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As soon as Pamela hears the telltale fluttering of wings, she grabs the nearest weapon she can find - which turns out to be the knife permanently latched on her belt - and whirls around to point it at the newcomer. She can sense the presence brushing at her mind, spinning and alluring like the edges of a whirlpool. Her fingers cannot stop shaking, and she tries not hating herself for it. Do not be afraid doesn't really apply to her anymore, after all. She paid the price for that last time she dealt with those feathered fuckers.
She won't make the same mistake twice.
"I...come in peace," comes the angel's voice, deep and gravelly and so familiar it sends chills down her spine. She hears a soft shuffling - he's making two steps towards her. The faint smell of ozone seeps into her nostrils.
She keeps her knife trained in his direction, and tries to ignore the feeling of waving a stick at a tsunami. "You have got a lot of balls to show up here. Just before I ward the place against you lot."
"I did not mean to intrude." The voice is...careful, if not a little awkward. Like the vocal chords he's using aren't suited for the depth that he's trying to reach.
Pamela just scoffs. It doesn't look like he's about to take away another one of her major senses, though, so she allows herself to drop her shoulders a little.
"I came to apologise."
And Pamela properly laughs at that. An ugly thing, like a bark, one that she didn't use to have before the whole shitshow.
There's another shifting there, and the floorboards creak under the thin carpet. "I do not see how this is funny."
"Apologizing doesn't do jack shit, bird brain," Pamela snaps. "It still happened, and I'm still missing my eyes."
"I should have acted differently with you." A pause, like he's weighing his words. "You did not deserve to suffer for my carelessness."
Pamela shrugs. "Sure."
Another pause. Then, soft: "You can put down the knife. I do not intend to hurt you."
Pamela finds herself rolling the eyes she no longer has. She lowers the knife, but keeps it in her hand. The intricately carved wood twirls comfortably between her fingers.
She sighs, finally. "I heard you ditched camp for the Winchester boys."
She's been keeping tabs, despite her vow to stay the hell away from them. She's always been too nosy for her own good.
A sigh, and a hesitant pause. "Yes."
She raises an eyebrow. "How's that going for you?"
Castiel moves as if to turn away from her. She thinks he won't answer, but then -
"Being cut off from Heaven is...not the easiest to adjust to." Pamela stills at that, surprised by the sudden honesty. She tilts her head for him to continue, aware of the utter strangeness of the situation. Here she is, making small talk with the angel who burned her eyes off. She has every right to kick him out of her house.
She's never been one to make wise decisions.
"Things are...dulled," Castiel continues. "Losing their fullness, their colours. The world is so much different on my senses now. I keep...having to adapt to it, wrap my new perceptions around the world again. It's painful. A little like-"
"Like losing your eyesight?" She asks, and she's surprised her voice is so steady.
A small silence. "Yes," Castiel says quietly. "Something like that."
She walks over to the table, snatching up the beer she had opened before the angel swooped into her flat like he owned the place.
A few gulps afterwards, she sighs. "You don't really get used to it."
Castiel stays silent.
And then the thought comes into her mind, and escapes her mouth before she can even process it.
"You know, the last thing I saw before this - " she waves vaguely at her face " - was you. The real you, not...whatever poor guy you're wearing around now."
"Jimmy," Castiel says immediately. She raises her brow, but doesn't press.
"Point is, as far as last sights go, it's not the worst one."
"...What?" comes the angel's stunned voice.
"Don't get me wrong," she says, loosely waving her knife in his direction. "You're an ass, and being blind fucking sucks."
Castiel hums, and before another apology leaves his lips Pamela presses on.
"I'm just saying, you're...something else. Not everyone can say they've seen an angel this way."
It's something that comes up a lot, in both her dreams and nightmares. The twisting fractals of light that drilled into her skull like too-sharp diamonds. The colours that couldn't possibly exist, swirling and racing around the rotating amalgam of feathers, rings and eyes. To this day she's not even sure what she witnessed exactly.
"I truly am - "
Pamela lifts up her bottle to shut him up. "Just...take the damn compliment, Castiel."
He shifts a little, clearly uncomfortable. Maybe he nods. She can't be sure, of course. But his voice does feel a little lighter as he speaks his next sentence.
"May you be well, Pamela Barnes."
And just like that, he's gone in a swoosh of feathers. The same way he came in. Her psychic senses release their pressure with a pop, like a plane dropping altitude.
Pamela's lips quirk up despite her, and she takes a gulp out of her beer.
"Feathered freak," she mutters, and goes to carve out the rest of her wards on her apartment door.