Then every man, of every clime,

That prays in his distress,

Prays to the human form divine,

Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

"The Divine Image" - William Blake

The world is overwhelming as a human.

Sights and smells and hot and cold and hunger as deep as the see with no end in sight. Everything that had once been muted and faraway, tucked behind the thick shield of his grace, is there now, powerful and impossible to ignore. His feet ache from walking, his muscles sore from the work he has done to earn the scant money he has – and such a strange thing, to be in need of money to get the things he requires. There are blisters on his feet from his shoes and the sharp sting of a sunburn flaring up the back of his neck and over his face, splinters and dirt ground into his hands, beneath his torn and uneven fingernails. The scruff on his face itches from the unchecked growth, he's tired – so tired – and the wound on his arm flares with pain whenever he dares move it too much.

He's hungry.

That, by far, is the worst thing about being human. The gnawing ache of hunger deep in his stomach, the roar of an organ left empty devouring whatever it can get ahold of. When he first became human it would subside for a time, fade away to an irritation he was dully aware of at the back of his mind, but his body could only go so long without protesting. He is dizzy more often than not, the hot sun above not helping his body's struggle to continue on without nourishment, and a headache has been ragging behind his eyes for days. The scraps he snatches here and there help some, but they are not enough on their own.

The shelter was the best. A cot to sleep on at night when the strangeness of sleep made its demands on his exhausted body, a place to shower the dirt and filth away for a little while and two meals a day, small but nourishing, enough to keep him upright and keep him moving. He had felt something archaic and instinctive resist when it became clear he had to move on, some blood born human trait calling at him to stay where there was comfort and warmth and food. It had been unsettling; the overwhelming sense of humanity that washed over him greater than it had been since Metatron had stolen his grace. He forced himself to move on though, plow onward towards Kansas, towards safety, towards Dean.

Dean is really the only thing keeping him pushing on. Past the hunger and exhaustion, past the very human want to stay in the few places that provide even the smallest promise of comfort. He has done everything for Dean, good and bad, what are a few hundred more miles and an empty stomach to contend with? It's because of Dean that he is standing where he is, hovering before a small, hole in the wall tattoo parlor with all his worldly wealth cradled in his hand. There is a seeming endless line of vendors stretching on beside him, tempting and tormenting with the drifting, mingling aroma of cooking food. A woman turns sausages expertly on a small grill just to his left, popping grease and onions and peppers sizzling nearby, soft rolls sopping all the dripping goodness up as she makes her goods and hands them off to the hungry passersby.

He has been hording every penny of the money he earns and finds since he realized an assumed name and constant movement would not be enough to remain hidden from his furious siblings. He found a small stained and wrinkled piece of paper pinned to a post at a bus stop some blocks back and he felt some small spark of hope at the promise of 10% off his first tattoo at the shop it was advertising for. He doesn't know how much it costs to stain his skin with ink, but he's confident that what he has should be enough. He wants only for a small thing, a warding spell that will keep him from him hidden from his brothers and sisters. Just enough to stay safe long enough to get to Kansas, to get to Dean.

The parlor is not as clean or maintained as those he has seen in the past, "Stains" is the name that he reads over the door and he thinks it a painfully accurate description of the place. Just inside though, he can see a woman diligently at work on a young man before the window, her blonde hair short save for where she has pulled the locks up into an approximation to what Dean once called a "Mohawk" and her dark eyes focused on the needle she is guiding into the young man's skin. He has lost his ability to see souls with his grace, but he thinks as he looks at the artist that he must have retained at least some small ability to read people. He knows that she is the one he wants to embed the spell into his skin.

He pockets his money, careful not to lose the worn voucher, and enters the shop. His stomach twists in his gut, painfully demanding food Castiel cannot grant it for a long time yet. He only has to return to Dean, he knows, only has to make that far and he will be safe.

He'll be home.