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Castiel stares down at the earth below and feels at peace. He sits precariously, perched on the cloud’s light gathering of water molecules. His wings dip down into that tuft of suspended water, flicking about calmly as he idly bathes them. His long flight feathers slice clean through the fluff to open sky, due to his wings’ large size. They must be quite large in order to accommodate what at least appears to be a full-grown human man.
He is the embodiment of the day's essence. Foggy and quiet, sleepy and peaceable. He sweeps his wings up behind him, inhuman muscles flexing in his bare back to support their heft. Creating a gust powerful enough to disperse his previous resting place, he lifts up with a few careful flaps. The shrouded sun casts rays upon his vessel, grey down shining almost white in the luminance. He makes no sound as he swoops slowly lower, closer to the ground. Humans have always fascinated him, in a certain immediate sense.
That was just one among many reasons he prefers to lounge below the heavens. His siblings had never really understood him. Even as a fledgling Castiel had been relatively inexpressive. Of course, there was much he found of interest, a deep longing to fill his head with knowledge of that which his father had created. What bit of this he did manage to convey did the opposite of helping his social standing amongst those of his kind.
He however could never spare much attention to beings unreasonable or intolerant. Humans are often such, but they're simply so complex it never ceases to catch his attention. His focus is and remains steady, and without official instruction, he has been an observer of their triumphs and tragedies. When the first fish crawled its way to the sands he had watched, enraptured.
He is a seraph, a warrior of the holy host, and may in some instances become as cold and sharp as the steel of his own unsummoned blade. However, he is steady in battle as he is in heart. He had made it clear to those still on speaking terms with him that in no instance would he go back above the mud. They accepted this though no doubt thought him strange, solitude lingering in the puff of his lone warm breath against the crisp air.
He has been described by those few friends as solemn and melancholy. Castiel doesn’t see it though, he is at all times filled with a confusion of the world that evolves itself into a steady love and wonder. He lands softly in a field of corn, stocks swaying with the breeze. He stretches his glaucous dappled wings wide, taking up residence in a circle of barren land that has been deemed a ‘crop circle’. This assumes the existence of aliens, which is sadly a falsity. All life is of interest to him, but this circle was in fact made by the farmer himself, as Castiel had seen him carving it into his field only last week. He is badly in need of the money such publicity will bring, and Castiel silently applauds the practicality of the scheme.
Feeling the comfortable flex, he narrows his eyes at an unassuming stock, bent slightly askew at the rightmost edge of the clearing. He knows quite certainly that it was standing tall amongst its brethren approximately five minutes and forty-nine seconds ago. What creature could possibly walk amongst him without notice? And that’s when he hears it, a singular breathless gasp just to the left of him. Of course, when he turns he tilts his head quizically. Whatever is this boy, the farmer's son, doing walking about with a slate soul bright enough to rival his grace? He hasn’t a doubt that he’d overlooked the man because he had quite literally assumed the human a part of himself.
He levels a steady gaze at green eyes which are wide with shock staring at his wings. For the sake of politeness, Castiel lowers them down to be folded against his back. One should never flare their wings to full span at another unless they mean to allure or to threaten, of which He intends neither. The human sputters a bit at this seeming proof that they are live and real, not a costume.
“Uh,” he squeaks, before clearing his throat and trying again, “ehum, this is private property, man, you can’t be out here.” Castiel raises one poised brow, appearing cold and deliberating when in reality he is proud of the steel will showing in the shades of verdant irises. “I may walk upon my father’s earth,” he replies, soft gravel in his voice from lack of use. “Well,” the man mutters, “guess I can’t argue with that.”
“May I ask,” Castiel inquiries, “why a scrap of sunlight is carrying around my essence?” He has examined the man repeatedly in the few minutes since his discovery and found multitudinous contradictions. His hair is the dormant shine of wheat in fall, his skin warmed by the residual glow of sunbeams, and dotted by a light smattering of freckles. His eyes have trapped spring like a living myth of Hades’ love. What of this mortal tends to Castiel’s recognizably individual hoary?
