Title: Beneath the Stars

Author: obaona

A/N: At end.

Castiel is two years old.

He sits on a colorful floor, blocks in front of him. He has been given the task of acquiring and placing said blocks in some kind of pattern. It's incredibly tedious, but it does give Castiel the opportunity to practice using this child's body. His body. He really needs to stop thinking of this body as a vessel; it's his in a way a vessel would never be. He is trapped in here, after all, he should embrace its various flaws and features.

"Possibly autism," the woman tells his parents, Gregory and Catherine Novak. She speaks quietly enough Castiel thinks he's not supposed to hear her. "But what's important to note is that you caught it early, and his delays are primarily social. You said he started communicating with you when he was six months old?"

Castiel begins to make a fractal, laid flat. The exacting nature of fractals makes his small hands spasm, his movements still frustratingly clumsy. He's a full four centimeters off on the last one he places. He frowns, concentrates, and nudges the block.

"It was the weirdest thing," Gregory whispers. "It's like he decided to establish sign language with us. Signals for wanting milk, or wanting his diaper changed. It took me weeks to realize he wasn't repeating the same action and over for no reason."

"But he doesn't like being touched. He always shies away," Catherine says. She sounds upset, and Castiel pauses in placing his blocks. "I just don't know what I'm doing wrong."

"Honey, you're not doing anything wrong," Gregory adds, and when Castiel looks up he has his hand on his wife's shoulder. He looks tired, and new gray strands have appeared in his dark hair.

Castiel's tiny fist tightens around his current block, the letter A staring back at him. Fallen angels are normally born to barren couples, and he can't help but think that they weren't expecting him to be their child. He knows how much most humans treasure their children, and by falling – and remembering, more importantly – Castiel has taken that away from them. He was born from the line of his vessels, which seems appropriate enough, but that doesn't make it any easier on Gregory and Catherine. He's failing badly at trying to be a human child.

The psychologist begins to reassure Catherine, explaining that Castiel has some kind of disease. It's a little insulting, but at least they're nowhere the truth.

Feeling vaguely guilty, Castiel returns to his fractal. He's almost finished it when Catherine comes over to him. Like always, she kneels in front of him first, then holds out her hand. "Time to go, sweetie."

Castiel looks at his mother, takes a deep breath, and then purposely takes her hand. "I'm ready, Mom," he says, with a slight lisp.

She gives a surprised and delighted smile.

In that moment, Castiel silently promises her to try to be a better son.

In heaven, Castiel's physical form is amorphous at best. He's more light than matter, a creature of wings with no body. On Earth, of course, if he isn't in a vessel he looks much like his siblings – four wings, three faces, features like molten metal that captures color. He settles next to Anael, a wave that becomes a loop. An angel's version of sitting still. They exist in the sea between human heavens, looking down upon the earth.

"What do you see?" he asks her.

"Hope," Anael replies. "Emotion. Do you ever want to just feel, Castiel?"

He rather thinks not, but doesn't let that thought slip out. "They are curious creatures," he says instead. "Humans. Their lives are so short, but they burn so brightly."

"Sometimes," Anael says, "I'd rather be a flash of a sun instead of a long burning candle."

The burst of pain is bright and overwhelming, and then rapidly becomes secondary to the fact that he can't breathe. The tree limb Castiel had been climbing swims in his vision, a good fifteen feet above his head. It takes almost twenty seconds for his body to begin to respond with a huge, gasping breath – he'd had the wind knocked out of him by the fall. His right arm, which he fell upon, is blazing fire to the beat of his pulse. It hurts.

Without even thinking, he screams.

Catherine bursts out of the house, running and practically falling to his side. She touches his shoulder, and he cries. Tears fall from his eyes for the first time since he'd been able to communicate using words instead, and Catherine says, "Oh, oh baby, you're okay, you'll be fine, we're going to take you to the hospital." She turns to the house, shouts, "Gregory, get out here!"

Castiel blinks out tears.

Carefully, Catherine starts checking him for other injuries. "Jimmy – Cas – do you have any other hurt spots?"

Castiel moans. The pain is so much more immediate than any battle in his true form. "N-no."

She takes a deep breath. "Okay, I'm going to pick you up." She always telegraphs the fact that she's going to touch him. He normally tries not to flinch from the contact, but she seems to know anyway. But this time, when her arms come around him and lift him up – careful not to jar his right arm – he leans into her. He pushes into her hold, suddenly desperate for a feeling other than the pain. Suddenly wanting comfort, like when his siblings had helped preen his wings.

