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Castiel looks at the mirror, staring at- well, it’s not really his body, is it? It’s a vessel, a borrowed form he took from someone else. And Castiel knows Jimmy is no longer alive. He knows exactly when Jimmy had died, when his soul had left, and when Castiel became the only occupant of this body. But, this was still Jimmy’s body. No one inhabits this flesh but Castiel, yet he feels he can’t claim any ownership over it. Despite the bond he had built up with Jimmy near the end, it felt… disrespectful to claim this body as his own. As any representation of himself. Even if it technically is. Even if this is how he presents himself to the world, how most anyone perceives him.
He traces a finger over his- the body’s collarbone, watching the movement of the hand closely. Looking in mirrors tends to feel surreal for Castiel. He doesn’t avoid them per se, but he tries not to make a habit out of looking at himself… at this body. Even without the use of a mirror, he tries not to pay much attention to this form. Castiel really only looked at this body when he had lost his grace, when he had essentially been a human, when tasks like bathing became a necessity. Years ago, when he carved the angel banishing sigil into the torso, he had closed his eyes- the vessel’s eyes, and simply relied on his recollection of the motions to draw it. It worked well in the end.
Unfortunately, Dean had insisted this case required a change of clothes, even had some bought for Castiel already. Rejecting the offering would have just been rude, and Castiel usually wouldn’t have much of a problem changing outfits. Usually. Yet, as he had taken his (Jimmy’s? Or maybe this could be considered his? What was the ruling on worldly possessions?) standard button-up off, reaching for the shirt Dean got him, his gaze landed on the full length mirror inconveniently propped against the motel wall. Well- inconvenient is unfair. It was likely very convenient for those who needed to see their reflection. Castiel, however, is not someone who needs to see his reflection. Would rather not think about it much, actually.
Castiel drops the hand from the vessel’s chest, head tilting as he scrutinizes the vessel. Even as he sees this reflection perfectly mirror his movements, there’s a disconnect in his mind. Even with undeniable proof that this is how he appears to the world, the image in the mirror feels separate. Almost like a stranger.
It’s not like Castiel has an issue with this vessel. It’s a perfectly fine vessel. He’s grown fond of it. But there’s a lingering sense of wrongness he can never shake. He used to not to think about it, originally out of a lack of care, and later as to not offend Jimmy. Now, he can’t help but think about it. How this form feels so right, so comfortable, but he still longs to change it. Alter it. Sometimes, he catches himself thinking about it in terms of fixing this vessel. Castiel feels horrible afterwards, but he can’t stop the thought crossing his mind every now and again. He finds himself, selfishly, glad that Jimmy is no longer there. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Jimmy knew how Castiel thought about this vessel during silent nights.
A hand runs along the stubble, and Castiel wonders if this might fall under jurisdiction of his instead of Jimmy’s. Jimmy had tended to prefer shaving his stubble completely, never letting it get too noticeable. Castiel intentionally lets it grow. Not too long to become a beard, but long enough that it forms a 5 o'clock shadow, with a noticeable texture to it whenever he touches it. His facial hair is an aspect of this vessel he’s grown fond of. It leaves him conflicted. Because he can’t help but look at his physique, square and sharp, and wish it were something different. Castiel thinks of his previous vessel, one of Jimmy’s ancestors, but even that physique felt wrong. If Jimmy’s vessel sometimes feels too large, too angular, then the previous one was too small, too soft. He’s not sure what would make a perfect vessel for him – not in the sense of compatibility, but in the sense of appearance – and it only adds to his guilt. Castiel, by all means, should be happy with what he has. He’s never met another angel that disliked their vessel, except for those who simply disliked the idea of having a vessel on principle. Yet another item on the long list of reasons why Castiel is a- flawed angel, to say the least. Crack in the chassis, and all.
A hand ghosts over the body’s hips, its waist, its stomach. Castiel finds himself imagining, hoping. He doesn’t want a new vessel entirely. Even if he could find one, even if there were no moral dilemmas to be had, he wouldn’t take it. Still, he imagines. A softer stomach, more defined hips, a smaller waist. Nothing too drastic. Small changes, ones that would likely go unnoticed under all the layers he wears. But Castiel would still know. Would be able to tell the difference in form. He doesn’t want everything changed. He likes the definition of the shoulders, and the patches of hair all across this body. The nose is nice, so are the eyes, but maybe the jawline could be different.
Castiel knows what comparisons he’s making. He’s not oblivious to how these thoughts sound, how they would be perceived. He understands some of his desired traits are very feminine, but the conflict comes in how he also desires traits that would be read as masculine. It leaves him in an uncomfortable middleground. This gray area that he’s never really considered before. It sets him apart from everyone else in a very terrifying way. Even amongst angels, no one really concerned themselves with matters such as these. In the rare case an angel would find a reason to dislike the appearance of their vessel, they would just leave. Find someone new. Angels don’t spend hours staring at the reflection of their vessel, longing over something they can’t have. If an angel was unhappy about the appearance of their vessel, they would just find another. But physical appearance was such an arbitrary matter that it didn’t happen often. Yet, here Castiel stands. He has no desire for another vessel, and is unhappy all the same. He wants to chalk it up to familiarity, or convenience, but- Castiel’s gaze shifts away from the mirror.
And here is the most terrifying thought of all. Castiel wants this form to be his own. It’s wrong. A cruel thought. But he has inhabited this flesh for so long that- there’s a fondness there. A perverse joy in the realization that, to the people he has surrounded himself with, this is Castiel’s entirety. Some of them know, in the backs of their minds, that he has a true form, one entirely inhuman. But this body, this is still Castiel to them. When they think of him, they think of this vessel.
It’s contradiction upon contradiction. He loves this body, wishes it was his own, and yet finds himself discomforted by it. It’s perfect and yet it’s not. He wants to- he finds himself stuck on the idea of change . Of modifying a form he already inhabits. Castiel isn’t sure why this idea is so important to him, but it is. The image of shaping this form like clay, building off an existing blueprint. He doesn’t want to start fresh, he wants to make something of what he already has. He wants…
He wants to call this body his own. In its entirety. Not just because he’s the only one inside, but because he made it his own, crafting it into something unique to Castiel, and Castiel alone. Something that matches the absurd ideas that have bloomed in his mind after years of living amongst humans, ideas of a… a desired form. Not his true form, not something angelic, existing on a plane humans could never imagine, but a near-human self. A self that ties Castiel together. Something truly him, something that he wasn’t adorned with by God, but something that wasn’t stolen either.
Castiel places a hand to the mirror, feels the cold glass through the palm, stares at the visage with sorrow. He wishes for when he can see this reflection without discomfort. Without guilt, or envy, or anything beyond acceptance. Castiel wishes to see himself through the glass. Not light and wings and fire and concepts he can’t put into three dimensional visuals. Not projections of grace. Just… himself. His horribly fallen self. The self that’s too far from Heaven now. Too close to Earth. He wishes to see Cas . Not Jimmy Novak, and not the soldier Castiel, but Cas. A name he gained on Earth, a name that’s come to mean family, belonging. It’s not a rejection of either side of himself. Not a name chosen with the express purpose to appear human, but not an angelic name either. A nickname, a modification of what was there before. Something that, really, truly, is him .