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Tuesday
Tick Tick Tick
Time marks the moments between choices, between what you’ll eat for dinner or for breakfast, between what you have to look forward to and what you can’t stop looking past.
Castiel stared up at the wall clock. Its white face and black hands stared back at him. He watched the second marker move, listened to its hypnotic rhythm as it counted down to the close of day. Clocks were new to him. That humans would use circles to measure time seemed almost miraculous, as if they sensed the cyclical nature of the universe but couldn’t quite face it so they used the clock to defer the meaning and then posted them everywhere. Time was new to him too.
“Close of day,” he whispered to himself. The neon store sign flickered as his finger flipped the switch. He took his time as he wandered around, checking machines, shutting them off. He still had no place to stay so he would rest in the back room, as he’d become accustomed to. He had money. The bills were stuffed into his duffle bag, but without a human history, a human name that meant anything beyond the random television character he’d stolen his current moniker from, he was in effect homeless.
There were things like credit and experience and addresses, phone numbers, points of contact. Being human required being in humanity, hooked up to it like a dying man to a heart monitor. Humans didn’t realize how dependent they were on the invisible ties, the ones that only happened with words and numbers. As an angel he’d never understood that connection, often dismissed it as his brethren did, as weak and flawed, another defect that God had neglected in his glee to create the perfect imperfection. Now, as he reflected on his recent and current homelessness, the kind that he couldn’t disappear out of, he started to understand how God’s imperfections were really just preparations. Being born without means being born within.
His nightly ritual ended with the counting of the drawer. He collected the paper and metal in his hands and started to count. He didn’t understand the value placed on what was a story, simply a story humans told themselves about worth, possession, wealth. There was nothing inherently precious or priceless about the money. He remembered when wealth was the amount of food stored in a cave, the number of sons a man called his own, even the number of kills a warrior could claim. Humans marked wealth as they marked time, with objects that only had meaning that most of the tribe agreed to. Time is money. Money is time. All clichés. Humans loved clichés. Castiel didn’t love clichés. In fact, he felt as if at any moment he would become one – the lost son wandering in the desert until he was found. But what was the point of being found by the angels? It would only mean death at their hands, by their choice. The one thing he loved about humanity was that they had the right to choose. That right was ingrained in them, tattooed on their beings when they received souls – humans were created by choice to choose. He envied their right and coveted it.
“You’re human now,” Castiel reminded himself as he lost count of the money. He started again, laying the bills out in rows, separating the coins into small piles. He didn’t rush or feel hurried. There was a certain type of comfort to the monotony of counting, tangible in ways he could never appreciate as an angel. If he was forced to describe what it felt like to be an angel, he’d have to define it as full and tedious. Even with the wars and the anger, his state of being was always the same. Monotony was angelic.
After he completed his tasks, he headed toward the store room. He ran his hand over the boxes and cans of food as he made his way back. He thought about choice. The ultimate choice was within reach, the choice that excluded all others. The choice to end.
“I’d be a rich man in ancient Mesopotamia with this store,” he said to the empty room.
No one replied. No one listened.
Wednesday
“Here’s your change. That’s $1.24.” Castiel laid the money in the old woman’s palm.
“Thank you, Steve.” Edith winked and turned to exit. He watched her slow and stilted gait as she walked away. She was close to death and he hoped that it was peaceful.
He continued checking customers out. It was the morning rush, so many of the day’s laborers were starting to trickle in to purchase coffee and packaged desserts. They called them breakfast pastries but they were just treats. He wondered if it was a reward for surviving another day or a way to get through the one ahead of them. His own body seemed to be okay with the minimal diet he fed it. He didn’t really need much and the over processed food had a metallic taste he couldn’t quite enjoy. When he’d gotten his first paycheck, he’d bought a hamburger because he’d remembered the pleasure he’d experienced during Famine’s visit, but his memory was faulty it seemed. After finally getting the store to cash his check, he’d run outside to the nearest fast food stand and ordered the greasiest burger he could get. But after the first bite he’d sensed a difference. That had been Jimmy Novak’s comfort. It wasn’t his.
