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One day Castiel says he is losing his powers.
Dean forgets this; they're at the grocery store, and normally he keeps his head down because there's still this kind of prejudiced fear of paranormals and he doesn't want to start any fights. But today he's careless. "Hey, angel," he says, "snap out of it. Look at me."
Cas tears his gaze away from the fresh produce and makes a face. "Angel," he says. "I don't think so. Maybe thirty percent of one."
"Thirty percent, huh. What's that mean? No more exploding lightbulbs?" Dean asks. "Or comas?"
"There were never comas, Dean."
"Hypothetically, there were."
Cas considers this, and tugs on the strings of the sweatshirt he's wearing. Dean's sweatshirt, because Dean's too cheap to buy anything new.
They check out, and the guy at the register smiles, and asks, how was your day, sir, and Dean says, great.
The drive back home is quiet. Dean's taken to going the long way home so he can avoid the mattress store. He doesn't want to hear about signs from God; he dreamed about them last night and when he woke up Victor was floating in the doorframe, winking in and out of existence. Victor likes to scare people, thinks it's pretty funny. Which it is, mostly. Haunting, Victor likes to say, is the most fun you can possibly have as a dead guy.
Jo doesn't like to come by his apartment anymore. "It's totally haunted," she says, and she knows he's a paranormal so she should know he'd attract ghosts. "Freaks me out." Jo is not easily freaked out, so Dean thinks maybe she saw something. Normal people don't like to think they can see things. Everyone can, obviously. Paranormals just hover closer to the veil. Liminal beings, in every way.
"My apartment is not haunted," he says, haughtily. "I mean, dictionary definition haunted, sure, but they're not, like, tormenting me." Victor materializes behind Jo and winks. "They just... don't really have any place to go. They like me."
That's weird, he thinks. It's been months since they had that conversation, weeks since he's even seen Jo. Castiel is sitting on his ugly patchy couch and is pressing each button on the remote, one by one. Dean doesn't even try.
But it is weird. He's never heard of paranormals attracting more than one or two spirits in their lifetime, and he's had at least twenty. He's definitely never heard of ghosts that dreamwalk, and he kind of doubts that all of them were paranormals when they were alive. Jess, she definitely wasn't.
He can't sense their exact presence; sometimes a light will flicker or the TV will fuzz out or some cold breath of air will float around the room, but unless they feel like showing themselves they generally keep themselves hidden. He's not sure why.
Cas talks to him about ghosts. Cas talks to him about everything, about being an angel and what, exactly, that means. "There's nothing special about our kind," Cas tells him, tonight. They're sitting in the kitchen with a deck of cards that Dean doesn't do anything with, just keeps shuffling as Cas talks. "I don't know if there ever was."
Dean's throat burns, his eyes burn, and he blurts out, "Yeah, well, I think there is something special about you." Angel of Thursday, he thinks. Thursday's child. Thursday's never been his favorite day of the week, but he thinks, maybe. Maybe it could be.
Cas doesn't say anything, but he smiles, this small, angelic smile. He reaches across the table and lays a hand across Dean's, and Dean freezes, midway through another nervous shuffle. Oh.
"Cas," Dean manages, and his voice is coarse and surprised and everything Dean doesn't want it to be. "We don't, humans don't, I mean, I, I don't, um, I–"
"I know." Cas's smile disappears, but his eyes turn bright blue, shining, happy, and the lightbulb above them shatters, sending glass shards everywhere. The last time that'll ever happen, Dean realizes, and can physically feel it as the last of Cas's angelic power melts into the ether.
They sit there, in the dark like that, hands intertwined, silent.
Dean finds his voice. "Welcome to being human," he says. He doesn't take his hand away. "Some people might call this poetry."
"What would you call it?" Cas asks. His voice is soft.
"I don't know." Dean shrugs. "Maybe a beginning."
"A beginning," Cas repeats. "I like that."