Summary: In a world where angels face oppression and discrimination from humans, Castiel wakes in a hospital bed with no recollection of the past decade of his life, or why it is he chose to fall in love with, much less marry a human. As he attempts to gather his memories and understand the angel he has apparently become; he also finds himself, however reluctantly, falling in love with Dean Winchester, once more.

So, like the summary and name of the story would suggest, after an accident, Castiel finds himself with no memories of what has happened to him over the past nine years. Angels and humans live alongside eachother, however, their existence together can hardly be described as harmonious; and, as humans are agonisingly prone to doing, they oppress angelkind for their differences. Which is why Castiel is so disgusted with himself when he discovers that he has been married to one Dean Winchester, a human, for almost two years.

Other notes: There's a fucktonne of dom/sub undertones in this, (it's all beautifully healthy and totally consensual, don't worry, but I'm going to be putting a warning on any chapters with smut scenes in them and where these scenes will be located relative to the chapter, so you can avoid if you'd so wish.) with Dom!Cas and Sub!Dean. For this reason, and for the bad language that'll probably flit onto a couple of pages, this fic is going to be rated M.

It's going to be a lot shorter than Thank You, and hopefully quite a bit better (hooray for self-deprecation) as well as written in a present-tense narrative. With the story's shortness in mind, I'd also like to say that (again, hopefully) it'll also be pretty condensed; as in, the plot will be as thick as my skull is when it comes to maths and any algebra-related problems; so you'll all find it entertaining. And again, hopefully. With all of this said, it is, of course, going to be a multi-chapter story. The chapters are just going to be way shorter than what you'll be used to, if you were reading my last multi-chapter fic.

And, because I can tell this question is going to be pretty frequently asked ("This is nothing like the story you told us about in the a/n's for the last few chapters of Thank You wtf where's our god damn fantasy au with princes and shit?!") That one's on its way. The plot for that just needs ironing out, and I want it to be freaking perfect by the time I hand it over to you all, so that's why I felt the need to publish this story before that one. Because this one is looking to be a lot shorter, a lot easier to plan out (I already have the ending in mind, oh, joy) and a lot easier to excuse if it turns out a bit pants. Because I only wrote it to keep those really desperate to see my next story occupied for a bit. Does any of that make sense? Idk. I'm tired. Ignore me. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters in it.

1.

Buzzing white. Castiel is dragged out of silence into a world of buzzing white where nothing really seems to make sense. There is a pressure on his hand. Warm. Firm. Guilty. It should be familiar, but it isn't. There is another pressure on his arm. This one isn't warm. It's cold and hard and seems almost medical. The air has the bitter tang of something pharmaceutical. Disinfected. Sterilised. Castiel can't seem to slide fully into consciousness. He just lapses in and out of states of sleep and semi-sleep, into a world filled with muffled voices and the blurred outlines of silhouettes in front of bright, white light. Buzzing white lights. Castiel thinks he hears his name. Perhaps. Muffled in his ears by the constant buzzing. And beeping. Constant beeping.

"Castiel?"

Concern. Maybe panic. The pressure on his arm tightens. There is a pain to the right of Castiel's chest.

Beep, Beep.

"I think he's coming to."

The voice is hard, formal. Flat. Professional. Words reel off the top of Castiel's head, none of them holding any more meaning than the last. He cannot think in anything other than short sentences. His skull is hurting. It hurts to think.

"Cas?" The pressure on his hand squeezes tighter. This voice holds panic and remorse and something like care, and a great deal of it, as it speaks to Castiel. Is it speaking to Castiel? It speaks as if it knows him, this disembodied voice—but it's unfamiliar, unknown and alien in the ears of Castiel. His right wing hurts. His left wing hurts, too, coming to think of it.

Beep, Beep.

Another squeeze.

"Cas?"

"Give him space—" Hard, flat, professional voice has now added reprimand to the mix of sounds stirred into its tone. Cool, condescending reprimand.

"He's my husband—" Caring voice now sounds agitated. The pressure on Castiel's hand has slipped, somewhat. Distracted.

"He's my brother!" First voice shouts. Female. Distressed. Rachel.

Castiel gasps. A mask is on his face. The buzzing hasn't stopped. The lights have got brighter. The silhouettes are clearer.

Beep, Beep.

"Castiel, can you hear me?" Professional voice sounds only slightly more personal. Marginally more caring.

Castiel tries to answer. He really does. But it hurts his head, and the lights above him feel like they're shattering into his skull. He tries to shift his wing, his right wing, but this action sends splintering pain along the length of it and into his shoulder blade.

"Give him more morphine." The professional voice says. A quieter voice, more distant, obedient, confirms that they are carrying out the instruction.

"But that'll send him back to sleep—"

"Did you not hear his cry of pain?" Professional voice has turned hard, again.

"Yes, but—"

"Then don't object when I suggest lessening your husband's suffering." Professional voice bites.

Castiel can hear Rachel biting down on a sob. He wants to reach out, to open his eyes, find her hand—Rachel—he tries to speak, but it doesn't work, and the world is slipping away from him, again. The buzzing fades. Sleep descends.

Castiel hasn't even noticed the absence of the pressure on his hand.

And then it returns. The pressure. The soft squeeze—timid and caring and guilt-ridden—it should be familiar, Castiel knows it should, but it isn't; and it's just as foreign as it intends to be caring.