After that brief food interlude, he’d stuck to simple things. Fruits, sandwiches, salads. The fresher, the better. If he was stuck in this body for a while, he figured he’d better make it livable.
“Hey, you’re weird.”
Castiel glanced down at the small child. She was perhaps seven. Her mother looked on, red-faced, and apologized.
“Cassie, say you’re sorry! You can’t tell strangers they’re weird.”
“But he is, Mom! He keeps staring at stuff,” Cassie replied.
“And that’s wrong?” he asked of the child.
She rolled her eyes, “Yes, you can’t stare at stuff because people think you’re weird.”
“Why?”
The little girl’s shoulders rose, “I don’t know. I don’t get it. You just can’t do it.”
“Well I have the ability, actually,” he corrected but they were interrupted by the mother’s cell phone. It played a loud series of beeps and she turned away, keeping her hand on her child’s shoulder. Castiel looked at the little girl and she looked back.
“You’re doing it again,” she warned, crossing her arms against her chest.
“So your name is Cassie?” He asked. “Is that short for something?”
“Cassandra,” she murmured, shifting away from her mother’s touch. Castiel glanced around the store and it was starting to calm down. There were a few customers at the soda machine, but other than them, the morning rush stopped as suddenly as it began. He bent down so they were eye to eye.
“It’s a beautiful name. Did you know that Cassandra was the woman who predicted the fall of great kings?”
The little girl shook her head, “No.”
“She did. She was a grand and beautiful woman in ancient Greece. She was blessed with vision but cursed never to be believed. She could see the future but no one would listen.”
“Sounds like a fairy tale.”
Castiel bent down so he could look the girl in the eye. “Well, I know that it’s not a fairy tale. Want to know why?”
Cassie glanced up at her mother, who was still talking on the phone, and then back to Castiel. She shrugged. “Why?”
“You see, the world has a story that it wants to tell you, created just for you. Cassandra tells you the story of faith. Sometimes she’s a girl who sees wars no one else sees and sometimes…” Castiel paused and thought about the past few years. He glanced back at Cassie and said, “And sometimes she’s a man who places the fate of the world in the hands of his brother. It’s about living without knowing what’s going to happen.”
The girl rolled her eyes., “Sounds stupid.”
“I don’t know if I’d call it that,” Castiel responded. He was about to say something when the mother interrupted.
“Can we check out now?” Her voice was tinged with irritation. He’d started to acquire the skill of discerning tone in humans. They were complex creatures and now he was one of them.
He walked back around the counter and rang their items up on the register. The girl continued to stare at him as he handed the woman’s credit card back to her.
“It’s impolite to stare,” he told her and she giggled.
The mother put her hand on the girl’s shoulder and ushered her out.
The rest of the day went by quickly and Castiel again found himself cleaning out machines and counting money as the neon sign flickered off.
Thursday
Thursday is his day.
Castiel stares down at the money in his hand. It was payday and he’d worked “overtime,” which apparently meant more money. Nora had told him that he’d have to cut back on his hours this week because the store couldn’t afford more overtime. He wasn’t sure what she meant but he’d agreed. He had the next three days off. He’d hid his sleeping bag in the storeroom ceiling, so he was effectively homeless for the weekend. But he had his duffle and perhaps he wouldn’t need a home soon.
Nora shooed him out after she cashed his paycheck, with the command to “Go have fun.”
He wandered around the small city for hours. First he went by the bus station. It’d been the first place he’d found shelter in when he arrived. Dean had given him enough money for a bus ticket and a motel and food for a few weeks, or that’s what the other man had whispered when he dropped him off at the lone bench. When he’d arrived here in this town, he’d had little left of the money. Dean forgot to mention where to hide his cash and so little by little it’d been stolen or spent.
Castiel circled back through the town’s small square and found himself yet again in front of the store. He stared in at Nora. For a while he’d thought there was a chance for him to live a normal human life. He remembered little of his time as Emmanuel, just bits and parts, like puzzle pieces with unhinged edges. He’d shed that life in his moment of revelation and even Daphne, kind and sweet and loving Daphne, was a mere mirage now, a figment lost to the millenia. He’d had his forty days in the desert, met his temptation, and crawled out parched with a thirst for humanity that he pushed down and in. But Nora had reminded him of that desire, that want to feel connected to something by choice rather than by duty and fealty. To be anything other than angelic.
