contained to this room, huh, Sammy?"

Sam shoots him a look, and Dean disappears and the two of them continue researching. When Dean returns with lunch, no one says anything, just like they don't when Castiel has to stop in the middle of researching to…relieve himself, thanks to the few glasses of water Dean set by his elbow and implored him to drink. In the bathroom, he notices that his pants don't seem to fit, being a little too loose around the waist.

Frowning, he undoes his belt, surprised when he can pull it one entire hole over. He's…losing weight. Angels aren't supposed to have any weight to lose. Angels don't age or change or anything like that, and yet, the proof is right in front of him: whether he likes it or not, he's changing.

Suddenly, it's like he's hyper-aware of everything around him. The way his shirt clings to his skin and twists around him when he moves. The ache of his smallest toes from where they're pressing against the edge of his shoes. The heaviness of the bulky trench coat that he's only just realizing. The way his shirt collar and tie seem to be limiting his ability to breathe.

"Cas? You okay in there?" Sam calls from the other room, so Castiel quickly fixes his belt to the next hole, loosens his tie, and returns.

"Whoa, Cas, where's the fire?"

"There is…no fire."

Dean just rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Take a look at these bitemarks, huh? These look like a vampire to you?"

Over the next week, Castiel just gets worse. His clothes bother him constantly, but he can't twist out of them or change them or even scratch anywhere without alerting Sam and Dean that something's wrong, because angels don't twist or change or scratch. Then again, angels also don't need to sleep or eat or drink, but they've already caught him doing those things.

"Y'know, there are plenty of spare rooms in this place," Bobby tells him one evening as he shows him how to clean a rifle. Castiel hums in acknowledgement, trying to figure out how to reassemble the weapon, trying to show some of that intuition that he'd been praised for as a fledgling when he first began training to be a warrior, trying to…impress Bobby Singer. "Some of 'em might even be big enough to fit a bed in."

"Yes, I'd assume so," he replies amiably.

Bobby pinches the bridge of his nose. "Boy, subtlety ain't your strong suit, is it? I'm tryin' to say you can have an actual bed instead of this rickety damn couch."

"Oh." Bobby rolls his eyes again, so Castiel rushes to add, "I don't sleep."

"Don't be an idjit. That's crap and you know it."

"Angels don't require sleep," he reiterates firmly, and Bobby's face softens a little. "I don't…I don't sleep."

"Well, just know there's a room upstairs with your name on it if ya ever want it. 'Sides, this couch kinda hurts your back after a coupla days, don't it?" Castiel nods before he can stop himself, before he can remind himself that angels don't feel pain in the way that humans do. "If you want it, it's right across from Dean's. Gonna haveta put the sheets on yourself, though, 'cause I sure as hell can't get up those steps in this damn wheelchair."

"I suppose I could…watch over Sam and Dean better from there," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

"Sure. The perfect perch." Even Castiel can detect the sarcasm in his tone.

Still, that night, he does reluctantly go to the room Bobby had offered, a bundle of clean sheets in his arms, because he knows from all the times he's fiddled with them in motel rooms that beds require those. He tries to put the sheets on for a while, but can't quite figure out how, so he eventually gives up, instead using the sheets as a nest and pulling the comforter around his nest accordingly.

Yes, it is much better than the couch…until he wakes up the next morning to find Dean hovering in the doorway with his phone out, undoubtedly taking photographs of him.

Torn between shame and embarrassment, Castiel pulls the blanket tighter over his head and balls up even tighter, less in an instinctual search for comfort and safety and more to try to hide himself away. He considers telling Dean to leave, but decides to pretend to be asleep instead, as he's seen the Winchesters do to one another when they didn't want to be bothered with something.

"Hey, don't be all embarrassed, Cas," Dean says, peeling the blanket from his head without asking. Castiel squints at him as his eyes try to adjust to the change in light, something he never used to have to think about. "C'mon, you got a sweet little nest here. No, uh, shame in that."

