That’s not quite right, actually, it’s more like the whole world is under his feet somehow differently- it’s like it’s been picked up and put underneath him differently and he just can’t quite move right.
He lays one foot on the floor of the bedroom and stands for the barest beginning of a moment and then as he straightens upward, his knees want to bend wrong and collapse. Sends him rocking forward. Unbalanced and wrong and difficult.
Castiel falls in a pile on the bedroom floor and he would shout and scream and rail against it all but his goddamn center of balance isn’t the only thing that’s broken apart now that he’s fallen.
He inhales for a solid moment and then lets it out and stands back up. He reaches for his cane and pulls himself upward and just stands there for a long, long moment.
The room that Sam and Dean have given him- the room they’ve designated as his- is more empty than even their own. Dean has his thrift shop records and few, sparse photographs. He has his two or three beaten up and dearly loved books. Sam has textbooks he hung onto, he has a pile of cd’s, he has couple of posters that he went out and bought for himself, for some band that Dean won’t let him play in the car.
Castiel doesn’t own anything except a few shirts and pants and a blanket and his cane and he’s not sure- he’s not sure how to feel about that.
Dean pops his head into Castiel’s room suddenly and raises an eyebrow.
Castiel bends his forefinger down to his thumb, leaving a wide, open space, his other fingers outstretched. Okay.
Just signing and using hand signals is easier than fighting through his stutter, most of the time.
Dean nods grimly and steps out of the room.
Dean has a way of looking at him without really looking at him- he has a way of letting his eyes just slip off of him and to the floor. Dean has a way of not letting him talk by not asking questions and a way of not watching him walk.
There’s a rosary, hanging by a single nail on his wall. It is carved of dark beads and a silver messiah hangs from the end.
Castiel looks at it for a long time. He looks at the shape of the beads (a little oblong and slightly irregular), he looks at the silver of the chain (a little tarnished), he looks at every suffering detail of Jesus on the cross (the mouth open in thirst, panting, the thorny crown).
Castiel picks it up from the wall, wraps it around his hand, and walks unsteadily from his bedroom to the kitchen.
The world is a little overwhelming, more so than usual, and while Dean and Sam seem pretty content to tuck into bacon and eggs, Dean makes Cas a bowl of oatmeal with a pat of butter and just the smallest spoonful of brown sugar. It’s good- the food is warm and sits down low in his body, solid and real. It’s not as solid or as real as his wings were, but it makes him feel more like a...like a person than a vacuum on legs.
Castiel smiles slightly at Dean in thanks, and Dean shrugs and nods. Takes a bite of his eggs.
“I’m looking at a hunt,” Sam says after taking a bite of his mushroom omelette. “There’s something poking around a high school about fifteen minutes into town or so. I just wanna go do prelim stuff, I should be back by tonight.” He looks at Castiel, hazel eyes a little worried. Soft. “You gonna be good if Dean comes with, or would you rather have company?”
Castiel thinks a moment and clears his throat. He opens his mouth and it’s a long, painful moment before the words will actually start. “...I-I-I,” he starts and stops. “I-I-I’ll be fine. Text me what yuh-yuh-yuh-you fffffind. I-I-I’ll d-d-d-d-d-do research.”
He exhales. The beads on the rosary bite into his hand, under the table.
Sam nods. Dean doesn’t say anything, just looks at his food resolutely and salts it heavily.
When Castiel finishes, he gets out of his chair and walks unsteadily back to his bedroom, where he can read in peace.
Dean knocks on his door a about twenty minutes later. “We’re heading out,” he says gruffly. He looks down the hall.
If Castiel had a voice that would work or a body that he could make solid, he’d stand tall and he’d rail against it. Fucking look at me, he’d shout. I’m right here. Fucking look at me.
He nods instead. Licks his bottom lip and looks back down at his book.
When the door slams shut, he looks up from the book again and stands and walks unsteadily into the living room. He doesn’t use the cane. He really only uses it because it makes them more comfortable. He’d rather lean against the wall, feel it rooted so firmly to the floor underneath him, then support his weight on a rickety third leg. Sam and Dean, though, they see him grasp at the brick and plaster and they frown and they shake their heads and they decide that the cane is a solution. The cane makes him more normal.
Castiel flops down onto the couch and sighs heavily.
“Fffffuck,” he says, closing his eyes. “Fuck.”
He has one foot on the floor, and that makes him feel more solid and less like he’s about to lurch off of the couch and onto the floor. Like he’s going to fall and keep falling, fall right on through the whole damn world and then he could float and that would be close enough to flying that maybe he could be happy again.
Castiel lets a bead slip through his fingers, and he rattles off the prayer in his head, in Enochian. He’s not quite sure which one it’s supposed to be, he just knows- he just knows that’s how it’s supposed to work.
He sits there a few minutes more and then he pulls himself back up and walks to Sam’s room.
Sam’s CD’s are on a shelf against the wall, their names and artists written against their spines. Castiel picks one at random and looks at the cover art for a long time before he walks back to the living room.
Bending over to put the disc into the DVD player so that it can play through the television is difficult, and eventually he just settles for sitting down on the floor to pop it in. He hits the little triangle that means ‘play’ and he lets the music bleed out a little too loud and a little overwhelming.
Dean and Sam, they’re so quick to protect him that they don’t notice that sometimes Castiel likes the way it all hurts.
