“I can’t see you anymore,” Cas says one day.
Dean looks at him askance and flips the burger patties on the grill. “Come again?” he asks.
Cas sits on the barstool at the counter, hands folded on the polished granite and eyes downcast. It’s been two weeks since the “greatest meteor shower of the century” shook the planet – that’s what all the news broadcasts are calling it, and the world’s top astronomists are in a tizzy trying to explain it – and one week since Dean got a call from an unknown number, heard raspy uneven breathing on the other end and knew, inexplicably, that it was Cas. One week since Dean drove out to Pontiac Illinois – and why the fuck does Cas keep popping back in Pontiac?– and picked up his fallen angel, dirt caked on his overcoat and embedded in the tear tracks on his cheeks, and bundled him in the front seat with the blankets he’d shoved in the trunk.
One week since Sam and Dean undertook the impossible task of teaching Castiel how to live, instead of exist.
“Your soul,” comes the answer almost a full minute later. Cas’ voice breaks. “I can’t see your soul.”