heaven isn’t castiel’s home anymore, and he’s sure it never even was. the angels— his siblings, his family— want him, dead or alive, it didn’t matter. he’s stuck on earth, stuck to roam and hunt with the winchesters.

he didn’t mind hunting, he was saving people— but it is nothing like the angelic jobs he had prior, in both a negative and a positive way.

the bunker is his home, sam and dean tell him that over and over, but it’s nothing like heaven. it isn’t bright, it isn’t graceful, it doesn’t hum with holiness. but it is what he can get; so he takes it with bleeding hands and thanks the brothers.

it’s late, too late for most people to be out. the angel had snuck out of the bunker hours ago— sam and dean had probably turned the bunker upside down and inside out to find him by now— and found himself at one of the many catholic churches in town.

the old building is empty aside from the angel. the only noise came from the leaking pipes and the groaning of the olden wood.

his hands are clasped as he kneels on the marble floor, directly in front of the pietà statue. he prays, and prays and prays. he knows it doesn’t matter, but a part of him is so hopeful for his Father to assure him, to come down, to do anything.

but so far, it is radio silent.