When he’d wandered into the convenience store after a few days he’d just wanted to wash his face in the bathroom and maybe buy a cheap can of soda with the money he had left. He had been on his way out when he noticed the manager struggling to get a man to leave – a man who refused to go. He stepped in and tried to talk the man into leaving but when that didn’t work, he’d used what he learned from the Winchesters and simply removed him. After that Nora had offered him a job and here he was, passing time and counting change.
All of his money was stuffed into the inside pocket of his only jacket. Eventually, he found himself in front of the small movie theater in town. It was close to 2pm so the first matinee was showing. He walked up to the counter and handed the bills to the young teenager behind it. His name tag read “Gary.”
“Hey Steve, what’s up?” Gary took the money and handed him the ticket. Castiel smiled because that’s what humans do – they smile at each other to make sure that they aren’t a threat to one another. It’s a habit they formed early on in their evolution – turning a growl into a smile.
“The sky,” Castiel replied with an exaggerated wink, taken from one of the movies he had recently watched, and Gary snickered. The young cashier nodded towards the entrance, “Horror film today. Hope you didn’t eat.”
Humans were prone to hyperbole. The movie was some story about teenagers coming across a monster and then each of them dying in a predictable manner – in order of humans’ self-congratulatory as well as self-flagellatory nature. The pretty girl, the athletic boy, the other – which is usually ethnic in American films, and so on. It wasn’t horrific or even terrifying; it was more pathetic because it was so unknowing.
He watched the film and thought of Bobby Singer.
Bobby was a man of varied tastes, but when he’d visit sometimes the old man would have movies playing in the background. They were older movies, set in the American West, and Castiel never paid much attention to them until a few weeks ago, when the television in the store had been set to some channel that was playing them all day long. He could’ve changed the station but he’d left it going. A strange feeling had come over him then. He thought it might’ve been grief or regret. Bobby was one of a long string of victims of this war, a war he never knew existed – one that should’ve stayed off the earth. But he wasn’t a victim, Castiel reminded himself. No, when Bobby was faced with insurmountable odds he still persevered. Why? Castiel pondered what it was that stood at the core of the man’s humanity, the core of most of them actually – humans, when confronted with the hollowness of it all, still lived. What was in them, he wondered, not for the first time. He guessed it didn’t really matter though.
Castiel looked around the room and was about to get up to leave when something caught his eye. Over near the old drapes that were drawn back from the stage, a figure hovered for a few seconds and then like a scene on an old television, flickered and disappeared. He guessed it was a young woman, maybe fifteen. He recognized that sign – ghosts were signals that tried to insert themselves back into the story of the world.
He got up and headed back out. He stopped at the front desk and gestured for Gary.
“Do you have ghosts?”
Gary laughed, but when he saw the serious expression on Castiel’s face, he hesitated and then said, “Man, I told you it was a horror movie. Steve, come on, you know the difference between fact and fiction?”
Castiel could tell by the lilt at the end of his sentence that he was asking a question. He knew better than to say these things. He’d been learning, dammit. But humans played word games, always wanting to talk around issues, not about them. They never said what they meant, just left it up to the listener to figure it out. He missed the potential for knowing their minds even if he refused to use that power.
“I mean, does this place have ghost stories?” Castiel thought up the lie quickly, surprised by his improving capacity for duplicity.
Gary looked more comfortable with this question, “Yeah, yeah, we do. Some say the first owner’s daughter haunts the place. She killed herself on stage. Hung herself up nice and good from the rafter on opening night of Carrie of all films. Ain’t that ironic?”
“I suppose so, but irony is not important here. Where is she buried?”
Gary lifted his hands and backed away, “Whoa, dude. Why are you asking that?”
Castiel shifted his eyes and realized that they had an audience. Several patrons were listening and their expressions told him that he was being inappropriate. Again.
“Nevermind,” he muttered and hurried out. He’d learned from the Winchesters that attention was not a good thing to have on a case.