The music is a little cacophonous and a little strange, and the singer sings in a long, slow voice. Castiel doesn’t quite know the words, but he realizes about halfway through he’d like to and he hits ‘reverse’ and listens to the whole thing again. Again and again and again as loud as he can take it. He lays back on the floor and he closes his eyes, one finger on the button and he just listens to the song as many times as he can take it. He loses the button when he covers his eyes when he opens his mouth and the sounds come out right. He’s not hearing the next track, or the next one, or the one after- he’s hearing the first song and he’s hearing his own voice listen to him.
I am the king of all I see, my kingdom for a voice, he manages, and then he can’t cover his eyes anymore because the moisture’s not there if he can’t feel it.
The CD runs out of songs and he keeps singing there on the floor because this is the most sound he’s been able to make in weeks. He lays there, clutching at the carpet with his raw fingers and singing steadily and lowly, fighting for every word that slips through.
“Cas?” Dean asks after a long, long time, and Castiel sits up so fast he gets dizzy and he hands almost slip from under him.
“We sent you a few texts but you didn’t answer,” Sam says from behind him. “Are you okay?”
Castiel takes a deep breath a pushes another bead between his fingers.
“No,” he answers. “I’m fu-fucking not.” And he laughs suddenly, because shit, what a relief it is to admit that. “I’m not okay.”
He steadies himself against the table and pulls himself upright, shaking slightly. He laughs a little more and shakes his head. He steadies himself against the wall. “I’m nn-not o-okay. I-I-I-I’mmmm not nn-normal.” He points to himself. “Fell,” he says, and he’s so grateful he doesn’t stutter. “I fell. Doh-don’t you sss-s-see? I buh-broke. I’m buh-broken.” He shakes his head. “Suh-stop making me be normal. Stop it.” His fist shakes where he’s holding it tight. His whole body is shaking. “Fucking look at me. Fu-fucking talk to me.”
Even now, Dean looks through him, at the floor.
“Fucking look at me!” Castiel shouts. “You make me want to f-fucking scream.”
“I broke you!” Dean barks. “He broke you! We broke you!” He closes his mouth and sets his jaw tensely. “If you’d never met us or me, you’d be fine, okay? This is my fault and my fuckup-”
“I’m your what?” Castiel shouts, and in that moment it’s exactly like have wrath again, like having that terrible energy and total purpose. “I’m your goddamn fuckup? I’m your mistake?” Castiel leans forward at him, into his space, tight and near. “Let me be my own mistake.” He shouts, and his voice echoes and stings in the air. Like a knife.
He keeps one hand on the wall as he storms out of the living room and into his bedroom. Slams the door shut and falls backwards onto his bed.
He lies on his bed for a long time until there’s a knock on his door. He sits up and looks at the door. Challenging it. Daring it.
Sam opens the door and stands in the doorway for a long minute. Opens his mouth and closes it again.
“I-I-I-I,” Castiel says, “I duh-duh-duh-don’t regret it. Sss-ssaying it.”
“I thought you’d say that,” Sam answers. He looks pained, standing there. Ashamed. “I don’t think Dean meant that- I don’t think he meant it the way you think he meant it- I don’t think-” Sam pauses and sighs again. “He didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“I-I cccccan handle that,” Castiel says. “Fff-f-fucking I can huh-handle huh-hurt fffeelings. Christ. Buh-but you ll-ll-llook at mmme and it’s like I’m n-n-not even there.” He huffs a breath. “Ifff I wuh-was dead, you’d at least tt-tt-t-talk about me. Something. But I’m here and you- yuh-you both seem so A-a-a-a,” he pauses. “A-a-a-a. A-a-ashamed.”
Sam runs his fingers through his hair and shakes his head. Says, “So this is more of Dean’s purview, but do you want to get really drunk tonight?”
“N-not if he’s going to buh-be there,” he answers. “C-c-can’t. C-can’t hhhhandle his guh-guh-guilt. Nno.”
Sam looks at him, and he looks outright weary. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I get it.”
There’s a long pause as Castiel gathers up his words. “A-acts like the whole w-w-w-world has to rrrrest on hhim. ‘Veryone’s mistakes are hhhis. Can’t. I-I-I-I-I can’t kuh-keep living with him when he does that.” He sighs. “He’s im-p-p-ossible.”
Sam smiles slightly, a blink and you’ll miss it uptick of his mouth. “He doesn’t mean to hurt you with it.”
“He-he mmeans to hurt himself with it,” Castiel answers. “I c-c-c-can’t…c-c-c-can’t be that aaaa-aaa-a-anymore. I-I-I c-can’t be hhhis razor.”
Sam nodded. Ran his hands through his hair. “Dean...doesn’t realize he’s not being fair. And everything’s so fucked up- Cas,” he mutters, “You gotta understand, if it weren’t for us-”
“Don’t give me that,” he says. “Don-don’t put tthat on you. Iff I-I-I-I’m gonna be okay, I hhh-ha-have to- I have to...I have to make peace with my decisions. And that mean they h-have to be mmmm-mmine.”
Sam walks into the room and sits on the bed next to Castiel. The old springs creak. “You don’t have to carry it alone, either,” he says.
“N-no, but I do have to t-t-take control,” he says. He leans against Sam’s shoulder. “I have to have agency.”
Sam scratches his scalp, his fingernails dragging through his hair. “Yeah,” he says. “I get it.”
Cas knows Sam gets it. He knows Sam understands mistakes.
“I l-love your brother,” Castiel says. “P-p-p-paralyzingly. Buh-but he drives me c-c-c-crazy.”
Sam laughs, too loud, and for a moment it’s like it used to be. Like Castiel is normal and their friend, not this weird, broken thing that lives in their house and breaks their plates sometimes. He nods again. Pats Castiel’s back. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
It’s the first time since Castiel’s fallen that he feels like something might be okay.
