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The flutter of wings alerts Jack to his presence, so quiet against the ambient noise of the bar — laughing and music and some alien talk show that Jack doesn’t recognize — that Jack could almost miss it… if he hadn’t been expecting it. He sips his drink before looking over his shoulder, leaning heavily on the bar. “You sure you’re not the angel of death?”
Castiel sits beside Jack at the bar. “I’m sure.” The barkeep, nonplussed, sets a drink in front of Castiel at Jack’s gesture. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“You’re always sorry.” Jack’s drink is unpleasantly empty, which means he has to look at Castiel — really look at him, at all that fucking angelic sincerity. Castiel means it, every single time; always comes to his side when another companion dies, with a quiet, I’m to understand humans need companionship at times of grief. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I’m used to it by now.”
“It’s not a bother,” Castiel says, sipping his drink with a face. He’s still wearing that get-up — Holy tax accountant Dean would laugh while they were playing cards in some dirty hotel room, waiting for the Doctor to come pick them up. Jack had once asked why Castiel didn’t get a change of body, or at least a change of clothes; Castiel never answered. “Who was she to you?”
“Just a friend,” Jack replies, grateful when the barkeep returns. “The last in a bloodline. Martha Jones — firecracker, that woman was. Saved the world once, you know. Humanity lost a good one today.”
Castiel clears his throat. “I remember what it was like to see the Winchester line die. It’s not easy.”
“Nothing about eternity is,” Jack replies.