She gasps, quietly. She hugs him for a long minute before Gregory comes back, saying he's started the car.

That's the first time.

Castiel doesn't remember being born. Not exactly.

He remembers a mass of confusion that seemed to last forever, sensations piled upon each other with no self-awareness behind them. All he could do was feel. And he felt everything.

It was hell.

He remembers the shock of light, the shock of touch, the shock of cold. In billions of years, he'd never felt things so unattached to his own consciousness. Even the oddness of taking a vessel and cramming himself into a single head and a mere four limbs didn't compare. His angelic mind was being shunted through a human one. He doesn't know for sure, but he imagines he screamed a lot in those days. The humans, including his parents, probably didn't think much of it. Human babies cry a lot, for attention or food or comfort.

Castiel was clawing himself back into awareness.

Castiel is four years old, and he has a playdate.

Her name is Amber. She's four, like him, and in every other way she is his complete opposite. She is bright, cheerful, and expressive. The first thing she does is give him a hug, curly black hair falling into his face. The feeling is irritating, but he returns her hug anyway. "Hi," Castiel says.

She grins at him. "Hi, Jimmy!"

Castiel frowns.

"Oh, bubbles!" Amber says, and heads for them. They're in the Novak's backyard, beyond the porch and on the grass with a tub of soap to make bubbles. Amber picks up a utensil and starts running, large bubbles trailing after her.

"I prefer Cas," Castiel says. He supposes he should have accepted his human name, but he didn't quite understand the relevance as a three year old, and ended up badly pronouncing his own name repeatedly whenever Catherine and Gregory tried to call him Jimmy. Cas was close enough. And it's probably better not to be known as Castiel; that would give the game away, as Anael might say.

Amber spins. "What does prefer mean?"

"I like Cas as my name," Castiel explains.

She drags the ring through the soap again. "Okay." She stretches out the handle to Castiel. "Want a turn?"

Castiel obediently takes it and begins to run, letting the bubbles go. He likes the shimmer of all colors on them, reminding of him his lost wings in a way that manages not to be painful. When he closes his eyes and runs – which Catherine still lectures him about – he can almost feel them, dragging through the air, ready to lift him.

After having the bubbles for exactly as long as Amber did initially, he hands the ring back. "Your turn," he says.

He watches Amber out of the corner of his eye, and sets to listening to his mother speak with Amber's mother. He's found that adults rarely think too closely about what they say around children, assuming the child can't understand the conversation. Granted, Amber probably isn't going to understand, but Castiel comprehends enough. It helps him alter his behavior to be more typical.

"You really let him pick his own name?" Amber's mother asks Catherine.

"If it makes him happy," Catherine says, an edge to her voice, "then I'm fine with it."

Amber's mother is called Eliana, as it turns out. Castiel plays with Amber for an hour, letting her pull him into playing house – a ritual that apparently involves pretending to be an adult, and requires a lot of imagination, as well as willingness to ignore logical contradictions – and letting her take the lead. His verbiage is more advanced than hers, and he finds himself using simpler words to compensate. Amber is fairly easy to get along with, but eventually he tires of acting normal.

Castiel walks up to Catherine and Eliana, asking his mother, "May I color?"

Catherine is halfway through nodding when Amber runs up to Eliana, and Eliana says in Spanish, "You should call him Jimmy. He should know his own name."

"Cas is my name," Castiel says in the same language, frowning at her. He feels offended.

Eliana jerks and stares at him. "You didn't tell me you were teaching Jimmy Spanish, Catherine," she says.

Catherine stares at Castiel. "I haven't." She pauses. "Sweetie, where did you learn those words?"

Castiel doesn't meet her eyes. He's failed, again. Of course he knows all languages – angels aren't afflicted with the curse of Babel. Idioms, culture, those he doesn't understand, but language to language is incredibly easy. He's retained much of his mind, forcing it to function through a human child's body, and until now he'd been thankful his speech was included. "I'm sorry," he says at last, looking at his mother.

"You don't need to be sorry," Catherine says gently. She smiles at him, holds out an arm. "Come here?" she asks. And she's asking, not requiring.

Castiel goes up to her and she enfolds him in a hug. He relaxes, breathing in the smell of her shampoo. She runs a hand down his back, and it feels good.