Castiel looks at him, trying to figure out if Dean's serious or not. To his horror, Dean looks amused, like he's trying to suppress a smile, and Castiel suddenly feels humiliated, swiftly leaving his nest. This is not how he imagined Dean seeing his nest would go, how Dean's reaction to viewing or potentially being offered a spot in a very personal place to an angel would go…

"I'd like you to leave now," Castiel says with a frown, even as Dean's face softens a little.

"Aw, c'mon, didn't mean to ruffle your feathers. It's, y'know…cute or something. Like a little bird."

"I am not a bird, Dean," he snaps, defensive before shrinking into himself a little, feeling caught. "And this is… Angels don't sleep, but they…rest. Sometimes. And this…this is…uh…"

A hand goes to his shoulder, and he reluctantly looks at Dean, fearing he might find more amusement. Instead, he finds understanding. "Hey, you don't have to explain anything. It's an angel thing—I got it. Do whatever you need to do, buddy."

"I…thank you, Dean."

"Sure." Dean pats his shoulder before removing his hand, heading towards the door. "You want breakfast? Was thinking of making omelets. You ever had one?"

Naturally, he never has, and though he doesn't say it as he watches Dean prepare an omelet just for him, he wishes he never had to have one. He just sticks to being thankful instead, because he knows it's only a matter of time before they realize he's quickly becoming useless, a liability.

Liabilities are quickly and effectively culled in Heaven before they can impact missions or infect others. Castiel knows humans are…sentimental, and that the Winchesters likely won't outright kill him, but they would be well within their right to ask him to leave, and if they ask him to leave, he'll go.

Only…it seems that day is approaching sooner than he thought. The first signs of him Falling were his loss of healing ability and a few other powers, then the gradual weakening of his grace and loss of feathers. His true form grows dimmer every day, and with it, he becomes more and more human.

One morning, he wakes up early just to prepare for the day, taking a short and shameful shower and brushing his teeth after noticing that he has 'morning breath' (from sleeping, which he's not supposed to do either) to avoid emitting any unpleasant orders. This is when he notices the way his vessel's facial hair scratches his palm unpleasantly and almost sticks to the towel when he dries off.

He's…he's aging. His vessel is growing older, growing closer to death. He can no longer prevent hair growth with a thought, is no longer immune to the bodily odors that plague humans that don't clean themselves. His shirt, once crisp and pristine, is now slightly yellowed with sweat and grease and…bodily oils, and he has to fly to the local laundromat (invisible, despite knowing it's not yet open) to wash his clothes, not sure what else to do.

Two nights after that, he wakes up in a bundle of wet sheets and blankets as sweat pours down his back. His pants, noticeably wetter and darker than his other clothes, seem to glare back at him mockingly; only young children wet the bed. Ashamed, Castiel quickly strips the bed and flies to the laundromat to wash his nest and clothes.

As he watches the items spin, he wonders what Dean would think if he found out what Castiel had done. Dean's trust in his brother is waning, and with a blow like this—with the confirmation that Castiel is growing weak and human and even more on par with a human child than an adult—he may give in to Michael, after all.

And, as if reading his thoughts, Dean reveals later that very day by running off that he's planning on saying yes to Michael. Castiel tries to prevent it, even resorting to hurting Dean in hopes of giving him a glimpse of what it might be like to be an angel's vessel. Or maybe it's just because he's upset and angry, both with Dean and with himself for this whole situation, but isn't sure how else to express it when anger was never something he really felt before.

Dean uses the very sigil Castiel had taught him to send him back up to Heaven; banishment is usually painful, hence why angels always scream when it occurs no matter how stoic they are, but this time, it feels as if he's being ripped apart, stumbling back down to Earth on crippled wings. Still, in the end, he begrudgingly helps Dean with his plan on saving Adam.

Perhaps he can make a difference this way, can be looked back on as having been an asset that had helped at least one Winchester. He knows what he has to do in order to save the boy, knows it will be incredibly painful with his failing grace and partially atrophic wings—too weak to use them as frequently as he should, too depressed by the growing possibility of one day spreading his wings and finding them incapable to flying him anymore—but he does it anyway.

Castiel carves a banishing sigil into his own chest, perhaps deeper than necessary, and goes in to blow the angels creeping within the warehouse away. He doesn't expect to survive (he's not even certain he wants to, really, though he knows better than to voice that) but he does, and when he wakes up, he's in a hospital.