As he walked around he thought about the ghost. If she wasn’t hurting anyone, then maybe he’d better leave it alone. He was trying to live his life, a human life, and the more he tried to keep his past the longer it would be to learn how to adjust to his humanity. He reached into his pocket and felt the money he had. He’d have to find a room for the night and without proper documentation, he was bound to find something in the more crime ridden parts of town, the parts that don’t ask for identity cards or credit scores.
The wind was picking up so he pulled the jacket closer to his body, once again surprised by the frailty of a body. It was so much a part of the world, both strong because of it and vulnerable to it. Angels coveted the human body. Most would never admit it, but there was something beautiful about the way humans worked, how their skin felt, how their senses could take in the world and yet miss so much in it. God created them for their weaknesses, made them live and strive for greatness. They were not born to it. They were His greatest accomplishment and all angels hated them for that, hated their vulnerability because it was a gift God never granted them.
When he got into his rented room later that night Castiel looked around at its interior. It was clean at least. He flipped on the television and watched the news, but the image of the young girl at the theater wouldn’t leave his mind. He turned the television off and decided to sleep. He ate a small dinner at the local waffle house and so now it was time to sleep. He’d spent months trying to get this routine down. Time and its effect were not easy lessons. Usually he’d fall asleep after an hour, sometimes sooner. He’d wipe his mind clear of anything and if that didn’t work, he’d imagine stocking the shelves at the store. The monotony of the image would often sing him to sleep like a lullaby.
He finished the stocking of the shelves in his mind and turned to the clock. It was 1am. And still the ghost haunted him. He reached for the phone on the bedstand and dialed the front desk.
“Yello?” An old woman’s voice greeted him.
“May I make a long distance call?”
There was a pause before the woman replied, “Adding it to your bill. Better pay up in the morning.”
“Of course,” he replied.
“I’ll open a line up and you can dial. No more than two minutes or I’m cutting you off.”
He was about to agree when he heard the click. Gratefully he had a good memory so he dialed the number quick and waited. The phone went to voicemail.
“This is Dean Winchester. If you have this number then it better be a damn emergency. Leave your name and number and I’ll call back.”
Castiel waited for the click and simply said, “I need your help, Dean. I’m at the Dunlow Inn, Room 145.” He hung up. It was the only thing he could think to say.
He put the phone back on the table and sat there. Sleep eluded him so he imagined opening up the drawer on the register and counting last night’s profits.
Friday
The pounding on the door woke him from a deep sleep.
“Castiel! Your ass better damn well be in there. I’m giving you to the count of…”
He opened the door and looked at Dean. Sam was standing back a few feet and Dean’s fist almost hit his nose. He ducked the blow and in the process saw the bedside clock. It was close to 1pm. He’d slept into the afternoon. Luckily he rented the room for three days so he didn’t have to worry about checkout but it was the first time he’d not greeted the day before 6am.
“Dean? Sam?” He shook his head and tried to get his bearings. He must’ve fallen asleep about 5am and so he was still trying to figure out the day.
“You called at ass o’clock in the morning with an SOS and you’re here playing Sleeping Beauty?” Dean walked in and looked around the room, “Please tell me this is not your apartment.”
“I don’t have an apartment, Dean. Apartments require credit and history and all the things a fallen angel would not possess and unfortunately I don’t have those guys on TV who can get me a fake history.”
Sam nodded and stepped in front of his brother. “So, you called us for help? We thought it was an emergency so we hightailed it here. What’s the problem?”
Castiel glanced between them and realized that he may have jumped the gun. He should’ve left a clearer message, but he’ll blame it on human exhaustion. “I was tired so I wasn’t clear. There seems to be a haunting here, at the local theater, and I don’t know how to handle it.”
“A haunting? Ghost kill someone?” Dean sat down on the bed and looked up at him.
“Well, no, she hasn’t.”
“She destroying things?” Sam asked as he chose the chair to sit down on.
“No.” Castiel felt stranger and stranger at the questions, realizing he may have brought them here for no reason.
“Then how do you know it’s a ghost?”
He looked at Dean, “I saw her. I was in the theater, watching a movie. A bad one, by the way - when I noticed her at the edge of the stage. I asked about her and the cashier said that there are stories about the owner’s daughter hanging herself on stage.”
