The sun beats down on him, heating up his coal black fur as he sits half in the hot spring light and half in the cool, generous shade. After a good hour or so of trying to escape the box—jumping as high as he could, clawing at the seemingly indestructible cardboard, meowing at people passing by—he just wore himself out. So now he sits, staring up at the giants rushing by.
They’re all so busy and preoccupied, focused on where they’re going and what they’re doing, not a second to spare Castiel so much as a glance. And with all his siblings picked out already—Anna, Gabriel, Balthazar, Rachael, and all the rest—he just sits alone, hoping that the clouds don’t decide to play a cruel practical joke on him and rain down on his little head, flooding his prison cell and drenching his fine coat. Even more than that, though, he hopes to get out before the night comes, the blanket of darkness inviting the nasty creatures of the late hours out to play; but Castiel doesn’t want any part in those violent games.
He folds his paws beneath his chest, settling down on the warm cardboard. He hangs his head, contemplating whether he should stay awake and watch as more strangers pass, their heels and boots and sneakers all clacking and slamming against the concrete beyond the walls of his box, or whether he should nap and let a few hours slip by him as he retreats to the bliss of kitten dreamland.
He lets out a little sigh and closes his eyes, tail curling around his hind legs. He waits for unconsciousness to overtake him, the beat of continuous footsteps turning into his city lullaby. But even then, he remained tuned in to the world around him, just in case. He filters all the information, like hands sifting through a stream, waiting for a fish to swim into his grasp.
“Hey, little guy." Or more, he’ll fall graciously into someone else’s.
Two hands wrap around his lithe body, and in moments he feels gravity lightly tugging down on him as someone lifts him out from the hellish box. He kicks the air weakly, and for a second he thinks that he’s flying, like the birds overhead always free to roam the skies. And when he opens his eyes, he sees that those hands, the ones granting him the power only wings could give, belong to a boy with a few scabs on his lightly freckled face and olive green eyes that glint in the sunlight.
The boy squints his eyes, looking at the kitten’s neck. Before putting out the box of free kittens, the previous owner gave the little ones collars of old hemp rope, clipping on a little charm that had each cat’s name. Castiel’s isn’t flashy, the dull metal barely reflecting any of the sun’s rays, but his name still reads easily.
"Casteel…” Miss pronounced, of course. He knows it isn’t a very common name. The boy frowns, pursing his lips as he deeply stares into Castiel’s bright eyes, “Cass’d be better,” Or more, easier for him to say. Castiel blinks, then kicks the air again. After so long remaining firmly planted on the ground, he admits that all this suspension is a little weird. How do birds to it?
“Dean!” Another boy, this one a few years younger, calls from down the sidewalk, waving for the other to come with him.
“Just a minute, Sammy!" Dean calls, then stares at Castiel again. When Dean moves his arms, he shuts his eyes, expected for the boy to lower him back into the box and abandon him just like the other human did. Instead, he feels himself being squeezed into a tight, balmy fabric pouch. And when his eyes open again, he realises it’s the boy’s jacket pocket.
He looks up, only to see Dean smiling down at him, assuring the kitten that he’ll have somewhere to call home after all. Then, Dean turns and goes to his brother, and Castiel hides in the depths of the cotton cloth. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he knows that there’ll be adventure in store.