By human concepts of time, the angel Castiel came into existence on a Thursday. He knows because from the very first moment he, like all of his Brothers and Sisters, was blessed with an absolute Awareness. The entire universe was nothing more than a flurry of atoms back then, among which sat the dense concentrations of celestial energy that billions of years later would gain the ability to possess a consenting host. Castiel, as the millennia went on, preferred not to use this skill however. He considered himself more of an observer than a participant in the ever developing worlds his Father had created. Especially the luscious planet with the life-welcoming soil proved a gathering point for Castiel’s kin. While many of his fellow angels walked the Earth as invisible presence or undetected within the bodies of those who believed, the Angel of Thursday watched on. He, as opposed to many others who loudly and frequently voiced their jealousy, held no resentment towards the Children his Father loved more than any of His other creations. He took in their weak bodies and short lifespan and came to the conclusion that something so frail in comparison to an Angel of the Lord must indeed require all the Love it can possibly receive. Even if he had to agree with some acrimonious voices that Humanity really took its favored treatment for granted.
There was something utterly beautiful about the chaos that simply came with the existence of humans. As long as you weren’t part of it. Castiel spent several thousand years watching species evolve and perfect their skills to survive even the most unwelcoming environments. Heat, cold, flooding or drought, nothing seemed to stop Life. Before Castiel had the need to adjust to humanity’s idea of time and space, he would spend his existence following the journeys of storks, salmon, and reindeer in awe of their endurance and will for survival. He would get distracted by Northern Lights or more rarely their Southern counterparts, or be captured by the terrifying beauty of a devastating storm, reminded of how insignificant man-made destruction could seem in comparison.
In short, Castiel likes to believe he knows what true beauty is. And no one, especially not some petty human can ever tell him any differently.
He pushes the shopping cart through the aisles towards the furniture store’s checkout counters with determination. “I like them, Dean.”
The petty human in question keeps up with his pace easily. “Yeah, I noticed. You’re still not takin’ them with you.”
He stops abruptly, causing his follower to bump into him, before turning around. “I don’t remember asking your opinion on the matter.”
“Well, you go get your own damn credit card and buy whatever the fuck suits you, Cas, but as long as I’m paying you ain’t getting cutesy drapes. Savin’ the world doesn’t pay like it used to.” The hunter seems disproportionally angry at this point, staring at the neatly folded pieces of cotton as if they have personally offended him somehow.
“You’re not paying,” Castiel says, coolly looking down at the piece of plastic nestled in his palm. “Charles Harrington is.”
The other man’s head moves from side to side, frantically making sure no other customers or staff were in hearing-range. “Say that a bit louder next time, will you.”
Castiel, realizing his mistake, quickly lets the credit card disappear in the pocket of his trench coat. His confident demeanor crumbles slightly. “I still don’t know why I can’t have the curtains.”
“You still don’t know why you can’t have the-“ Dean runs a hand over his face like he’s talking to a toddler with authority issues instead of a formerly infinitely powerful celestial creation. “Your room doesn’t even have windows, man,” he says in defeat. His voice is still muffled by his hand.
“And that is relevant how?” Castiel must admit that by this point the comparison to the toddler is uncomfortably apt, considering he is suppressing a pout.
“Are you serious right now?” Dean sends a pleading look towards the ceiling as if asking the neon lights to take his side. “Having windows is, like, the only reason to own curtains.” He looks back at Castiel, delivering his final blow. “And you live in an underground bunker!”
The angel deems the argument ineffective. “As a matter of fact, Dean, I happen to have been around when humans first began the tradition of hanging cloth on walls for aesthetic purposes. Back then windows were not a requirement for that.”
There’s the hint of a smile Dean seems to be trying very hard to hold back. “You’re just bullshitting now, aren’t you.”
“Immensely so.” Castiel does not try to hold back his smile. He missed that particular development in interior design in favor of a spectacular species development in the Amazon River.
“Keep your ugly-ass curtains, Cas.” Dean’s smile breaks through now too and Castiel makes a mental note not to piss the hunter off for at least a day or two, anything longer would be unrealistic, because that smile is what made the angel throw away his power and beliefs within a beat of his wings.
Tearing his eyes away from Dean’s face after recognizing he is dangerously close to inappropriate staring, Castiel turns his gaze towards the curtains in the shopping cart, pleased with himself. They are an off white color with vertical baby blue stripes about an inch in width, and would very likely reach all the way to the floor in the bedroom assigned to him. And fine, Castiel supposes Dean is right and they are not as pretty as he insisted they are but that is beside the point.
The angel follows as the hunter takes the lead and pushes the cart the rest of the way through the store. “Sam’s gonna give you shit for that too, y’know,” he calls over his shoulder.
“Usually he keeps unreasonably negative opinions to himself,” Castiel replies.
“’S’not unreasonable when you get curtains for a windowless friggin’ room,” Dean murmurs as he scans the curtains together with the rest of their items at the self-checkout.
“Funny,” Castiel says innocently, “How I supposedly cannot have curtains because my room does not have a window, yet you own a bookshelf.”
What is the expression to use in such a situation, again?
“Shuddup,” Dean mumbles as he searchingly pats his pockets, probably thinking about the lonesome but well-loved copy of Slaughterhouse-Five resting on said shelf. Castiel hands him Charles Harrington’s credit card and they exchange a benevolent smirk.
For a moment the former angel finds it infinitely amusing that this is what he’s ended up exchanging his supremacy for. The exact life he had always avoided, chaotic and oh so very human.
If someone asks, at least he can say it comes with free curtains.