It's a relief to discover that Dean hadn't said yes to Michael after all, but that relief is short-lived as it becomes apparent that he's weak enough that none of the nurses even suspect that he's anything but human. Then they begin to threaten him with psychiatric evaluations when he tries to explain his injuries (though they only seem to hear that they're self-inflicted) and he has to flee on a bus.

His ever-growing weakness follows him as he goes into the hospital Sam and Dean are in with the intentions of helping them defeat Pestilence, only to crumple to the ground not three steps into the room, coughing up blood. He's able to push through it and slice off Pestilence's fingers to retrieve the ring, but the fact that he's weak enough to be vulnerable to human illnesses at all is…frightening.

He wakes up in the middle of the night coughing, recognizing quickly that his coughs are…wet. Quickly sitting up, he tries to muffle the sound as he hurries to the bathroom and promptly discovers that his lips are wet with flecks of blood. Castiel's not sure why he's coughing up blood when he's too weak to properly examine his vessel and identify the cause, so he tentatively decides to ignore it.

He takes the time to urinate and wash his hands before leaving the bathroom, only to stop when he sees Dean standing against the hallway wall. "Hey, Cas," Dean greets coolly.

"Hello, Dean." Castiel wonders just how long he's been standing there, just how much he's heard, but is afraid of the answer. "You should be asleep."

"So should you."

"Angels don't sleep."

"Angels also don't pass out in the backseat or spit up blood at two in the morning, and yet, here we are." Castiel panics internally, trying and failing to appear unaffected. In any case, Dean's harsh undertone drops. "Look, man. It's…okay or whatever, all right? Kind of a crappy timing, but you can't help that you're—"

"I'm fine," he insists, pushing past Dean but glancing back at the man at the last second. "Don't assume you understand everything, Dean." His voice comes out quieter than he'd intended, more vulnerable.

Before Dean can say anything, Castiel flies away, the slight relief to find that he's still capable of it fleeting to make room for another realization: he has nowhere to go.

His temporary home is wherever the Winchesters are, and when he's not with them, he's lost and alone, unable to rest despite how much he now needs it when he knows of all the dangers surrounding him once he's away from Sam and Dean, even when he knows they likely wouldn't even bother protecting him if they realized how useless he truly is these days.

-

The signs that his time is drawing near are all around him, and with it come the signs that Sam and Dean won't want him around when he's completely powerless, that it really was only naivety and false hope that led him to believe they'd be sympathetic or accepting of him despite his increasing weakness.

They're on a hunt, and Sam and Dean get hurt. 'Damn, my ribs feel like the insides of a stress ball. Sure would be nice to have some angel juice right about now.' Castiel bites the inside of his lip to keep from reacting, face hot with shame.

They're in a motel, and there are only two beds. 'Sure is a good thing there's only two of us that sleep, huh, Sammy?' (Castiel ends up falling asleep in one of the wooden chairs that goes with the little table under the window, thankfully waking up before Sam and Dean can see him.)

He's injured by a demon on a hunt and tries and fails to hide it from the Winchesters, only to discover they…don't care. 'Ah, I'm not worried about it. Angels can heal themselves, right?' It's probably a good thing, considering he still has thick scabs that seem to be developing into scars from the angel banishing sigil he'd carved into his own chest.

Castiel gets hit by a spell from the witch they're hunting and shivers the entire drive back to the motel of the week, but the air conditioner stays where it had been the night before, making even Sam look at his brother strangely. 'What? It's not like angels can even feel the temperature. Right, Cas?'

He pursues lead after lead on a ghost hunt that he manages to complete by smiting the bones into ash, leaving him weak and exhausted, and all Dean says is, 'Geez, Cas, you smell like a gym. Why don't you mojo yourself clean or something?'

Again and again, Dean shoves the fact that he's Falling 'in his face' and reminds him of his weaknesses almost constantly. Sam, for his part, just keeps giving him sympathetic looks and watches him shiver or sweat or drip blood everywhere and all but ruin the only shirt he has, prompting Dean to wordlessly hand him a new one.