The voice speaks again. Most of the noises it makes are muffled in Castiel's ears, and he doesn't catch many of them. But he makes out his name—or at least what he thinks is his name—perhaps what the caring voice knows as his name, or knows Castiel as; but he has no recollection of it—of the voice, this apparent nickname, or who owns the voice. It's not that he doesn't like the sound of it. It's warm and soft and speaks as though Castiel is all that matters; but it's not anything that Castiel recognises. Everything is unfamiliar.

His eyes flicker for a moment.

"He opened his eyes—" The voice calls out, but to whom, Castiel cannot tell. The voice is raw and desperate and exhausted, and try as he might Castiel cannot think of who might own it. "—Only for a second, but—"

"But he may be coming to, again." Another voice says. This one is new. It is not as removed as the professional voice, but still seems to remain in some distance of propriety as it speaks.

Beep, Beep.

Things are hurting less, at least. The pain in Castiel's skull has dulled down significantly, and his wings simply feel numb. He knows this should panic him. But it doesn't. His mind is moving slowly, as if drunk. The buzzing has ceased. Or at least Castiel thinks it has. The voices around him are continuing as before. Blurred by Castiel's own drowsiness. He doesn't know where he is, why he's there. It's as though things have shifted, out of place, as though something is odd, missing—or perhaps something new and foreign has been added to the air around Castiel. He can't work it out.

Something is wrong.

He opens his eyes.

"Cas?" The warm, caring voice asks again. He blinks. A light is flashed into his eyes. He frowns and blinks again. A latex-gloved hand holds open his eyelid—he tries to protest, but speaking is surprisingly difficult—and shines the light into his eyes, again. Castiel hears fingers clicking to one side of his head and turns to face them, but they've moved round to his other side and are snapping again before Castiel has fully turned his head. He cannot see at all far ahead of him, although he is finding his senses are returning to him, however slowly, once again.

"Reflexes are looking good." A new, still professional voice states. Several others mumble incoherent things that Castiel cannot even begin to bring himself to decipher, all around him.

"Cas?" The voice repeats. Nervous. Desperate. Hopeful.

The pressure on his hand is there, again. Castiel had almost forgotten about it.

Beep, Beep.

"Where is Rachel?"

The room falls silent.

Castiel realises that he has spoken. He blinks again. Tries to sit up. It doesn't work.

"Rachel," He rasps, again. His voice is raw. It rakes against his throat as he attempts to speak, and he wonders just how long it has been since he last spoke. "Where is she? Where is my sister?"

Things are coming a little more into focus. Hands move Castiel to sit upright.

"She's just getting a drink—I'll go fetch her." A voice says. Castiel blinks. It's a nurse, who moves to exit. He's in a hospital room. He is surrounded by more nurses and doctors—and the pressure on his hand is still there—he turns to face it—and sees a face. A human face. The face is smiling across at him like seeing Castiel awake is some huge relief, but Castiel doesn't know who this person is. Or why a human, of all people, is even associating themselves with Castiel—let alone looking at him like that.

"Cas," The human beams. "You're awake."

Castiel frowns. He looks down at the hand wrapped around his own.

"Who are you?" He finds himself almost scowling—out of confusion and fear and distrust—because Castiel has never encountered a friendly human before. Humans are unpleasant and oppressive and in Castiel's experience, generally extremely bigoted and cruel; particularly towards Castiel and his people.

"Cas—" The human's voice cracks, slightly, and his voice twists suddenly with a combination of worry and hurt. "—It's me."

"Who are you?" Castiel repeats, his jaw setting into a hard, definite line.

"Can't you remember?" The human asks, voice cracking still more. "You can't—Cas, it's me—"

"I did say some memory loss would be likely." The first professional voice says, from the foot of Castiel's bed. Castiel turns to see a doctor, face sombre, with dull, grey wings.

"Yeah, but you wouldn't say he wouldn't know me—" The human's voice turns distressed, angry. Castiel turns to look at the human again. He scowls at the expression he is wearing—at the fact that he is directing this aggression and resentment towards an angel—although it should come as nothing as a surprise—but more than anything, Castiel scowls at the fact that he has apparently chosen to associate himself with a human.

"Who are you?" He repeats, his face setting with something hard and bitter. The human attempts to squeeze his hand again, some kind of reassurance intended to stifle Castiel's anger, but it only rouses it further. Castiel tears his hand from the human's grip and glowers at him.

"Cas—" The human's face crumples. "—I'm—I'm your husband."

Castiel's heart stops beating. He glares at the human—he's lying, Castiel knows that he's lying—but his gaze flits down to his hand—the hand the human had previously holding onto tighter than life itself.

His eyes graze down to his fourth finger. To his ring finger. His hardened expression trembles. Just once. Just before he manages to compose himself, again. But then his eyes flit over to this human's left hand. To his ring finger. And his heart sinks into his stomach.

Castiel doesn't know where he is; where his sister is; why he is there; when it is— even who he is has become a mystery to himself. He doesn't know what he's become. What he stands for. If he stands for anything, anymore.

And worse than all of these unanswered questions storming around the inside of Castiel's skull is one truth, more terrible than any of the other details of Castiel's current circumstance.

Castiel is married to a human.