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Castiel doesn’t really like the mountains, he prefers the sea. As an angel of the Lord he is raised to love all of the Creation equally, but nothing more than mankind. But he has made one exception, regarding the mountains and the sea. The mountains, rocks and hills give you a false sense of safeness. With the sea you know it’s traitorous, there aren’t any illusions. The mountains are constant, blocking the horizon, keeping you from seeing the world, while the sea is ever changing, reaching out, embracing the horizon and the world. He feels more connected to the Creation when he’s standing on a beach, hearing the waves, tasting the salt on his tongue, feeling the rough wind in his hair. While the sea is alive, the mountains feel dead, cold, hard rocks and boulders, no sign of life anywhere.
He loves the sea that’s never quite the same, always taking on a new form, no matter how long you watch it. He loves the beach with grains so fine they don’t seem to exist alone, only as a whole. The foam from the waves breaking far out and slowly being driven to the shore, piling up. He loves the hills made of sand, covered in razor sharp grass that creates small invisible cuts on your legs as you walk through. Cuts that burn when you finally have enough courage to dive into the saltwater that never seems to get warm. Water that is ever moving, ever changing, with waves so big they turn you upside down for so long you think you will never find the surface again. Waves that can caress your arms as you swim along the shoreline, but that slowly and traitorous drags, pulls, you out, so slowly you didn’t even notice and the only thing you can see is the sky. He loves the sky that can be painted with impressive sunsets, starry nights or clouds thick enough that they conceal the sun for a week. The ever present wind that blows sand in your eyes, freezing you to the bone. He loves the wind that is longed for during the hot summer days when the beaches are filled with people seeking refuge from the heat, from the burning sun, and hated during late autumn when the fishermen struggle with the last catch of the season.
The angel has existed for longer than mankind can even begin to fathom, and never has he felt more content than when he’s right here, right now, standing on the beach, looking out over the sea, a storm raging on, whipping up waves taller than the tallest man. Looking at the enormous mass of water, the single thing that makes Earth special, the source of all life, where it all began, that day so long ago. He can almost remember it. He remembers the first fish crawling its way up from the water. He remembers the great flood and he remembers millions of storms not important enough for mankind to substantiate, soaring through societies, villages, continents, destroying everything in their paths.
He loves rain, storm, thunder, winds, much more than sun and warmth. Rain is refreshing, life-giving, cleansing. It’s a new start, as it has always been, starting with the great flood. Noah and his family were the start of something new, metaphorically speaking. Seen with today’s eyes the flood wasn’t all that great to be honest, but for Noah and his kin it certainly was. The Elohist and the Jahvist seem to differ a bit in their opinions, as noticeable in the first four books in the Bible (especially the chapter about Moses and Mount Sinai), but that’s none of Castiel’s concern, not at the moment. What he likes is the meaning behind the great flood, a chance to begin again.
One of his favorite philosophical questions is the classic, from Heraclitus “No man ever steps in the same river, for it is not the same river and he is not the same man.” That single quote summons up everything that he has come to learn these past years working with the Winchesters. Before he was sent on a mission to rescue the Righteous Man from Hell he considered himself the same man as always and the rivers were constant, unmoving, dead. But then he met Dean. He had loved mankind deeply before meeting Dean, but it wasn’t until now he finally understood what it meant to love.
Castiel hadn’t understood how sacrificing, how demanding and how hurtful it could be. He hadn’t understood how safe, warm and reverent it could be. The love he had known prior had been a love based purely on respect, he was taught to respect and look after mankind, which he did, and he was taught to call it love. The love he felt now was deeper, it had attached itself to the bones of his vessel, to the core of his celestial form, etching itself into his mind, never letting go, coloring every moment, and every thought, of every day. It was moving, it was alive, it was always changing, just like the sea. The love he had felt before meeting Dean had been like the mountains, constant and unyielding, making him just like them, constant and unyielding.
It was Dean who had taken him to the sea for the first time. He had seen endless oceans and countless seas before, but this had been the first time he had seen it with his newfound love. It was the first time he’d seen it after beginning to think what it all really meant, love, life, mountains, seas. They had spent the day sitting silently side by side on the hood of the Impala, shoulders touching, eyes kept firm on the waves rolling in, smoothing the sand, over and over again, for hours. When the sun had set he still didn’t move, just sat there, with brow furrowed, listening to the sea now that he couldn’t see it, feeling the wind messing up his hair once again. He hadn’t moved until Dean’s hand caressed his and Dean’s voice whispering in his ear that they should be getting back home.
Now, when he felt his borrowed Grace drain from him, he returned as often as he could, sometimes bringing Dean with him, and sometimes moving between the fabrics of time, spending hours in a frozen moment looking at the living sea, using up some of his saved Grace to simply sit and not think, allowing himself to just watch, listen and feel.
This time he is standing on a beach in Denmark, watching the sea that stretches all the way to Scotland and then beyond. If he looks closely he can actually see along the horizon that the Earth is round, the way it curves at the furthest ends. Gulls are flying over his head, screaming at each other or at him, not that it matters, their voices get lost in the wind. Dark clouds cover the sky, covering the sun, that’s supposed to set soon.
He stands and watches, waiting for the sun to break through when he feels arms wrap around his waist and a chin coming to rest on his shoulder. He had brought Dean with him this time, but the other man had spent his afternoon at the local pub, trying the local beer, sensing that the angel needed some time to think.
“Are you ready to go home?” the hunter asks, pressing a kiss just behind the angel’s ear, a kiss that feels like the water that gently floats over your feet when you have your toes in the sand, waiting for the water to wash it away, only to bury them again and wait for the water once more. The angel doesn’t reply, just leans his head against the larger man’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around the strong arms circling his waist, still waiting for the sun to show underneath the clouds, waiting for a golden reflection in dark waves.
When the sun finally conquers the clouds the whole world is washed in gold, the whole beach lights up, the sea reflecting the gold, making it seem liquid. The sky is divided in two, the upper part still dark with brooding clouds and the bottom part is golden, shining, connecting to the Earth, allowing the sea’s embrace. As the angel watches the sunset he realizes that this is where he belongs, down on Earth, in Dean’s arms, and not in Heaven. He turns his head to look at his hunter, whose eyes are wide with awe at the sight, and whispers:
“Let’s go home, Dean.”