“So you just asked the cashier about their ghost?”
Castiel turned to Sam, “Well I kind of asked and then when he told me, I asked where she was buried but then everyone was looking at me like I had three heads, so I just left.”
“Rule number one of hunting, never ask outright. They’ll think you’re crazy. You know this, Cas.”
Sam looked at his brother, “Dean, it’s not like he’s here hunting. It was a legitimate question to ask. Maybe it could’ve been asked better.”
“So we need to find where this girl is buried and burn the bones,” Dean announced. He got up and headed to the door. He glanced back at Sam and nodded. “Let’s go to the library. That’ll get you excited, right?”
Sam turned to Castiel, “Do you know when she killed herself?”
“The night the movie Carrie premiered.”
Dean chuckled, “Well ain’t that ironic?”
“That’s what Gary said too.”
“Gary?” Sam asked as he stood up.
“The cashier. He likes thrash metal, loose girls, and Sour Patch Kids. It’s rather a bizarre combination.”
Both of the brothers stared at him and he realized the comment sounded strange. “I go to movies a lot. Not much else to do besides work.”
“Well, um, okay,” Dean muttered. “Why don’t you stay here and we’ll take care of this.”
Castiel noticed the way Dean stared at his brother. It was an odd expression, as if he were trying to hurry them out.
Sam stopped, “You know? Why don’t I do this and you stay here with Cas? You can catch up and I’ll swing back around to get you?”
Dean shook his head, “No, we’ll go together.”
“Come on, Dean. I saw the library right down the street. I’ll be an hour, tops.” Sam’s head leaned sideways and he gave his brother a look, one that Castiel couldn’t quite translate.
Dean rolled his eyes and sighed, “Fine, but if you’re not back in two hours I’m coming to get you and then no more Lucky Charms for you.”
“That worked when I was seven, Dean. And you totally eat that crap still.”
Dean grinned, “Because it’s good and good for you. Read the box.”
“Whatever. We won’t need to worry about a monster, demon, or angel killing you. Your tombstone will say, ‘Killed by Diet.’”
Castiel watched as Sam closed the door behind him. He turned to Dean. They stood there awkwardly until the other man said, “Let’s go eat. I’m hungry.”
“I should shower,” Castiel murmured but Dean scoffed.
“You can do that later. Now we eat. Where is the nearest diner?”
Castiel grabbed his jacket and replied, “The house that makes waffles is about a block down.”
Dean shrugged his shoulders, “Well that’ll do. Nothing like waffles, eggs, and skeevy waitresses to get the day going.”
“I don’t think they have scurvy, Dean. I’m sure they have plenty of Vitamin C in their systems.”
“Oh Cas, I do miss you at times,” he laughed as they headed out. They walked side by side and held silent. Castiel didn’t really know what to say. He’d been upset when Dean had asked him to leave the bunker and while he’d seen Dean during the hunt for the Rit Zien, but that had been quick and his focus had been on Nora and his new life, but now he wondered where the joy had gone. He missed the bees. He missed the brothers.
They got to their table and remained silent. Once they ordered their food, Castiel finally spoke.
“Why did you ask me to leave?” The question, like the ghost, had bothered him and he thought this was the best approach. Just ask.
Dean didn’t answer for a minute. He looked around, in what Castiel knew was a way of avoiding the question but also checking to see if anyone was listening. Finally he stopped and stared at Cas.
“You see, man, it’s a whole bunch of things, but you know the trials, they messed Sam up and with all of this,” he paused and started again. “Truth time. That angel? Ezekiel? Well he promised to heal Sam but in order for him to do that he had to….” Dean halted.
“What did he have to do, Dean?” Castiel watched the other man, who glanced away.
“You know what? It’s nothing. It’s just that he said you’d bring a bunch of angels down on us and he couldn’t do it with you around.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Dean. They’d feel him, too. In fact, I’m not detectable anymore.” Castiel looked up, thinking. “I’m human, Dean. They can’t see me anymore. I’m one among billions.”
“One of us, huh? How does that feel, by the way?”
