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Castiel stares up at the ceiling of the Impala for a long, languid moment before he stretches, glancing over to Sam and Dean in the front seat. It's dark, and the air is full, hot and heavy – it smells like sweat and gunpowder, whiskey and salt. He feels the heat slithering against his skin like a second layer, so he crooks a finger into his shirt collar and tugs. His trenchcoat is already in the foot-well. Sam looks over his shoulder with a small smile.
“Hey. You're awake.”
“Yes,” Castiel murmurs, digging the heel of his palm into his eyes, trying to rub away the heavy, dull lull of sleep in his skull. “It seems that I am almost fully human now...” Dean glances back, eyebrows arched.
“Are you serious? You've got no angel mojo left at all?!”
“I have a little, but I can't do anything with it. It's keeping me... alive. I suppose. I'm not versed in the exact details of Falling, this doesn't happen often.”
“No kidding,” Dean mutters. Sam pulls a sympathetic face and hands over a bottle of cool water. Castiel takes it, unscrewing the top as he slumps against the sticky leather and sips. It tastes sweet, tastes like tranquillity and self-assurance, like crisp, clear skies and sunlight. He drinks deeply – but it takes concentration. He has to go in order. Inhale, suck, hold, swallow, exhale. Repeat. The first time he tried to drink, he almost drowned. The memory makes his heart skip a beat.
He puts the lid back on and hands the half-empty bottle to Sam again. “Thank you.”
“No problem, Cas. Just let us know if you want to stop or anything.”
“I will,” he nods, settling back in his seat and – after a moment of deliberation – he slips his tie free from the knot and loosens a few buttons.
- - -
Dean pulls over a couple of hours later. They're in a small, sleepy town in the middle of Ohio, just passing through, and everything is calm and quiet. Castiel pushes himself up to sit.
“C'mon,” Dean says, opening his door and climbing out. “We'll get a room here,” he nods, gesturing towards the little motel clinging to the corner of the road. Sam clambers out and goes to grab their bags as Castiel pushes open his door and steps out.
He yelps, his knees buckling under him and he topples to the ground, a foot still inside the Impala as his face smacks into the asphalt. Dean swears and before Castiel can even begin to work out what happened, four strong hands are pulling him up and to his feet – which will not support him. It's like his bones have gone from the knee down, his nerves, muscles, tendons, ligaments, everything replaced with rubber.
“Jesus Christ, Cas, what the hell?!” Dean says, helping Castiel to lean against the side of the car. His head is spinning and his face smarts in a thousand places as his knees tremble – Sam's hands keeping him upright.
“I can't feel my legs,” he gasps, and suddenly his whole body shudders. Fear crashes through him, sharp and vast, and he can't breathe.
“Cas,” Dean says firmly, shaking him a little, “calm down. It's just cramp, okay? You didn't move your legs and they cramped up. You're going to be fine in like, five minutes.” Castiel's fingers twist in the leather of Dean's fingers, but he nods along, trying to control his breathing.
“It's going to hurt like a bitch, but it's nothing to worry about,” Sam smiles, gently patting Castiel's shoulder. “I promise.” Already Castiel can feel an itchy burn in the soles of his feet and behind his knees, and as it gets stronger and he grits out a pained noise, Sam and Dean grip onto him again. He lurches, leaning heavily against them, and a warm hand gently rests on his back.
It's comforting, even through the agony.
When Castiel can stand and walk unaided again, Dean and Sam pull back with twin grins, both trying not to laugh. He grimaces at them, breathing heavily, the last tendrils of pain still licking up his calves.
“I don't see what's so funny... does this happen a lot to humans?”
“Fairly often, if you don't keep moving,” Sam grins, picking up their bags again. “How's your head feeling?”
“You totally face-planted the sidewalk,” Dean laughs, locking the Impala and heading towards the motel. “Gave me a freaking heart attack. Thought you'd fainted or something.”
“It's sore.” Castiel mutters.
“Just wait until you eat your first bad burrito,” Dean smirks, and Sam groans from behind them.