The new shirt is stiff and uncomfortable, the individual threads crisp and unforgiving when they're not softened by wash and wear, and he hates it, the texture rubbing against him uncomfortably and making his transformation even more miserable. The realization that he's not normal by human standards even with something as inconsequential as a type of fabric or the way a certain food feels in his mouth is devastating, making him miss the days he could use his grace to ignore things like that entirely all the more.

All the while, the end of times seems to grow nearer and nearer; what will certainly be the death of at least a few of them is on the horizon, and things become more and more tense to match. Castiel abandons pretending he's not Falling when the first clump of healthy feathers falls out on its own, greeting his eyes one morning in one of Bobby's guest rooms. More fall out after that, leaving a trail wherever he goes, and Castiel just wants to cry.

For this reason, he's not surprised when he's called into Bobby's living room one evening and spots the three of them sitting on various pieces of furniture. Sitting on the table in the middle of the room is a pile of shed feathers, their previous sharp and sleek midnight hue now nothing more than the muted grey not unlike the color of dirty, used bathwater. His heart drops at the sight all the same, his wings dropping down behind him in another dimension.

"Found these on the couch," Dean begins, and Castiel wonders how long they've been collecting there, hoping it's been long enough that he's not in immediate danger of becoming featherless but knowing it's likely been a short period of time. "Got a load more from past motel rooms and stuff, too. They yours?"

There's no point in denying what they all know is true. "Yes."

No one says anything for a long moment until Dean stands up and approaches, stopping in front of him and crossing his arms. "Well? Anything you wanna tell us, Patchy?" He stays silent, even as another feather drifts from his wing and falls to the floor without him moving a muscle. "Right. Yeah, let's just ignore this then, huh?"

Relieved, he nods in agreement. "Yes, that's probably for the best. After all, we have more important things to—"

"He was being sarcastic, Cas," Sam interrupts tiredly while Dean's jaw just ticks.

"Oh…"

"'Oh,' he says," Dean grumbles, throwing his hands in the air, "like he hasn't been starving himself and stewing in this crap for—hell, months, probably. Well, we're not blowing past this, Cas, not this time. So tell us, what the hell's going on?"

"I'm…I'm Falling," Castiel finally admits quietly. "I've been cut off from the Host and I'm becoming human." When no one says anything, he adds in barely a whisper, not sure who he's trying to convince, "I'll…still be me. It's not…not really a big deal…"

"'Not a big deal'?" Dean repeats, scoffing. "Cas, 'not a big deal' is ordering waffles and getting pancakes. 'Not a big deal' is forgetting to do a load of laundry and having to rely on the old smell test. Losing your juice—buddy, that's a huge deal."

Castiel wilts, wings folding close to his body for self-comfort as shame and guilt rack his body. "I…you're right. This process may kill me. I'm just sorry I couldn't do more for you."

A silence overtakes the room before he's abruptly pulled into a hug. He stiffens as he had when the cupid hugged him, far too used to touch meaning hurt and pain, but relaxes quickly, resting his forehead against Dean's shoulder when the man doesn't immediately release him. In another dimension, his wings curl around Dean and hug back, even as that sends another whirlwind of dim feathers to the floor and Dean's clothes.

"Dumbass," Dean whispers harshly into his hair. "You're such a dumbass, Cas. Why didn't you just tell us?"

"I didn't want you to think less of me." No, that's not quite right. "I-I was…afraid that once you realized my powers were gone…"

"We're not like your angel buddies, Cas," Dean says, pulling back enough to look at Castiel without releasing him. "We don't just throw people away when they're not useful anymore, we keep 'em and help them through their hard times, 'cause they're family. You're family."

"But Dean, I'm…I have no relation to you…"

"Neither do I, but do you see me throwing myself away?" Bobby huffs. "And if ya wanna talk about usefulness, look at my legs. Should I go and starve myself, too?"

"No, of course not. Humans need to eat." Dean gives him a look, and Castiel falters, admitting, "I tried to deny that my powers were fading at all, deny that I needed to do…human things now. I've just…been an angel for so long that I… It's hard."

"Didn't have to be hard, Cas," Dean says, squeezing his shoulder when Castiel looks at him. "Been trying to get you to admit you needed help for weeks 'so we could help you."

