For heavenonhigh.
Castiel had still been standing awkwardly outside the Century Hotel, waiting on Dean and his "human needs" so they could start moving to recover the Colt. He found them strange, as fascinating as they were vexing, those urges that angels simply didn't have. How often he had watched the Righteous Man sleep since he'd pulled Dean free from Hell, and yet he still didn't quite understand the imperative behind it. The sounds of stirring birds whispered under the pre-dawn light, and Castiel watched over Dean's motel room.
He could feel it when Zachariah appeared, throwing the sleeping man forward through time with little warning or ceremony. He had no intention of leaving Dean to whatever tortures his brother had in store, but following after that thread of Grace, pulse of power, was less than exact. Castiel was trying to ignore how much more taxing this was than it would have been before. He was already starting to feel the dampening effect on his Grace, but he couldn't afford to focus on that. Not now, when there was little he'd put past Zachariah in his quest for Dean's agreement.
He appeared with the sound of wingbeats, displaced air, and he found himself standing in the center of a strange little cabin. His brow furrowed as he looked around at the idols and artistry that decorated the strange room. But, more than that, this place felt wrong.
There was a dead stillness to the air, and Castiel found he was unable to hear a single angel's breath; even in rebellion the sound of his brothers and sisters still whispered against his awareness. The air felt like a weight, thick and heavy against his wings, and it deepened the frown that curved warily across his lips.