“Oh, god. That's going to fun to explain.”
“... I'll avoid burritos,” Castiel says, gently touching his face – which feels hot and aches where his fingers brush. He wipes off some of the grit and dirt he can feel, but ignores the rest.
In their room, he presses a cool washcloth to his sore skin, sighing out in bliss as it almost instantly soothes the pain.
“Good, huh?” Sam smiles, handing over some cream. “Put this on too – just a thin layer, okay? Don't get it in your eyes or mouth.”
“What if I do?”
“Just wash it out with water.”
“Alright.” He takes the tub and goes to the mirror. His cheeks, nose and forehead are red and scratched, swollen and radiating heat. He stares for a long moment before slicking on the cream – a thin layer, avoiding his eyes and mouth – and hands it back.
The rest of the evening passes quietly and pleasantly enough. They watch TV, Dean tries to explain the jokes until he drifts asleep almost mid-sentence. Sam laughs, and Castiel smiles. He feels heavy again – sleepy, and the murmur of the TV and Sam's warmth next to him is soporific.
“I think I'm going to sleep,” he says softly, a few moments later.
“Sure thing,” Sam smiles, flicking off the TV and standing. “Good idea.” Castiel nods, standing. He turns – heading towards the mini kitchenette, his mouth dry. His foot catches the corner of the counter and he stumbles, grabbing onto the table, but it shifts and he crashes into the wall. The pain from his nose almost blinds him and as he staggers Sam grabs him, Dean not far behind.
“Cas! Jesus – are you okay?!”
“Christ, what's up with your co-ordination?” Dean grumbles. Castiel reels, spluttering, and blood is pouring down his face, onto his lips and chin and chest and hands, and he's dying, he's going to die here and bloody on a motel floor in Ohio, a fallen angel, a disgrace, a--
“--Breathe, Cas!” Dean pushes him down into a chair, gripping his shoulders as Castiel coughs and gags, the blood stark against his pale skin.
“Cas,” Sam says, firmly but softly, forcing eye contact. “Calm down. It's just a nosebleed. It's completely natural, you hit your nose twice in a short time, it happens to us all – you had one before, when you were an angel.”
“I couldn't... I couldn't--... feel it,” Castiel gasps, letting Dean pull his hands from his face and press a cloth to his nose.
“Breathe through your mouth, man. We got you,” he murmurs, and Castiel does as he's told, closing his eyes. He feels sick and dizzy and confused, heavy in the wrong places, feels hungry and thirsty and sore and disorientated.
He aches. Aches everywhere – aches where his skin is, where his Grace was, aches so deep inside it feels like a second heart. Aches for Heaven, for his brothers, his sisters, his Father – aches for innocence and belief, aches for control and safety.
“Hey, hey... Cas, don't--... come on, don't cry, it's just a nosebleed,” Sam says gently, genuine concern and worry in his voice as Dean shifts awkwardly. Castiel doesn't open his eyes, feels the sting of salt tears roll down his cheeks – and this is what he has been reduced to.
A crying angel on a motel floor with a bloody, human nose. His shoulders shake, even as Sam grips one.
“Cas... come on – look, it's already slowing down. It'll stop soon. You're going to be fine.”
“How do you cope...?” He croaks out a few moments later, the iron slick of blood coating his tongue.
“With nosebleeds...?” Sam asks, cautiously.
“With... everything. All of this--... these feelings, this pain... how do you stand it?” He opens his eyes, looks up at them, at their faces – at the warmth and kindness they keep so closely guarded behind skin as thick as the walls of castles.
Dean crooks a grin, patting Castiel's upper arm.
“You find the good things.”
“... The good things,” Cas murmurs, letting Dean mop up some of the blood from his face as Sam swipes up the blood from his hands and the floor. He looks at them, at the two broken, fragile men before him, looks at the blood on them – his blood – and the way they keep glancing up to him. There is something raw in their eyes. Honest. Something he used to feel in Heaven, eons ago.
This right here, Castiel thinks, is one of the good things.