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Pain. Castiel understood pain. He understood it from a human point of view (car crashes hurt). He understood it from an angel point of view (having someone dig around in your mind wasn’t pleasant). But this was a pain Castiel had yet to feel. It was an aching, deep in his being. It hurt in his bones. It scratched its way up his throat. His eyes burned and his head ached like no other pain he had felt before. It ached through his veins, rushing, pulsing over the blood in his body. Replacing the breathe in his lungs, only pain. Were there even words to describe this? Did humans feel this? Did humans feel this strongly if they did? He felt so human, so lost, so unsure of his next moves. He stumbled blindly through minutes, hours, days- where would he go? What could he do?  

 

Castiel tried to drown. Drown himself or the feeling he wasn't sure. He drowned it in human ways. He drowned it in alcohol, in music, in work. It didn’t work. It seemed to only intensify his pain each time his lips came in contact with the cold glass bottle of whatever alcohol he had grabbed first. Work made him stress. It made his mind race and his eyes burned and his fingers ached and everything just hurt. It hurt in ways he could have never imagined, could have never put into words. He found humans claimed to experience this pain, this ache, this burn. He doubted them. Each word written, spoke, sang, whispered- it could have not described the void in his chest. The absolute emptiness he felt in his very being, down to the bone, the sinews of his muscle, his cells. He was sure the next step to this torment would be death. Would he simply cease to exist? Would he be pained to such extreme that this heart, this brain, would simply decide enough was enough? And when he made his way back to....where? Heaven? Would the pain remain? Would it intensify? Did angels feel this normally? Could angels feel this normally? He felt so alone. Castiel felt to such extreme. He felt, and felt some more. But if only he could feel something else, other than this incessant drag of absolute torture.

 

So he tried praying. He prayed for hours at a time. He prayed, his knees bruising from how long he would spend reciting prayer after prayer. Request after request, begging, pleading, crying. Hands nearly glued together, unwavering repentance. As if he were at fault, he prayed to be forgiven, for the present to be fixed. Fix what happened, correct this error in his timeline. Bring back what was not with him. What he needed. He prayed until he felt his grace light up brightly. He could feel it shine through his vessel, reaching out for his father. But no one was listening. No one heard his prayers. His father was not listening. His father did not care. Normally that should have warranted a pain like no other. The thought of being utterly alone, the confirmation of his isolation. But nothing could pain him worse.

 

He felt depressed. Was he depressed? His father didn’t care. His father, the one who sent him on this mission before, didn’t care about its outcome. Why send him down? Why send him? He knew all, didn’t he? He knew Castiel would become attached. His grace entangled, veins running deep. He couldn’t tear it away, no matter what. He was far too invested. He should have pulled away, left, but once he was in, he was in for his existence. He had already dug his grave six foot deep the second they touched. And father knew. He knew. He knew before Castiel even descended from the heavens. And he let him go. He let him fall.

 

His eyes burning, head aching, his soul ached. His grace cried out, screaming as his lips moved.

 

Dean Winchester is dead.