Chapter Text
Human life is much more complex once you stop being a mere onlooker.
It’s not just atoms and chemical bonds linking into intricate structures that somehow lead to life. That’s only the framework,the flesh, the body. But life isn’t made of matter alone. There are emotions, connections, moments that can’t be broken down into formulas or observed through a microscope. Some things exist beyond the reach of science, in the miniscule gaps where reason dwindles and feeling begins.
Even as a (former) celestial being, Cas realised that there's a lot of times when obsolete and omniscient knowledge can't make you understand something you have never felt in your soul.
Cas had come to that realisation the hard way.
He’s human now. And he doesn’t know how to be one. There’s no manual that will give him orders, no path to follow. Of course he’s human, his body is human, there’s no grace left in it anymore, but there’s more to being human than just a vessel.
And maybe that’s just it. No human is brought into life with a manual. They were punished with freedom. And maybe human life is meant to be experienced through hardships, through errors, because there’s no other way to truly understand it, to really get it. Just choices and consequences, and a secret third thing that Cas is still looking and hoping for.
Maybe this is what makes Cas a part of humanity. Because he has made plenty of mistakes.
Humanity is something Cas has looked down upon since the dawn of time and space. Not looked down on in the that negative and condescending way of seeing something as less. But more so, as a visitor in a museum, gazing at countless of portraits and statues through glass panels, and seperating walls all plastered with big signs that say: 'Look but don't touch'.
Cas has been human for a few weeks now. It's a tiring ordeal, but at least God has given humans a antidote for that bone deep exhaustion. It's called sleep.
As an angel he had never known, could never have imagined, what it would feels like to close your eyes and simply not be for a couple of hours. Because angels don't rest. Angels observe. And they are.
They always just are.
Sleep is a rather lacking antidote, however. Because even though, once you wake up, your bones and body feel rejuvenated, the mental anguish seems to persevere, seeping back into your bones, and infecting it with that inescapable human exhaustion yet all over again
It’s not just the body that tires, it’s the soul, something Cas hadn't had the privilege or disgrace of possesing. Castiel has started to realize that no amount of rest can soothe a mind that’s unsure of why it should keep going at all.
The soul, or maybe the body, or maybe something else entirely, wants to go to sleep knowing that when they open their eyes in the morning, they will have something to look forward to.
Something waiting on the other side of that first blink. Something that makes them want to emerge from the empty black.
That is one similarity between angels and humans that Castiel has found to be comforting confide. Purpose.
As an angel he had always had a task, something to do, something to live for. Wether it was fulfilling a divine plan or leading celestial beings into battle against dark powers. There was always a purpose.
And if, somehow, as an angel ypu had nothing to do, they still had their purpose in faith. The eternal trust in God that is the entire reason for their existence.
And once Castiel had lost that faith, his purpose had dwindled. His wings had lost their feathers, until they were nothing but skeletal remains of what had once been.
What had once been everything.
He had lost his purpose, his faith, and in consequence, he had fallen.
From the precipice where had stood, rooted in his belief and in the heavenly gardens, until a gust of air, smelling of gun powder, blood, leather, whiskey, doubt and love, came and tipped headfirst into the musuem called Earth.
He'd changed roles then. From an observer of human ordeals, to an angel who's orders were to meddle a little. And finally to a human himself.
He didn't feel like piece of art in a musuem at all, once he himself entered the role of being human. Being human hurt.
He had fallen into humanness, and there, too, he found a purpose. Though now, he had to search for it. As an angel he just simply had one. You were born with purpose in the form of your faith.
To others, his new purpose might seem like a cheap imitation of the grandeur he once lived for. But he chose not to dwell on that.
Work.
His work at the Gas n Sip became his new purpose. It kept him busy, like a bee. There were orders and protocols to follow. A checklist. He stocked shelves, swapt floors, handed out change, repaired the Icee machine. He didn’t always understand why things had to be done a certain way, but that was part of the relief.
He didn’t have to decide. He didn’t have to question. He just had to do. Work filled the gaps and empty minutes with a buzz, and did not allow for gruelling questions and doubts to wiggle their way into his mind.
It's weird, he thinks, how being in chains is the closest he's felt to when he had his wings.