Castiel shrugged, “Filled with hunger and need. Uncertainty. Fear even if I know that there is something besides this. Like being human, Dean. I don’t know what else to say.”
They sat in silence as their food arrived. As they ate, Castiel tried once more to get Dean to talk to him about Ezekiel. There was something about this that didn’t feel right. Dean seemed scared and unsure, much more than usual. The man wore arrogance as a cloak – it hid the terror inside, the fear that he’d fail, especially Sam. “Dean, tell me about Ezekiel.”
Dean stared at him for a second before saying, “Hey, man. I’m sorry, okay? I wish….”
Dean couldn’t finish. He was staring behind Castiel. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Sam walking to their table.
“Guys, I got some info.”
Sam sat down and pushed a few papers toward the middle of the table. “Seems like the girl did kill herself but get this.” He pointed at a copy of a newspaper article on top, “The mother killed herself a year before that, almost to the day. So maybe it wasn’t about a boy?”
Castiel grabbed the papers and read. The story was tragic, as most human stories of suicide were. A mother in the grips of mental illness leaves a child alone with a devastated father. She looks for love in any place she can and when rejected, turns to the only way out. Sometimes time just runs out it seems.
They talked for a while and then headed out to chase the ghost. Castiel grabbed the check to pay, since he did call them here, but Sam shook his head and took the check.
“I got it.” Dean grabbed it from Sam and said nothing as he walked to the cash register. Dean, the man who only counted money when it meant something.
While he waited in the Impala, the brothers went into the theater to speak to Gary. He looked around at the spare surroundings of the car. This was their home. For all the motel rooms and random places of residence, this car was the center of their universe. Funny how their home was a car and their yard, an open road.
When they didn’t get new information from Gary, they wandered about the town for a bit.
They went to the local newspaper, the library, and even visited the now decrepit father who suffered from dementia. It was an all-around sad tale. Finally they made their way back to the motel room. Castiel was surprised by how tired he was. It was early evening and he heard Dean talk about going out, but the words melded into each other as he fell asleep.
Saturday
“Oh joy,” Dean whispered as they made their way into the motel room. The three of them were in a jovial mood. They’d been out all night, after a day of dead ends and no ghosts. At least no ghosts that they could find.
“Dammit, Cas, you dropped frigging beer on me, man!” Dean scoffed as he peeled the jacket off. There was a large stain on his shirt.
Sam laughed as Dean cursed and threw the jacket at his brother. It dropped in a heap on the floor and Castiel made note to clean up before checkout. He may need to stay here again.
“Hey, watch it, asshat! It stinks like cheap beer and hookers.” Sam kicked the jacket away.
“Shut it, Cinderella. So you get dirty. Boohoo,” Dean muttered as he rushed toward the bathroom. The door shut on his shouted, “I call the shower first!”
Sam sighed and rested his head against the wall.
“You look tired,” Castiel said as he wiped the mud from his face. “How have you been feeling lately, since the trials?”
Sam straightened up, “Fine, really. Dean just makes a big deal out of stuff.”
“He cares about you.”
Sam threw the towel on the floor, “Yeah, well he needs to stop babying me. I feel like I’m five again. He even makes me breakfast. It’s kind of creepy.”
Castiel checked the door to make sure it was closed. He could hear the shower going and so he felt safe enough to talk to Sam. He and Sam didn’t talk a lot. It was part of their history. He’d been the angel fighting against Sam’s destiny and the one who Dean had turned to when Sam was gone. He always felt that his and Dean’s relationship was the barrier to his and Sam’s. And it was too bad because he and Sam had more in common.
Both were younger siblings of strong, obstinate beings. It was just by chance he took the body of a man, but he’d have felt the same towards Michael, Gabriel, and the rest no matter his body. He understood Sam in a way that he thought Dean missed. He’d realized that when he had the hallucinations of Lucifer, when he’d tried to redeem himself for taking Sam’s sanity and his chance at recovering normalcy. They’d thought him crazy for his behavior, and maybe to the human mind it was. But he’d felt free for the first time since his birth. He’d been unshackled from everything – from obligation, from duty, from the sense of belonging to one thing and just allowed himself to belong to all things. It’d been a paradise of sorts.