She lets him go after a minute. "Why don't I get you some crayons and paper?" she asks.

Castiel nods.

Amber and her mother don't come back.

Castiel doesn't mind. He draws instead, and if he hides protection sigils in childish scribbles, no one needs to know that but him.

Castiel sees an angel, all cool angles and exact movements. If Castiel is a wave, she is several. He watches her, realizing he doesn't know her name. Her rank is obvious, part of her being, but somehow he has never met her. She must rarely travel these lower heavens, closer to earth and humanity.

He sits in a loop, next to Anael. "Who is that?"

Several of Anael's faces turn towards him, as she flickers between a wave in heaven and her true form on earth. She's surprised. "Naomi," she says. "You don't remember her?"

"No," Castiel says. "Should I?"

Anael goes still. She is head of his garrison, and she never hesitates. "Yes."

Castiel is seven.

Elementary school is a social exercise for him, not an academic one. He speaks every known language with perfect grammatical skill (though he has learned to hide this ability), understands math on the logical level because it echoes the reality angels naturally see (the math is in some ways a new concept, and in other ways an old friend), and witnessed much of human history. Unfortunately, his teachers rarely like his corrections on the last category. Castiel has gotten better at simply going with the errors instead of commenting on them. Seven year olds do not remember with what the Tower of Babel was really like. (Unimpressive, in a word.)

It's summer, and afternoon recess is letting out. He's a single grade ahead of his peers, all his parents would allow, concerned about his social life. He doesn't mind being held behind, really. Three grades ahead really wouldn't be much better.

He heads for the swings, ignoring his classmates. They instantly split into their own groups, organizing themselves into an activity. Kickball, or some imaginary game. Castiel likes the wind as he swings, pumping his legs to go higher and higher. After twelve minutes, he stops in preparation for the end of recess.

A group of boys who are fond of mocking him are huddled together. It's not normal – they're usually the most boisterous – and Castiel quietly walks over to them.

" – believe you caught it! Look, let me try to get the other wing."

Wing. Castiel pushes through two of the boys, who let him through out of surprise. Allen, one of the leaders, is poking at a fly.

Allen has a pair of tweezers, and he jabs at the fly. "Jeez, it's all over the place, can't get the other one," he says.

Some indescribable emotion filling Castiel, he bursts forward and knocks Allen back. He gently gathers the struggling fly in hands, staring down at it. It doesn't even seem to realize it's missing a wing. The remaining one flaps wildly, skittering across Castiel's skin. It can't survive like this. It's going to die.

"Hey!" Allen shouts. "What –"

The fly tickles as it moves. That's how small it is. How small it is now, unable to reach the rest of the world, unable to soar through the air. It'd be a mercy to kill it, unlike waiting for it to starve to death, or be plucked up by a bird.

Castiel gently lets it flap off his hands onto the ground, and then punches Allen in the face.

The boy cries out in shock and pain before trying to aim his own swing, but now instinct has kicked in for Castiel. He simply steps to the side, drives a fist into his kidney, and then kicks the side of his leg. Allen goes down. The other boys pile on top of Castiel while an adult screams somewhere in the distance, "STOP!" but Castiel has no intention of stopping.

"It was innocent!" he realizes he's shouting. "It was innocent!" An elbow into another boy's face leaves an empty spot, and an adult drives through it, grabbing Castiel by the arm and yanking him away from the boy he was about to trip.

Castiel screams when the adult grabs him and holds him almost like a hug, his arms down at his sides. He screams again more out of frustration than rage, and then goes limp. The adult, a man, nearly drops him, but doesn't let go.

Mrs. Anderson, Castiel's own teacher, is separating at Allen's friends, eyes wide and face pale with shock. Castiel pants, willing his breathing to calm. She looks at the man holding Castiel. "Take him to the principal," she says. "I'll have an aide cover your class."

"You going to fight me?" the adult man asks, looking down at Castiel. Another teacher, presumably.

Castiel takes one breath before replying, listening to the boys crying. "I think the beating proved my point."

The man blinks at him, reluctantly lets Castiel go for a moment, and then takes his upper arm in a firm but not bruising grip. He takes Castiel to the principal's office, the lights in the hallway droning into Castiel's eyes. He sits Castiel down in a chair. Within a few minutes the secretary finds a first aid kit, and the teacher puts Neosporin on Castiel's cut up knuckles. After that, apparently satisfied that Castiel will no longer be violent, he leaves Castiel with the secretary, who says nothing to him.