"Is that why you kept pointing all my newfound weaknesses out? You were being cruel intentionally?" he asks, and Dean looks like he'd been kicked. Castiel swallows thickly, that stone in his throat returning once more as he attempts to croak out, "I thought you'd just realized and wanted to make sure I knew…"

His throat closes in on itself no matter how many times he swallows, his eyes growing wet. He tries clearing his throat, but there's nothing to clear, the invisible stone immovable, another frustrating human sensation he doesn't understand. Lately, he's beginning to question if he understands much of anything at all…

"What did you think, Cas?" Sam presses gently. "You thought we knew and didn't care?"

"I thought you wanted to ensure I knew that once my powers were gone, so was I." A sudden silence overtakes the room, paradoxically deafening and more than a little uncomfortable, enough so that he awkwardly continues, "But you…weren't…ensuring that. You did that because you…cared."

The words sound strange, and Castiel doesn't understand the logic behind them. After a moment, Dean just hugs him again. "Just wanted you to admit it. Didn't mean to be such a dick about it, buddy, but you—you're one stubborn son of a bitch, I'll give you that."

"Admitting you have a problem is the first step to fixing it, Cas," Sam offers.

Castiel just sighs, dropping his forehead on Dean's shoulder and mumbling into the flannel, "But there is no fixing this. I'm Falling. Very soon, I'll lose my wings entirely and be nothing more than a human."

"And we'll be right there to catch you when that happens," Dean promises with a conviction Castiel hadn't expected, a determination that makes it impossible for Castiel to believe anything else. "It really sucks that you're losing your mojo, and maybe we can't do squat about that, but what we can do is make the whole thing a little easier, can't we?"

Castiel nods a little, hesitant, and Bobby grumbles, "Yeah, great. Now let's wrap up the pity-party and not think about the future, human-style. I'll grab the beer." Despite his words, Bobby remains where he is, his expression as soft as Castiel's ever seen it. "If you're gonna become human, might as well get comfy with some of the perks."

"We could put on a movie," Sam suggests, and Castiel turns to look at him. "Spend some time together, relax a little. Cas, why don't you grab some of your blankets? You can build a nest on the couch. That's how angels feel safe, right?" Castiel nods a little, in awe of the Boy with the Demon Blood and his endless pool of kindness and understanding. "I read it in a book somewhere. But, uh, you don't have to be afraid to share this stuff with us."

"You're one of us now, and if there's a way to make that better, we'll take it, Cas. Always. Capiche?"

"I…capiche."

"Good." Dean claps him on the shoulder. "I'm gonna grab snacks. You hungry?"

Castiel swallows, admitting for the first time, "Yes. I'm…I'm hungry."

"I'll make you something." Dean nods at Sam. "We'll eat and drink and watch crappy TV and have a good time. The apocalypse can wait for a while. How's that sound?"

For the first time, he's filled with overwhelmingly positive emotions so strong that his eyes well up with tears in a way he hadn't known was possible, not when the cause of the tears always seems to be…bad in his experience. He nods a little and bites his lip, trying to contain the unfamiliar emotions before realizing he doesn't have to, not here. He won't be punished for being himself here, or for needing a little help. He can just be…himself.

"It sounds very pleasant," he replies, voice a little watery in a way that just earns him a soft smile and ruffled hair before Dean's off to get food, Sam puts on a movie, and Bobby pretends to be grouchy in the corner as Castiel hurries upstairs to bring down his blankets, ready to build a nest big enough for his new family.

Naturally, this doesn't fix anything. In the coming days—or, optimistically, weeks—they may all perish in a final fight between Michael and Lucifer. The entire world may quite literally be blown away in a very short period of time. And yet…Castiel isn't worried. As he becomes more and more human, he feels more and more connected to Sam and Dean and Bobby, and he realizes that that's not a weakness at all.

He doesn't enjoy losing his powers, and his dwindling number of feathers is still distressing, but with time, he thinks he may even enjoy being human one day, with his new family showing him the better parts. Warm showers, hot meals, long hugs, family nests… If he'd known what was waiting for him when he Fell, he would've rebelled long ago.