There were rules. And they had to be followed.
With Dean, it had never been straightforward. There were always questions, seeds of rebellion. Lines blurred, became dotted or vanished entirely. Ever since he had pulled Dean put of hell, Castiel's mind had grown in ways that he had never thought were possible. He had unlocked an entirely new part of his brain, that left room for questions.
Dean was good at that: making Castiel think.
But now, Dean has abandoned him. Kicked him out just like Heaven has.
And rising from the bunker had hurt more than falling from heaven.
Weird. Perhaps that's another human intricacy that he doesn't understand yet. Truthfully he doesn't really care to understand it, what good would it do?
Because with realisation comes pain, with understanding after having questioned for so long comes suffering. That much Castiel is sure off.
Maybe he had been better off before, maybe there had been a reason God made them the way they are: Unquestioning.
Castiel follows the rules. But still, sometimes, he has questions.
The only difference is: he no longer asks them. The damage has been done, he has free will, and therefore he has doubts.
Once the seed of temptation, for knowledge, for understanding, is planted it doesn't die, it just fortfies, grows more roots. It gets messy.
Castiel doesn’t know if he should thank Dean for that… or be angry at him.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.
The fact is: Dean changed him.
And now Castiel has to live with that change,
but without the person who caused it
That's human life.
As Dean would say: You win some you lose some.
So Castiel refills the nachos.
He reorganizes the already organized shelves, not because it needs doing, but because he needs something to do. Whether it matters in the grand scheme of things or not is irrelevant.
He isn’t a part of the grand scheme anymore.
He’s like a worker bee, meaningful, but overlooked. A small, overlookee detail in a beautiful portrait.
He just has to trust God with painting it.
He doesn't.
////////
Soldier Boy is wandering aimlessly around New York, everything is so different from the way ot had been thirty years ago. It's alien.
There's no pictures dedicated to him, no new movies posters with his face.
Instead there's queer bullshit, woman in power and stuff.
He feels overstimulated to say the least, after having spent the past decades locked inside a small pod, contained by strings and titanium, he is finally a free man.
Free in a world that didn’t know him. Didn’t care about him. Had the nerve to forget him.
How the hell could they forget? After everything he’d done for those ants?
He stepped off the curb, ready to cross. Then he heard it.
That music.
Russian.
Blasting from a beat-up van across the street.
Everything inside him snapped.
The same music his tortures had listened to while dragging him through all 8 circles of hell with no pause and no mercy.
He didn't think, he had no time to breathe.
He just moved, like something had taken over.
The same rage that got him sane-ish through those torture sessions, the same burning hate that kept him alive. It was back. Loud and sharp. He hadn't forgotten it.
His body lit up like a fuse. Every nerve told him to tear that van apart.
It wasn't his mind that wanted to do this, but his mind wasn't the same as it had been years before. His mind was stuck in a loop, he was repeating what he had experienced. His brain was broke record and he had no off switch or anything.
His body moved before his brain could catch up. It was instinct. A trigger. He needed to erase this threat. He needed to kill the sound, to kill the memory.
It was a pavlovean response, to kill what he had come associate with the decade he had spent in that lab, being dissected like a fucking animal. Like a rodent, a rat.
He wasn't a thinking man. He wasn't a rath either, he was an acting dog, and someone, unknowingly was waving a bone before him.
The target was the van.
And everything and everyone in his vicinity.
A low hum built in his chest. Then it wasn't a low hum anymore, it was a steady beat, until it just beat out of his chest.
Then came the light white, hot, blinding.
Not holy. Not divine.
Not salvation. But annihilation.
The kind of light that leaves nothing behind.
Boom.
Windows shattered.
Cars flipped. The van was eviscerated.
Bodies dropped.
And before the dust had time to settle, Soldier Boy was gone.
Ben wasn't there to witness the aftermath of his actions.
He was gone, whiskey away. Someplace else.
//////
Soldier Boy awoke to the smell of gasoline, and trash in his nose.
Wet, rotting, pungent trash.
He opened his eyes, expecting something ugly, something in accordance to the smell.
But no.
Just, blue.
Blue.
So much.
Blue.
The brightest fucking blue he'd ever seen.
