“You like her, don’t you?” Lorelai pestered.
He did, admittedly. That was his story, but he wanted a different one. It was stupid; he was stupid; she was stupid; they and the idea of them were stupid. A human and an angel. And unlike the other angels, he hated humans. Celia was okay, though.
She’d died about a month ago now—that was when he first met her. It was the morning after she arrived at Heaven’s doorstep: by the Fountain of Youth, according to Lorelai. Just like every other miserable human did.
He was folding her clothes in her room at the inn, trying to do so quickly, so he’d be out of there before she could realize he’d been there, but that was a bust. Because she spotted him.
That was when they first met.
About a week had passed before she finally accepted the fact that she had died. It was hard for her.
That was another thing. Humans were so weak. So fragile. It was just another reason for him to hate them.
He found himself inconvenienced when they had unfinished business back on Eath. Humans had to go back sometimes because of that. Back as a ghost, of course. Celia was one of those folks.
Or, at least, she thought she was.
Since he was assigned to watch over her, he was the one to send her back every day. A puff of special white flower in the face and she was gone; she just had to wash it off to come back.
Her first day as a ghost brought her trudging up the grassy hill at the farm to ask him a couple questions. He nearly snapped at her as he slipped out of the barn: he was hiding a pig he didn’t want to slaughter for food. He was on slaughtering duty and had made the mistake of looking this one in the eye; he couldn’t do it. The little guy wasn’t food, he was a friend.
She’d beckoned him to sit with her underneath the tree, and since he, as an angel, had to follow her every command, he did, but only after securing the barn door shut.
Unlike other humans, she questioned everything. She didn’t just blindly accept that everything was perfect. Frankly, it wasn’t, and, during one of their chats in the shade of the foliage, bits of sunshine freckling their faces, when she would bring coffee to drink after staying up all night as a ghost, like usual, he ended up telling her a bit of that. He wasn’t really supposed to, and he could get in trouble for saying such a thing, but for some reason he found himself trusting her. A human.
The coffee was bitter; no cream, not sugar. She let him try a couple sips from her mug as he told her about the pig he was hiding in the barn. About how the meat they all ate didn’t just magically appear cooked and on their plates at the inn. About how their waste was dumped in the river way downstream.
It was that first time she came to talk with him at the farm that he noticed the deathmark on the side of her forehead. That must’ve been how she died. A head injury.
And it wasn’t till later that he finally asked about it. She was shot in the head while being mugged, and ended up not only with her wallet stolen but her life, as well.
Turned out that’s what her unfinished business was back on Earth. Life. Something—the only thing, really—that couldn’t be finished.
She’d come to the farm sobbing when she figured it out, and hugged him half to death; not that he could die, of course. It made him uncomfortable in that it didn’t. It really made him feel needed. It made him feel like he could be trusted.
He could’ve used one of those hugs when his pig died.
It was the day Ameen, Celia’s “friend” had accepted his death, and he’d come out of his room finally a couple days after he arrived at the fountain, and she and he sat for coffee at the inn.
Ever since that human, Ameen, arrived, it was as though Castiel didn’t exist. He didn’t know why she reacted this way, either; according to what she’d told him, Ameen didn’t listen to anything she said. He loved talking. He loved listening to the sound of his own voice.
And even after he died—even after he was in Heaven, for Christ’s sake—the first thing he did was ignore her.
A couple days passed after Ameen had arrived (three, if he was correct), and Castiel decided to go to her to talk. It was always her that went to him.
That’s when she found them laughing and talking over the coffee she usually brought when she talked and laughed with him.
He watched as she took a sip from her mug and as she set it back on the table with a clink.
No cream, no sugar.