He doesn't remember becoming this.
Well, a lot. But not this. He remembers a superior. An order. A path, a gate. A sick echo off the walls of hell.
He remembers tearing the fragile fabric of his wings on the shards of remaining humanity there. But… not this.
His wings had been scorched and withered just by the acrid stench of the air… or by the hellfire, he couldn't distinguish. There, then, there had only been Dean Winchester. Retrieve Dean Winchester from the third layer of Hell. Turn back, and your angelic grace would be no longer held to honour. Then, that was all that mattered.
When he had seen the pale arch of a back bent low over hidden arms clutching frantically at a blade, he had felt no emotion. He had sighted a target and approached the frightened eyes that were widened in fear. Green. Alive, like nothing in Hell should be.
Ignoring the beginnings of a word from the creature who had forgotten how to speak, he had placed a hand on a bruised shoulder. Cut, but not bleeding. He had known enough about torture in hell to guess victims wouldn't be allowed to bleed out.
No longer the victim, though, he supposed.
"Come." His grace spilled out in command, the word barely managing to bend around tight edges of power.
"I-" The man (his name was Dean) started but was cut off by his own pained startle. He had tried to duck out from under the burning hand but was stuck, frozen in place with nothing but blue eyes to hold on to.
White was the outline of his hand and they rose.
He remembers that. Holds onto it occasionally, when he finds himself laughing at a sick joke or feeling a disgusting shell of human, he clings to the memory of when he was a physical manifestation of divine grace, of when he could make the very essence of a word divine grace.
He then remembers a fall. Often he's not sure if it was for better or worse, often he's not sure if anything is. But he remembers it.
Though he wishes he didn't.
Now, he can never centre the feeling. Any feeling. An attempt to feel for the epicentre of hollow rage and frustration only shoves it further to the back of his skull. Unsatisfying and inadequate, the feeling scrapes away at the back of his knees and fucking stares him in the face.
He's not human, not really. He can feel that unsettling aftershock of what he used to be and it reminds him. His own body reminds him every second of everyday by being another's and he's left shaking, tensing, trying to capture some remnant of what it felt like to be whole.
"What happened to you?"
So he hides the boiling, almost simmering rage under his skin with the smirks and the carelessness and the goddamn clothes but he just wants to tear off a layer of skin and shift into someone, anyone else. He supposes, if he were born human, he might feel guilty for wishing like he does, but he wasn't. He was born for a cell of broken glass that made the years of splintered wings look desirable. He grew for the one thing that would be his freedom and downfall.
And now left a hollow shell, he supposes he might have been able to have something, to be something, once.
But not this.