For a second, he thought he was underwater. Out in some ocean, far away from the lab, far away from the dirty, and probably sewage ridden rivers of New York.
Far away from all off it.
Or maybe he was in Heaven. That would also explain the blue.
He lingered in it for a while, his vision was still blurry around its edges. He waited for an ocean breeze to wake him up. He waited for the salt air to burn away the smell of trash in his nostrils.
But it never came.
Just the screech of tires, a stomach turning heat, trash and gasoline fumes crawling up his nose.
The blue wasn't the ocean, he wasn't surrounded by water.
The blue wasn't Heaven either.
It was just a pair of eyes.
Those mught just be the closest he'll ever get to the pearly gates.
Another screech of tires and Solider Boy came to his senses, he blinked and face belonging to those fucking eyes came into focus.
Dark hair, throughly messed up, a strand of hair falling into the guys face.
Sharp jaw.
Smooth, clean.
No scars, no nothing.
A clean slate, apart from the slight stubble.
Pretty boy.
The guy's lips moved, and the illusion crumbled.
"Dean, are you okay?"
The voice was deep, like the fucking deepest depths of the ocean. And concerned. And also something else. Something Soldier Boy knew too well.
Anger, it was contained well, but Soldier Boy could sense it. Smell it, it was much more penetrating than the smell of rotten trash all around them.
Ben blinked, groggy. His body felt stiff.
"Where the fuck am I?" He muttered, rubbing his eyes.
"The Gas-N-Sip." the man answered with an edge to his voice, clipped, irritated. He took Ben by his shoulders and pulled him up with ease.
Impressive.
Ben staggered slightly, not having expected that much strength from a normal human. They were at eye leven now. The guy had blue eyes, really blue eyes and a face carved out of fucking stone, military level composure.
And a really hideous uniform, laughable even.
"Very shitty name for a brothel," Ben muttered. "What are they sipping on? Cum?
The guy's expression twitched, slightly affronted but the corners of his mouth twitch a little, but he doesn't let himself smile. "This is not a den of iniquity."
"Yeah? Then what the fuck is it?" Soldier Boy's asked feeling out of place. This guy can't be up to any good, hanging around a dark alley at night, maybe he works here. Maybe he's working the 'corner'. He might br a male hooker, they exist, Ben knows, he's met some of them during the parties he had thrown. But he isn't queer, he didn't use them. They were just there, and sometimes Ben noticed, when he wasn't busy snorting serveral lines of coke from some prositiutes perky tits.
Good times.
"I work here," the man said flatly, breaking Soldier Boy out of his trip down memory lane. "This is a gas station."
Ben looked around, finally registering the trash cans, the leaky dumpsters, the flickering green ‘STAFF ONLY’ sign above a grimy back door.
A trash bag lay next to the guy’s feet, waiting to be tossed. So yeah. Not a hooker then.
"A gas station?" Ben repeated, frowning. What the fuck. "What the hell am I doing in the back alley of a gas station?"
"You tell me," the man said. "Dean."
That stopped Ben, he stopped analysing his surroundings, and focused on the man, who kept calling him Dean. At first he had written it off as a coincidence, but this is the second time.
"Dean?" Soldier Boy rolls his brows, this never would've happened before tge ordeal with the russians, people knew Soldier Boy, they wouldn't mistake him for someone else.
"Yes, Dean," the man repeated, more firmly this time. "What are you doing here? How did you end up in the waste disposal area?" He gestured toward the flickering green sign above the door: Staff Only.
Soldier Boy rubbed the back of his neck. He glanced around hoping to see more than the dumpsters, leaking trash bags, and cracked asphalt. It was weirdly quiet, there was none of that New York chorus, no noise, just silence.
"This….doesn’t look like downtown New York. And stop calling me Dean."
"Have I lost the right to call you by your name?" the man asked, voice dropping. His face was a cacophony of emotions, Ben didn't even bother trying to look past the obvious anger and bitterness, he felt uncomfortable."Is that how far it’s come?"
“I don’t even know you, man,” Ben said, frowning, scratching his bear, he needs to shave it. “You’ve got me mixed up with someone else. Though, I don’t see how that's possible, this kind of face only happens once.”
Ben smirked, though it wasn't a real one, he felt like the trash bags around him.