“I ain’t got a clue what you mean by that,” the man says in return, suggestions of a funny smirk tugging up his mouth. “Yes,” Castiel says, “I suppose not. I meant, why are you, light’s avatar, acting as seal to what appears to be a stray piece of my angelic grace?” “My name’s actually Dean,” he says, “and I don’t know anything about any ‘angelic grace’.” “Non-the-less,” Castiel dismisses, “I would like to see if your soul recognizes me, if it's alright with you?” The light atmosphere brought by Dean’s almost smile diminishes as his brow creases with worry.
“What would that entail?” Dean asks, reasonably cautious, a trait that Castiel appreciates. Naivety is only charming when it contends with a fledgling-like joy of discovery. Otherwise, it merely leads one to trouble “I would reach through this physical dimension in order to brush against your mortal soul,” he states matter-of-factly. Dean shrugs skeptically, “I guess that’s fine, as long as it doesn’t like, permanently fuck me up or anything.” “No harm will come to you,” Castiel assures. He is not one to bring about the suffering of others, as Gabriel so enjoys doing, albeit in a humorous and karmic way.
He takes a step forward, grass pillowing around his bare feet pleasantly. The ability to experience nature through his vessel is a blessing he doesn’t take lightly, which translates to refusing his traditional angelic garb. As a soldier of the garrison, he should be always clothed in his holy armor, invincible to the obsidian blades of demons. Instead, he is draped in linens from the waist down. He is aware humans have named this particular garment a ‘skirt’, as it was actually observing them that led him to partake in the freeing comforts of flowing fabrics.
Dean holds carefully still as Castiel reaches a hand out toward his chest as if any slip of movement will ruin the examination. Dean flinches back when Castiel's fingers first pass through the seeming solidity of his chest into the metaphysical cradle where his soul sits. Castiel stills his hand, “Are you alright?” He questions. Dean’s eyes slide slowly up from where Castiel’s fingers disappear into his sternum to meet his gaze. “Yep, yeah,” he chants, “Just peachy.” He smiles crookedly at Castiel before darting his eyes down once again, awe in their depths.
Castiel proceeds, reaching forward up to his elbow. Finally, he can feel the texture of Dean’s essence. It’s warm like hot tea, rustling like leaves in autumn winds, sighing like mist. It’s exactly how he feels when he thinks to describe himself. Not that he’s ever much tried before, except in the comfort of a mind that’s at least his by the innocence of his falling, of his jumping, down to the world Dean and many others call home. That’s what it is, a home that could force them all to understand free will and humanity. He himself, made into a star orbiting this little planet, and Dean, born on the ground, thriving like a sunflower where he rightly belongs, on earth.
He pulls his arm back swiftly. “I’m not jealous,” he says steadily, as you can’t truly touch someone’s soul without revealing yourself to them in turn, an even exchange. “You were born with what I long for, like grey bark on a tree. I, a grey amongst the rainbows of predetermined paradise. But, I’m not jealous, I have come to love all that is on my own, without ease, and learned compromise.”
Dean’s eyes sparkle with tears in the dim light of the cloudy day. “Yeah,” he whispers, “I know, I could feel it, what you felt.” He brings his hands up to examine them, and Castiel mirrors him. One of flesh, one of celestial intent housed in the mask of his identity, his vessel of physicality and perception. “I don’t know who’s better off,” Dean says, “I can say it doesn’t matter, but I think it matters to you.”
Castiel dips his head in agreement. “I have hurt to become myself,” he says, “of course, it matters. But, you shouldn’t let that change your hue, instead, hold your identity close and be happy that you have it, rejoice in your color.”
Dean nods, lunging forward, much to Castiel’s surprise, to pull him into a fierce hug. “You too,” he insists, “there’s no need for the feelings of illegitimacy. Your grace is as grey as my soul, and you’re an honorary human because I said so.” Pulling back, Castiel smiles gummily at him,
“Thank you, Dean.”
The End