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By the time Castiel arrives at the bunker, he's feeling significantly less enthusiastic about being human.
If he still had his Grace, he would have been able to tell something was wrong with the sandwich on a molecular level. But to his hungry, growling, human stomach, the tuna had smelled perfectly alright - especially slathered down with mayo as it was. He spends the rest of his bus ride realizing with dismay just how much not alright it had been.
When he finally, finally leans against the entrance of the bunker and makes his presence known, his guts spasming and clenching, he barely has the time to see the door open and Dean's familiar face light up with a smile, before he's throwing up bad tuna over Dean's boots.
"Freakin' charming," his friend mutters dryly, pulling him inside by the elbow.
---
He spends the next few hours facing waves of crippling nausea, groaning through cramps that really shouldn't hurt this much and oozing disgusting things from both extremities. After he's done, clammy with cold sweat and an acrid taste in his mouth, the last thing he wants is to ever see food again. He's pretty sure of this.
Which is why it comes as an absolute surprise when Sam offers him some egg on toast and his stomach gurgles in anticipation. Really?, he thinks, looking down at it, and his expression must be betrayed to the point of being comical, because Sam starts chuckling, but Castiel can't help it, because really?
However, there are things he must do before eating. For example, brushing his teeth; and working out the pressure is a tricky business when you're used to wielding weapons and angel swords, he discovers as he bruises his gums a few times with the energetic scrubbing. Then comes the shower, and its hot blast feels like a blessing against his tired - too tired - muscles and his sticky skin. He finds fresh clothes laid out on the bed the brothers allocated him, and he takes in the clean smell gratefully. The clothes belong to Dean, it's easy to tell; letting alone the fact that Sam's wouldn't fit him in a lifetime, there's the garish logo on the front of the t-shirt, featuring a pair of guns and two red roses. He pulls it on together with the sweatpants, and follows the smell of food back to the kitchen.
---
He thinks he loses track of time for a while then, because the next thing he knows, he's sat at the table with the empty plate in front of him and his chin in his hands, and Dean's looking at him with an amused expression.
"Dude. How 'bout you get some shut-eye, huh? You've been dozing on and off for like, ten minutes."
Had he? The realization is unsettling. He hadn't even registered closing his eyes. This body tires easily, so easily, and without so much as a warning. Castiel bites back the complaint, though, because this is the same humanity he had encouraged Hael to embrace, isn't it? And besides, he brought this on himself; and so he must, as Dean would say, suck it up and deal.
"Cas? You with me?" Dean's head is cocked in concern, and Castiel swallows, pondering his question.
"I... don't sleep."
Dean snorts. "Yeah, maybe not before, but you're a real boy now, Pinocchio. You gotta get a few hours of rest in."
"I know that," Castiel replies impatiently. "I just... don't. Haven't been able to. Not at the motel yesterday, not even on the bus."
"I get it. Losing consciousness like that's gotta be scary if you ain't done it before. You're safe here, though."
"I know that, Dean." Castiel replies, feeling a grateful smile warm his face. Dean, he thinks. You never stop wanting to protect everyone, do you? "But you misunderstand me. I've not been afraid to sleep, I just... can't."
"How's that?" the hunter shrugs in confusion, and Castiel squirms in his seat, suddenly uneasy for some reason. He purses his lips, trying to find the right words.
"It's too silent," he admits eventually, but it's not enough, the frown on Dean's face clearly spelling you wanna elaborate on that?
Castiel sighs deeply, and when he next speaks, he's surprised at how quiet his voice is, how subdued. "I can't hear people praying anymore, Dean. I used to hear it all, like a soft choir ebbing and flowing in the back of my mind. But I can't hear anybody anymore." He looks up, meeting his friend's eyes. "I can't hear you anymore," he admits, his voice heavy with grief.
Something seems to unlock behind Dean's eyes, his whole expression softening almost imperceptibly.
"I'm sorry, Cas." And after a pause: "Hey, why don't I try to get the radio working in your room? Perhaps if you get the news or something playing at low volume, that'll be kind of the same thing."
It won't be the same thing, not remotely, and Castiel considers telling him this, his eyes narrowing in frustration; but then he relents, because Dean is just trying to help, and Castiel can relate to that. So, "Thank you," he says, instead, forcing a wan smile, and follows Dean back to the bedroom.
Castiel lies down under the clean covers, listening to a woman reading out letters and dispensing relationship advice over the airwaves; they're almost like prayers, in a way; it's not the same thing, but it's something, and he must be even wearier than he thought, because he's asleep within minutes.
---
He wakes up in the dark with the dazed but intense conviction that he's regained his powers. Then: eyes bleary with tiredness, a foul taste in his mouth.
Still human, then. But there's something going on, a soft noise echoing in his ears that isn't the babbling of the radio, it's a voice he knows, knows from having listened to it time and time again, praying to him in the direst of times.
And then he realizes that it's because Dean is speaking, just not inside his head. Dean is sitting in a chair next to his bed, speaking to him even though he's asleep, whispering so as not to wake him, and Castiel is confused but he doesn't stir, because even with his rusty people skills, he knows that is the most surefire way to make Dean bristle and leave. So he lies still and listens.
"I did something stupid, Cas. Really honest-to-God stupid. And what a fuckin' surprise, right? But I had to. I had to, you'd see that if you knew." Even in the dark, Castiel can tell Dean's jaw is clenched tight, his eyes darting everywhere.
"Only, he wouldn't. Sonofabitch was so determined to just... give up. I couldn't let him, Cas, I just couldn't. So I did what I had to do. And I don't know what I'll do when he finds out, because this is-- this is all kinds of fucked up, and at least when I sold my soul it was all on me, but..." his voice trails off, thick with something Castiel isn't sure he can put a name to. Remorse. Grief, maybe, or anger. Maybe all three. When next Dean speaks, he's scrubbed them out of his tone with what feels like a strained effort.
"Anyway, what's done is done and there's no point whining about it. Don't even know why I'm here in your room like a creep flappin' my mouth about nothing. I guess I just. I'm scared that I've fucked everything up again with Sammy. And I can't tell him, and I can't tell you, because you can't help, not anymore. And I know you got your own crap to deal with, God, a whole shitload of it. But I wish you could, because I keep praying even if you can't hear it, and I just feel so freakin'alone, Cas."
There's a longer pause then, and for a few terrifying moments, Castiel is afraid the thundering of his heart against his ribs will give him away, because he's fairly sure if he were to look, he might see a glimmer of dampness in his friend's eyes, and oh, Dean. What did you do? Dean.
"Well, enough acting like a little bitch." Dean murmurs then, and Castiel can tell it's not directed at him, because it carries that harsh, embarrassed reproach Dean only ever aims at himself. There's a soft scrape as the chair is dragged back in its place, and then the door closes, and Dean is gone, leaving confusion and regret in his wake.
Castiel fists a hand in the pillow, forcing his heart rate to go down, and he thinks he's never felt so helpless in his entire existence.
---
It takes him a lot longer to fall asleep again.