The man tilted his head and squinted like he was trying to solve a riddle. Then he gave up abruptly, obviously not having found what he aas looking for, his jaw thightened, and he chucked the trash bag into the bin like it had insulted his mother.
“I can’t tell whether you’re lying anymore,” he said listlessly. “I can’t see your soul anymore! Is this funny to you? Making me realize how useless I’ve become? Do you really hate me that much?”
Soldier Boy's world just stands there getting slightly agitated because he has no clue what this guy is talking about.
Ben blinked. "What the hell are you talking about, man? Soul? What kind of cult bullshit—"
"I'm talking about my grace," the man snapped. "It's gone, and now you pretend to not know me anymore! Do you have any idea how hard it was when I fell to Earth, I didn't just lose my powers. I had nothing—and now you dare stand before me, mocking me?" the guy was just rambling at this point, a righteous fury in his eyes, that had been stewing for a while.
And weirdly enough Soldier Boy though this gu/ anger wasn't the anger of some random human who didn't have the means to back it up. This guy had power in his eyes, he held himself like a commander.
But he was a simple gas station clerk. So, how?
Ben’s eye twitched. "I don’t know who this Dean guy is," he snapped back. "I’m Soldier Boy. Heard of me?
From what he’d seen in New York, he wasn’t exactly a big deal anymore — which was a separate bag of horseshit he planned to deal with later. First, he had some other people to take care of.
"You still see yourself that way?" the man asked, voice softer now. "Daddy’s little soldier?"
That did it.
The heat in Ben’s gut ignited like a grenade. Who the hell was this guy to say that? To call him that, like he knew anything?
Ben stepped without thinking. Grabbed the guy by the lapels and slammed him against the metal door hard enough he must've left a dent, the door rattled at his hinges and the impact made the 'Staff Only' shield above the door fall down to the ground with a clunk.
Ben held the guy there, one handed, making his feet dangle in the air.
Then….something stopped him.
The man’s eyes weren’t scared. He wasn’t even resisting.
"You’re not Dean," the guy whispered, with a wonderous sigh.
“Damn right I’m not,” Ben growled. "Took you long enough. Want me to knock some more sense into your thick head?"
For a moment, the anger from before still pulsed in his veins, his dad, his past, all the bullshit. But somehow, it fizzled. This guy didn't know what he was talking about, he didn't even know Soldier Boy. He talked about this 'Dean'. But now that he finally realised he's got the wrong dude, he didn’t seem to want a fight.
"I see it now," the man said. "You’re older. Your face is the same but….different. And Dean couldn’t lift me like this."
The guy raised his hands and gently wrapped them around Ben’s wrist, still hanging in the air., with this otherworldly look in his eyes. His grip was firm, one hand was placed on Ben’s shoulder now. Woah, when did that happend.
Ben dropped him. Like he’d touched a live wire.
“I look good for my age,” he muttered, brushing his hands off. “And yeah, I doubt your Dean has the muscle to lift ya'.”
"He’s not my Dean," the guy said simply. "He never was. And he’s strong." then he pins Ben with a knowing stare. "But your strength….it’s not human.”
Ben raised a brow, rubbing his jaw, he grapples for something that might make this giy stop looking at him like he's a fucking bug under a microscope, or he's going to snap.
"From what I’ve heard, that Dean sounds like a major pussy. Who's he, anyway?"
The man hesitated. His gaze dropped to the trash can beside them.
"He was my best friend, my closest kin" he said quietly. "Or….he used to be."
It's weird, how this guy hadn't even blinked st being manhandled and threatened but at the mention of this guy he just bristles.
"And why's that." Soldier Boy drawls.
He doesn't particularly care, but this guy is the first human he's really talked to in a while, he didn't count his screams and curses during the torture he had endured for 30 years.
This feels normal, and also familiar.
Ben knows a little about falling outs. He clenches his down, swallowing down the light threatening to build in his chest unintentionally.
The guy didn’t answer right away. His silence lingered just long enough for it to get uncomfortable.
Then he turned toward the door and opened it.
"He kicked me out," he said, flatly. "Come inside. We have leftover nachos. You look hungry. I’ve come to understand what that’s like."