Castiel sits in silence. He flexes his hands, marveling at the cuts and bruises from a relative few blows. He's known for a long time how much more delicate he is this way, but until now he'd never felt that it mattered much. Because he didn't need his angelic strength. His parents had always kept him safe. His life, if confusing, was peaceful enough. But Castiel is not peaceful.

His memories roil within. All of them.

He spreads his hands wide, breaking the newly-formed scabs, treasuring the grounding pain.

The door opens. "Oh, sweetie." Catherine is at his side in a moment, her bright blue eyes shimmering with tears. "What happened?"

"I lost my wings, Mommy," Castiel says. "I lost my wings." Then he pushes his head into her shoulder and weeps.

Castiel flies.

Anael has to struggle to catch up, but she does manage it, something similar to laughter transmitting over to him through the Host. He weaves through human heavens – appearing like a moment of lightning and thunder – until he reaches the border of the greater structures of heaven. He settles on that edge, a cloud in his mind.

One thousand, eight hundred and ninety-two years, three months and four days ago. For a period of three weeks, Earth time. And he was on Earth, he's certain of that.

"Did you go looking?" Anael asks.

"Do I want to see?" he asks her. All of earth lays below, slowly marching through time.

Her waves mellow. "I don't know if you do, Castiel." She shimmers. "But for myself, yes."

"Do you remember where I was?" He leans into her, more a meeting of minds than true physical contact.

"Melos. You tried to hide the children from the Athenians."

He recognizes the carpeting. Interlocking blocks of primary colors, as well as some foam flooring near bins of toys. It looks more like a child's room – more like Castiel's own room – than a doctor's office, like the one he'd gotten his vaccinations. The walls are a muted yellow. Catherine leads him to a chair and table that fits his own size, and he sits down without being asked. Catherine kisses his forehead, and then takes Gregory's hand and leaves.

The psychologist, a woman with dark hair and dark eyes but a calm smile, sits opposite him, on the floor so she's level with him. "Hi, Cas. My name is Sally. Can I shake your hand?"

He takes her hand, applies the socially acceptable pressure, and releases. "Hi, Sally."

"Your parents told me that you like to draw," Sally says. "Would it be all right if I drew with you for a while?"

Castiel nods.

Sally smiles brightly, and gets out construction paper and some crayons. She picks out yellow paper and a blue crayon for herself, and starts drawing wavy lines. Castiel, beginning to feel suspicious, takes a piece of white paper and begins drawing a trees with spindly limbs. He hides a few sigils in the curves, as a matter of habit. Statistically, it's unlikely his parents will ever encounter something supernatural – at least not one that is dangerous to them – but a little precaution is a good tactic in any battlefield. He finishes the drawing with a stick figure and a yellow sun.

"May I?" Sally asks, touching his drawing. "I love your trees, they remind me of when all the leaves fall, and there's only the branches. What are these?" she asks, pointing at the hiding sigil he drew.

Castiel freezes. "Nothing."

Sally nods. "Okay. Cas, I want you to know this is a safe place, and you can tell me anything you want to, okay?"

"Okay," Castiel says warily.

"Can I ask you about these lines?" she asks, pointing to the stick figure. Castiel blinks. Without realizing it, the spindly lines of the trees make vague wing shapes. When Castiel remains silent, she asks, "Are they wings?"

Oh. This is about the incident at the school, for which he was expelled. "No," he lies.

Sally watches him for a second, but her expression remains gentle. She hands Castiel a piece of paper this time, and gets another for herself. She begins to draw a more embellished stick figure, in orange. "Can you draw me a picture of yourself?" she asks. "This one is me. I'm orange because that's my favorite color."

Castiel stares down at the paper. He has the sudden urge to draw himself as he really is, as waves of light and intent, or in his physical form – which of course she would find frightening or monstrous. Except he's not really any kind of angel anymore. He picks up a black crayon, then puts it down. "I'd rather not." He meets her eyes.

She nods, accepting his answer. "All right. Can we talk instead?"

No. "Okay."

"Do you feel angry a lot, Cas?"

Do you feel angry at me, Castiel? No, I feel nothing. Good.

His breathing has picked up. "No, I feel nothing."

Sally pauses, and Castiel realizes that was the wrong response. "How did you feel at school, Cas? When you had the fight with those boys?"

