Screams. Fear. A drill aimed at his face, and no visible way to get away from it. He's trying to find a way out, trying to get away when a panicked, concerned voice enters his consciousness. Someone grips him by his shoulders and gently shakes him, questions and demands falling from their lips. He struggles weakly, attempting to open his eyes and look at the person assaulting him.
"Sir! Please stop struggling! I'm trying to help you! Are you alright?" The words finally reach his ears and he stills, letting them swim around in his brain and calm his frazzled nerves. He swallows, shaking his head, not sure yet if he's able to speak. What happened to him?
"Sir, you're hurt pretty badly. I think you might have some broken and cracked ribs, your nose is broken, your eyes are swollen shut, and there's some bruising on your throat. And I think one of your arms is broken and one of your legs is messed up pretty badly." A wheezing cough escapes his bruised lungs and he shudders as a cool breeze brushes past him. He searches for his grace, thinking that he could just heal himself and be gone. If he could do that one thing right, then maybe he could go find him and apologize. But he finds nothing. He shifts his shoulders, hoping to feel his wings shifting and stretching behind him. Again, nothing. Dread fills him as he comes to the realization that he has fallen. No wings. No grace. Just him. Human. Fallen.
"Sir…" He pushes back his panic and fear, turning his face towards the voice. "As I've said, you're hurt pretty badly. You need medical attention. I'll take you to the nearest hospital." He is inclined to struggle and refuse, but he is too tired. Just the thought of struggling exhausts him. His savior is gentle as they help him to stand on his one good leg and settle him into their vehicle.
He passes in and out of consciousness on the ride to the hospital, his memories of angels and demons slowly fading. He struggles to remember what happened to him, and why he was so devastated when he found out that he didn't have wings. He can't for the life of him recall any of the big events from his past, such as the creation of the earth or the apocalypse. All he can remember is the faces of three people. Three people that he feels are very important to him, two of which are still alive. What were their names again?
The thought escapes him as the car stops, and his savior helps him inside. The inside of the hospital is all noise and people asking questions. He shrinks in on himself, trying to make himself as invisible as possible. All this noise and all these people make him nervous, even if he knows that they are only there to help him. Someone pushes him down into a wheel chair, and someone else questions the one who saved him. Gloved hands gently turn his face this way and that as someone examines his face and someone else gingerly puts his broken arm in a sling.
"What happened to him?"
"I don't know."
"Sir, I know it's going to be hard to do, but can you answer a question for me?" He swallows and nods, his face turned towards the voice. "What's your name?"
"Castiel." His answer is a croak that barely escapes through bruised lungs and past chapped lips. Castiel? What kind of name is that? His brain wanders idly as they wheel him down a hallway, and he tries to remember whatever it is that he's forgotten. But the only thing that comes to mind as they lay him down on a bed, is a face. A face with amazing green eyes that have seen more than their fair share of tragedy and loss, stubble that never seems to grow out, sandy blonde hair that appears to be brown under certain lights, and thin lips that utter his name in prayers. He tries to remember more, but only manages to remember one thing before he passes out.
"Dean." The name is a whisper, a prayer on his lips as he succumbs to extreme exhaustion. Maybe he'll be able to remember more tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow he'll be able to remember why that name is so important to him.