And with that, he disappeared into the gas station.
Soldier Boy hesitated before following, throwing a glance back at the dent in the metal door, then shutting it like it didn’t matter, the guy certainly had taken it like it didn't matter.
He shut it like it didn't matter, buthad an onlooker been there to witness it, they would. have noticed how gently he had closed the door.
Inside, the lighting was harsh and sterile. But not like a lab. If smelled like lemon scented cleaning spray, burnt cheese, and something plastic. The guy, whose name he still hadn’t gotten , pulled a plate of nachos from the microwave and handed it over without a word.
Ben looked at it suspiciously before hopping up onto the counter like he owned the place.
A displeased groan from the guy followed. He rolled his eyes.
Ben grinned and started eating.
lSo this guy kicked you out,” he said through a mouthful, "what were you, roommates or something?"
The man sighed. "Something like that."
Ben raised an eyebrow. "'Something like that,'" he repeated mockingly..
"Yes," the man replied, completely serious.
Ben snorted. “Alright, keep your secrets.”
He kept crunching, licking cheese off his thumb. The man still hadn’t looked away from him once.
It was weird. Intense. Not in a threatening way more like….searching. And not finding what he was looking for, but searching anyways.
"Hey, nutcase."
"That’s not my name, Soldier Boy," the man replied, coolly. He leaned against the wall.
"Yeah, I figured. About that, the way you say my name, it's fucking creepy, just call me Ben."
Not like he knows the history behind Soldier Boy. How he had earned that name.
Saved the country.
The man nodded. "Apologies. That was not my intent, Ben."
Ben blinked. Okay. Weirdly respectful.
"So," he muttered, eyes narrowing, "lyou got a name, freak?"
The man looks down on himself, making Ben notice the laminated nametag.
"Steve?" Ben laughs as he reads the name. It's doesn't really fit this guy, it's too simple, too usual.
"Actually....no. I'm Castiel." Castiel doesn't know why he had confessed to that, he hadn't told anyone his real name, since his fall. But, now, he was looking at someone who looked exactly like Dean, and Castiel didn't want to lie to him, lying was the sin that had killed the kinship Dean and Castiel had shared once upon a time.
He can't lie to that face again, no matter what.
Ben doubles down with his laughter almost falling of the counter. "Oh, man. I thought Steve was a shit name, but Castiel, really? You parents must have hated you."
"My parents don't care, they haven't in a long time, I think." Castiel gaze gets forlorn and Ben can relate. Strangely enough, Ben has felt that with Cas quite a few times during their conversations.
The betrayal off his friend 'Dean' who had kicked him out, the complicated relationship with his parents. Ben can related to that.
He doesn’t know why, but he needs to say something. Contribute something. Maybe it’s the nachos. Maybe it’s the silence.
Maybe it’s because, for once, he’s sitting across from someone who doesn’t know him, doesn’t want anything from him.
No hidden agend, nothing..
Ben doesn't want to make a friend. Fuck that. He just wants to talk. Use this clean sheet, that hasn't been carefully manifactured by Vaught with lies and utter crap.
He just wants to remember who was before they told him who and what to be.
His head aches. The world feels too quiet, too wrong. Thirty years, he has been locked away for thirthy years. Thirty years of silence, screams, needles, russian, hurt, and the constant thought of the betrayal from his teammates. And now some stranger is handing him microwave nachos and looking at him like he’s a worth something.
Not a weapon, not a brand.
"You ever see The Soldier Boy Story?" Ben says, his voice low.
Castiel blinks. "Is that a movie?"
Ben snorts. "Yeah."
Castiel doesn’t press, yet, he just watches him.
And Ben notices. For the first time in a long time, he doesn't feel like Soldier Boy, or whatever it is people thought off him. He’s not sure what Castiel sees. But it’s not Soldier Boy.
Castiel exhales slowly. Ben has Dean's face it is older and different, but still Dean.
Castiel tries to look past the resemblance, tries to not see someone who isn't here.
He tries.
Castiel tilts his head. "I haven’t seen it."Castiel has only seen movies that Dean had showed him. Westerners, 'The classics' and 'no chick flicks'.
