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Castiel was left on his own for much of the time after that.
He understood that Dean needed Charlie there with him, and felt selfish wishing for more time with her, wanting to not be alone since it it was his fault that Dean was hurting anyway. Charlie was there often, probably too often, bringing food, and coffee, and taking him on walks before she would head back to Lebanon.
Castiel also couldn't repress his jealousy that she got to see him, as he watched the yellow car drive away.
He was healing nicely. His wounds scabbed over and on one of his mornings alone, he walked back to the hospital and got the stitches taken out, to his great relief. The rest of the hours he tried to fill. Charlie had given him a stack of dvds she deemed essential for his new human status, but he found the television was more distracting. And less likely to have a storyline that would send him spiralling into memories (and he'd never admit it, but the childs movie about the alien crashing landing in Hawaii moved him to tears).
But even with the tv on most of the time, the walks into the city, and the visits from Charlie, Castiel found himself too much in silence for his comfort. He tried to control his thoughts and far too bright and painful human emotions, but he was often unsuccessful.
Each time he accidentally reached for his grace, or tried to flex his wings and found only empty space, he had to swallow down a wave of panic. So many times he’d think by heaven what have I done? So often would he come dangerously close to just breaking down and sobbing, mourning what he'd lost. The world was flat and large and small and confining, and gritty and loud but too silent. His mind was missing the endless songs and voices of his brothers and sisters, people were blank vessels with nothing underneath and he didn’t know how to read their faces. Sometimes he’d just sit there and listen to the hum of the fridge. He ate, and slept and took his medicine, and was so painfully, undeniably human.
It, as Charlie had said, “sucked”.