Dean had been angry at Sam for not searching for him when they were in Purgatory, but Castiel thinks he gets it. Sam had found his own bees to listen to, his own freedom from prison. These brothers loved each other more than anything, and it was that love that gave him faith in humanity when the rest of the world seemed easy to dismiss. But it was love, also, that bound a person to life, bound them to doing things for the other, for being something to the other. And that could be its own prison at times. So he understood Sam. He just wished he could tell the man that.
They enjoyed a companionable silence. The thrum of the shower provided background noise as they sat there. Suddenly Sam asked, “What if it was really over a boy?”
Castiel looked up at Sam, “What?”
Sam glanced at the angel. “Her boyfriend left her for someone else and she was so distraught that she wanted him to see her die on the night of their first date. The guy was traumatized for years.”
“It wasn’t over a boy,” Castiel spoke. He got up and moved back to the bed.
“She could’ve had a life, though,” Sam got up and sat next to him.
Castiel sighed, “But at that moment, a life lived in part probably seemed no life at all, just a counting of days.”
Sam looked at him, “Cas, why’d you leave?”
He started, surprised that Sam didn’t know. Something was going on here. Dean’s earlier reluctance to talk about Ezekiel. Sam not knowing why he left. He needed to ask Dean what was going on. Instead of answering, he gave Sam another towel, “He cares about you, more than you know.”
Sam took the towel and picked at the threads before saying, “Yeah, I know.”
“You’re lucky, Sam. Remember that. Most humans spend their lives hoping someone will look after them. They pray for it, beg for it. The songs of angels are echoes of the lonely.”
“Who’s next?” Dean interrupted. He was wearing another pair of jeans. Castiel turned and saw the opened duffle near the door and he realized he had nothing left to change into.
Sunday
Sunday is a holy day for most people in the town. It was 11am and he found himself wandering toward the theater. Sam and Dean had been up the previous night watching old black and white TV shows featuring a woman and her Hispanic husband. Apparently it was funny, so they kept watching until he’d finally asked them to go to their room next door.
He got up early and saw that they were still in their room. He knew they’d leave today so he wanted to be gone before they left. He didn’t want to say goodbyes or anything. He had a life here but it still stung that they had this life that seemed to block him out now. He tried not to resent it but the human in him did. The human he turned into was a slight bit petty.
He almost walked past the theater but something stopped him. Even though they’d found another case, Castiel was still bothered by the fact that this ghost was trapped inside the theater, destined to grow into a spiteful, dangerous, and cruel thing that she probably wasn’t in life. Ghosts were the echoes of emotions, usually the final ones felt before death – fear, confusion, anger – all of the powerful feelings that breed discontent.
He reached out and turned the handle on the door and was surprised to find it open. But then he remembered that Gary liked to smoke marijuana before his shift and Castiel imagined him lurking in the back alley, dragging puffs from the “joint.” He entered the silent theater and made his way to the front. He thought it could be seen as funny to know that he was here in this dark, moody place while many others were kneeling in the bright, stained glass light of a chapel. Of course, it never matters where one prays. Churches are just as good as theaters. He bent down and clasped his hands, hoping that he could will some goodness towards the ghost, perhaps giving her something to hold onto a little while longer before she fell into the madness of suspended life or aborted death.
He was looking to the side of the stage when she appeared. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, he scooted out of the aisle and walked back stage. She flickered off and on as he neared. She scurried back, away from him, as he came closer. Finally, he was next to her. He held out a hand.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “I’m here to help.”
The ghost bent her head and looked at him with a quizzical gaze. She didn’t speak or try to move her lips. She was just sad. Sad and lonely, as most ghosts were.
“You have to let go,” he told her. “You just need to close your eyes and think of another place. A place that’s not here, okay? I promise.” He stopped for a second. What could he promise? Heaven? Hell? Oblivion? “I promise it’ll be over,” Castiel said. “It’ll finally be over.”
He watched as she moved her hand towards his. He realized that she just wanted to touch, to be touched. The thing about dying, for all creatures, is that it happens alone, even the reaper can’t feel what death is like. No one can be there when you pass through the veil. While your mother may have pushed you into the world, you are solely responsible for pushing out of it. Castiel knew that fear and that exhilaration, knew them now more intimately than ever.
