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It’s a quiet thing, being human; the silent thumps of a heartbeat he knows is there, but can only hear if he concentrates. His other organs function as expected, he assumes, given that he is breathing and talking and walking, and nothing seems apparently wrong with them. Castiel is quickly learning that being human means relying on a lot of guesswork.
The blare of traffic on the street is jarring to his human ears, but it fades at 300 feet, disappears by 500. His range of frequencies is narrowed down to a pinpoint. Most of the time, such as when he’s left to his own devices in the bunker, the silence reminds Castiel of his loneliness. To be human is to be alone; he thinks he’s heard these words before, but he understands them now. When he listens to the thoughts in his head, there are only his own. No angelic chatter, news from Heaven and the other angels on Earth. Only a heavy silence, and the expectant weight of his own consciousness.
When he is alone—truly, physically alone, as well as mentally, he likes to play music. At first, he hadn’t yet developed his own tastes, so he borrowed from Dean. He used Dean’s records—gently, careful of the thin, cardboard jackets—and played classic rock while he cooked and researched, and busied himself with other chores. It didn’t take long until he started picking out favorites, most of them softer, and a bit smoother in sound than the others; less scratchy. When Dean stumbles in one evening to find him listening, he informs Castiel that the music he likes is called jazz. A few weeks later, Dean gifts him a small device he calls an ‘iPod’, pre-fills it with some songs that he thinks Castiel will like, and teaches him where he can find more. He gives Cas a mildly approving look when he adds a few classic rock songs of his own, but crinkles his nose when Castiel mostly inputs music that Dean refers to as “trashy pop”. Still, he smiles when he says it.
Regardless of the type of sound, the noise helps him to focus. Dean calls it “white noise”, a sort of ambient background to help stave off mundanity. The sudden severing of his connection to ‘Angel Radio’ feels closer to losing a limb—his wings, for instance, than it does to boredom. But Dean just shakes his head when he tries to explain it.
Castiel can’t blame him. Dean’s only ever known himself as a whole of something, not a part of it.
It’s not just the chatter of other angels that he misses, but the prayers as well, particularly when he thinks of Dean. He wonders if Dean still prays to him, silently or under his breath, on nights when his memories of Hell get overwhelming. It is a strange peculiarity of Dean, this indirectness—characteristic as it is of his other behaviors. There were times, too, when the prayers were wordless; more longing than coherent thought. Castiel misses those, as well. Though he never did read Dean’s thoughts outside of these, these little glimpses into his inner mind gave Cas some kind of understanding that he misses sorely. When Dean aches now, he can only read it from his face and body. Though he’s fluent in many languages, these he is still learning.
It’s a slow effort, and a quiet one. But Castiel listens.