"Yeah, well I'm the fucking star." Ben grumbles, he hops off the counter and grabs a beer from the glowing mini fridge that fills the dark room with light, he sits down on the ground, his back against the counter.
Castiel watches him disapprovingly but eventually follows, lowering himself down to sit beside him.
"You’re in a movie?" he asks after a beat. "Is that why you wanted to call me Soldier Boy? Because that’s the movie you acted in?"
Ben snorts. "Movie’s about me. And yeah, I acted in it. Kinda. A marketable version of me.” He stretches out his legs, beer resting on his thigh.
He was wearing a pair of ratty clothes he has stolen during his escape from the lab.
Castiel tilts his head. “Then it’s not really about you, is it?”
"It's a classic. About a poor kid from the streets of South Philly. Discovers he's got incredible powers to match his heart of gold. It was all bullshit."
"What do you mean?" Castiel asks, frowning.
"The story was bullshit it was made up. Actually, my father owned half the steel mills in the state. I grew up rich, went to boarding school. The whole nine. Got kicked out of boarding school. Because I was a fuckup. And my father made sure I knew it."
Castiel looks down, silent for a moment. He doesn’t want to say what he’s thinking. Doesn’t want to draw lines between this man and the one he lost, but he does anyway.
"From what I’ve seen, Ben…." Castiel says softly, looking back at him, "you’re not a fuckup."
Ben glances over, suspicious. "The fuck do you know?"
"I don’t," Castiel admits. "Not really. But you remind me of someone who also thinks he’s a fuck up. He isn't. And I don’t think you are either."
"Let me take a guess, that friend's name is Dean." Soldier Boy groans in annoyance he starting to hate the guy.
"Yes,"Castiel replies, a lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Ben sighs. "Well, since I just spilled my life story, why don’t you tell me what happened with Dean?" he doesn't care, he really doesn't care.
Castiel looks at Ben with a kind smile. "There's much more to life that the pain you have endured. The sad parts don't show the whole picture."
"But the bad parts are what you're remembered for." Ben replies looking at his empty plate of nachos.
Castiel doesn’t bother arguing, just gives a resigned nod.
"Dean and I had our share of highs and lows, as humans say. We fought side by side. We trusted each other. But when I….changed, he told me I couldn’t stay. So I left."
"Why?" Ben doesn't know what he's asking, why Castiel had just left without a fight, or why Dean had kicked him out.
"I’ve asked myself that question more than once."
Ben huffs. "My team kicked me out too. Just their version of it was selling me out and leaving me to rot. So, cheers to betrayal." Ben takes a gulp from his beer, and crushes the empty can in his hands.
"I'm sorry, Ben."
"Yeah, me too, Cas."
Castiel swallows hard at the nickname.
“What?” Ben raises an eyebrow.
“Nothing. It’s just….Dean called me that. Cas.”
Ben rolls his eyes. "If you compare me to that cum guzzler one more time, I swear—"
"Cum guzzler…." Castiel repeats, frowning like the phrase physically hurt him. "You have a very foul mouth. And I don’t appreciate you talking about him like that."
Ben can't help but roll his eyes, if Cas compares him to that fucker another time he might actually kill him. Not that he's planning on sticking around and having more hear to hearts with this guy. But still.
Ben throws his head back with a cackle, watching the distaste still visible on Castiel’s face. He doesn’t feel bad for offending the guy’s sensibilities, he likes it, seeing that disgruntled look on his face. It's fucking hilarious.
He isn't the kid he would have bullied in high school, he gets the impression that this guy isn't easy to bring down, but he's also not someone he would have been friends with.
He's something else, and Ben realises that he doesn't know andthing about him. It nags at him.
This man has talked about Dean, a lot, but outside of that? Ben realizes he knows nothing about him.
Ben gives Castiel a sideways glancing, noticing with a smirk thst Castiel's eyes are already on him, had never left. He licks his lips and throws the beer can at the wall, resulting in Castiel giving him a raised brow.
"Ya, know, you keep talking about Dean like he’s your whole damn life," Ben says, tone more serious than he expected, not mocking at all. "Because the way I see it, he kicked ya to the curb and here you are wallowing. Who are you without him, Castiel."
Ben makes sure to pronounce every syllable in his name.
And the look on Castiel face makes it worth it.