"Don't take my memories," Castiel whispers. Do human psychologists do that? Take memories? He's seen them take out parts of the human brain, coursed electricity through it. Do they do that to children? What about when he's older? He stares at Sally, suddenly feeling very afraid. "I want to remember."

She seems mildly surprised, quickly hidden. "Has anyone taken your memories, Cas?"

He can't answer. Of course he can't answer. She wouldn't believe him even if she understood to begin with. He feels stricken, feels numb. This body, so young, can't process the things he feels. Maybe as badly as his angelic body did. "I – no."

"You can tell me anything, all right?" Sally says very gently. "I won't hurt you. Your parents are here, any time you want them. And I won't ever take your memories."

Castiel controls his breathing.

"Did someone hurt you?" Sally asks.

"I miss my wings," he says, and that is not what he intended to say. "No, I don't," he quickly adds. "I was being silly."

"Did someone hurt your wings?" Sally guesses.

"Humans don't have wings," Castiel replies. "I was being silly."

"Cas, you can tell me anything, no matter how silly it sounds. I promise. You're safe here."

The words want to burst out of him, shoved deep for seven years. This wasn't part of the plan. He was supposed to forget. By his own choice, so he could feel, so he could experience all the things he felt too much pain to reach for. The words boil in his chest, ready to overflow, and then they do. "She shoved a pin in my eye," he says, and Sally almost starts. "And then took out all the bits she didn't like. But I got them back." He nods at Sally, feeling a surge of satisfaction. "They hurt, but at least they're mine."

"Who did, Cas?"

"She hasn't been to earth in millennia," Castiel tells Sally. Panic begins to flood in, irresistible. His breathing becomes rapid. "She won't come back. She won't."

"Okay," Sally says instantly. "Okay. Your mom is going to come in a second."

True to her word, Catherine is at Castiel's side very quickly. She must have been watching. She enfolds Castiel in her arms, warm and comforting human touch. "It's okay, baby," she whispers into his ear. He leans into the contact, letting her pull him into her lap and rock him. The motion is oddly soothing, and he begins to relax. He begins to let go of the memories of heaven's tortures, all he suffered and lost. His mother may not know who he really is, may not know that none of this is her fault, it's all his and he's got countless years of suffering to make up for, but she loves him. She wants to keep him safe. She wants him happy.

For the first time, Castiel weeps with the expectation of it getting better.

Catherine holds through it, until the sobs slowly break off. He feels fuzzy, absolutely exhausted like the time Gregory took him hiking. He barely feels it when Catherine transfers him to Gregory, then to the car, and then to home.

He sleeps.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, already changed into pajamas. He hears his parents' talking, a quiet murmur that barely reaches his room. He gets up, pads silently to his door and then cracks it, listening.

" – hurt him, Greg. I don't know who, but I'm going to find out and make them suffer," Catherine says, voice dark.

"We will," Gregory promises. "But for now, we need to focus on Cas. Take the data she asked for. If he stabilizes maybe we won't have to put him on medication. He's so young …"

"I don't think he's psychotic," Catherine practically hisses. "He's just interpreting whatever happened in an odd way."

There's a several minute silence. Castiel almost thinks the conversation is over, when Gregory says, "He's always been … odd. You know that. Not just how incredibly smart he is, all the things he somehow knows. He said that fight was logical, that the beating he gave those boys was justified because they'd never do anything like that again. And months go by where he doesn't show any emotion, like he's mimicking us instead of actually feeling it."

"It's there," Catherine snaps. "You're at work, I'm here with him all day. And I'm telling you, it's there. He just – he just hides it. No matter what I do." Her voice trails off into defeat.

Gregory says firmly, "Whatever you want to do, I'll support you."

A gentle laugh. "No drugs," Catherine says. "We'll continue with therapy and be there for him."

Castiel closes the door.

The next day, he says, "I love you, Mom," and he means every word.

The story is a WIP, but I expect to be giving regular updates. Yes, Dean and Sam will eventually appear, as will John and Anna. I haven't totally decided on ages yet, but I'll probably be throwing some degree of logic/consistency with the show out of the window. Just for simplicity's sake, I decided to make his parents' Jimmy's parents (as far as I know, there's not much known about them in the show, so this is all original). For some reason, I couldn't get the idea of Castiel falling and remembering his angelic life out of my mind. The bunny grew from the notion that people would probably think him anything from autistic to sociopathic. Please let me know what you think!