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The comet says You should show me some respect to the monkey.
The comet has never had to say this before. This is the first monkey it's seen who doesn't know what it is, who doesn't regard it with awe and fingers that stretch its way before curling back in fear.
This monkey isn't an astronomer. This monkey says You look cold.
The comet is cold, objectively, as measured by instruments and heat maps and defined in name. But it doesn't feel it.
The comet is large, objectively, estimated through formulas and photos. It doesn't feel that either, but an awareness of its size emerges because of the way the monkey tilts his head up to take all of the comet in.
Are you cold? I got some extra jackets.
The comet doesn't know what to say to this, so it doesn't.
Do you know what a comet is?
Sure says the monkey. Big hunk of space ice.
Thousands of years of mythology, worship, study. All stripped away. Big hunk of space ice.
I wish I could see you the monkey says.
If I came any closer I would be subject to the earth's gravitational pull and the impact of my crash could be catastrophic for the entire biosphere.
The monkey ignores this.
I bet you'd look pretty.
The comet continues on its path before the monkey can say anything else. But it watches. The monkey does have extra jackets. The monkey is oddly passionate about food and film and music and cars. Sometimes the monkey sits on the roof when the comet's too far away to be heard, praying, chatting, to the big hunk of space ice. Sometimes the monkey sits on the roof when the comet is close enough to be heard, and before he can ask, the comet says. Yes. Every night.
The comet gets too close one day, trying to get a better look. He's pulled and pulled and pulled out of the sky. He doesn't feel cold. He feels hot. He feels terrified. He's losing piece after piece, burning away into something small. He's going to hit the earth. He's going to shatter.
The comet falls into the ocean, and Cas claws his way to the surface and gasps for air. Dean is sloshing his way towards him and yelling words of encouragement. They meet halfway, in water shallow enough that Cas bobs just above the sand.
How do you like the beach, Dean asks, and Cas pauses to consider how he likes the beach.
It's good. I much prefer it to being dashed upon the rocks.
The monkey laughs and hauls him onto slightly more solid ground. There's my comet.
I'm not an angel anymore, Cas wants to say, wants to point to the comets he can still feel in the sky and all the parts they have that he lost while accidentally diving onto this wonderful little planet. Dean ignores him.
I'm sorry I trusted Metatron, Cas wants to say. Dean ignores him.