Just as her hand was almost touching his, when the wisp of air stood between the echo of her body and the reality of his, a light began to glow around her. Fire danced along her arms and he watched as her mirage disappeared into imaginary dust.
The Winchesters had burned her bones without him. Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes. Time set to the tune of a blowing wind. And he knew it was their faith in him that led them to that cemetery. They didn’t need to see her. They just needed to know that he saw her. For the men who would’ve ended the world, they have saved so many small worlds on their way, including his.
He left soon after and made his way back to the motel. As he was walking up, he saw the brothers putting their gear in the Impala.
“Hey, Cas, we took care of the bones.” Dean nodded at the shirt he was wearing. “And the shirt looks good on you. You really need to get some new threads, dude. Uniform blue is so last year.”
Castiel was about to say something when Dean held up his hand, “Before we go, I need you to do something for me.” Dean took an item out of the trunk and walked up to him. He handed Castiel a gun. “Take this, Cas. If you’re gonna be staying in places like this, you’re gonna need it. You know how to use it?”
“I’m familiar with weaponry, Dean.” He stated. “I was in Heaven’s army.”
“Well Heaven’s army has swords and glowy eyes, not bullets and steel. Let me see you hold it.”
Castiel took the gun and pointed it.
“Whoa, away from the face, man. I still want to live.” Dean pushed the gun down and took Castiel’s hand. “Here, hold it like this. Firm grip and no hesitation. Some possessed body with one of your peeps come storming at you? Shoot and then regret, hear me?”
Castiel flexed his fingers, “Yes, Dean.”
“Okay, so make sure to keep the gun loaded and locked.” Dean showed him quickly how to manage the gun and then handed it back. “Got it?”
He nodded, “Yes, Dean.”
“Good,” he smacked him on the back and opened the driver side door on the Impala. “We’ll see you around, okay?”
Dean was bending to get in when Castiel asked, “Why, Dean?” The question was as loaded as the gun. Dean nodded to Sam, who got in the car and closed the door.
He stepped closer, “Because of Sam. You have angels on your ass and I can’t let them get close to him right now. Not until he’s better, okay?”
“You were going to tell me something at the house of waffles. What was it?”
Dean looked over his shoulder at the car. He turned back and hesitated before saying, “I hope you’re right about Ezekiel. I hope he’s one of the good ones.”
“He is. I know this. Was that all?” Castiel knew Dean was lying but he realized that the moment when Dean would be truthful had passed back at the diner. Dean simply shrugged and nodded.
Castiel didn’t say a word as Dean got in the car and revved it up. He watched as the car made its way onto the street and away from him.
He waited for a moment and then instead of going back into his room, he took off towards the theater. When he got there he handed Gary the ticket money and didn’t look at the young man for fear of his expression. He headed straight into the theater and took a seat at the front. Cartoon figures were dancing around the screen but he made them no mind as he stared at the stage’s edge. The young ghost stood there, sadly watching the audience laugh and find joy in the film. He continued to look at her as the movie played on. Around the climax of the film, when the cartoon characters were close to their goal, he glanced at the side of the stage and for a moment imagined the fire moving up her body once again, turning her face, which for a moment showed true happiness, into dust and ash.
He stood up and left, not hearing the happy ending that echoed around him from the theater speakers.
Monday
Castiel checks the clock. 10:50pm. He’d spent the day trying to fix the shelves, which had been out of order since he left. He would tell Nora he can’t be gone for more than a day now. When he is, the shelves become a disaster area.
He walks around the store and checks the machines, shuts them off. He flips the light switch on the sign and returns to the register. The light flickers for a few seconds before darkening. He pulls the money from the drawer and starts counting. He looks up when he hears a noise. Someone is trying to get in. After a moment the person walks away.
Castiel feels for the gun in his pocket and takes it out. He lays it down on the counter and stares. A shiver of fear and adrenaline surges through him and he stares down between the gun and the money in his hand. This is what life has become. Counting money. Counting time. Is that all it was? He considers it all and for a moment he realizes that he doesn’t need to count the bullets. Only one counts.