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For two days, Castiel suspects he is being followed. No matter where he flees, a putrid odor trails him relentlessly. At first, he fears that the Croatoan or the undead have found him, knowing the creatures are far from renowned for their grasp of hygiene. His theory is disproved, however, after doing some diligent research and finding no news reports of flesh-eating incidents.
There is also the fact that his limbs remain intact. Castiel can only presume that he must possess a much more aromatically pleasing quality as a human, and if they were indeed here, surely they would have attacked him by now.
The next likely candidate is an elderly woman pushing a shopping cart overflowing with cans, who always appears to be mining the garbage bin right behind him every time he turns around. He doesn’t believe anyone hoarding that much aluminum should be trusted and therefore attempts to utilize his recently honed “bad cop” skills on her. The endeavor is less than successful, though he inadvertently acquires a mound of trash bags filled with what the woman assures him is “as good as money.”
The hotdog vendor on the corner of the street doesn’t share her opinion.
Last on his list of potential perpetrators is a mangy Irish terrier gnawing away at a cheeseburger wrapper. Dogs by nature are easier to crack than humans, but Castiel prefers not to conduct another interrogation that results in the suspect relieving herself. Instead, he lets her nudge her head against his thigh, scratching behind her ears as he notes the lack of collar and identification. Something deep and forlorn in her eyes draws him in, and he nods as if to say, “I understand.”
The connection with his newfound friend does not survive beyond an overeager child dropping his ice cream onto the sidewalk, however, and Castiel is once again back to where he started, stuck with an inexplicably persistent fragrance that seems to have only gotten worse. The heat is so raw and the stench so heavy that he can feel it clinging to his clothes and crawling along his skin like insects. There are no bugs literally crawling on his skin, of course; he’s only using such descriptions for illustrative purposes. At least, that’s what he tells the vagabond offering him an 8-ball and a coke.
Which is clearly asinine. While a refreshing soda would serve some purpose for his current state, a cheap toy is hardly clairvoyant enough to provide any answers that would be of actual use to Castiel. So impractical, humans are.
On the third day, after he manages to find a ticket for a trip back east, Castiel finally realizes the smell is coming from his own—and now very mortal—body.
The young man with a spike in his lower lip and ear adornments reminiscent of the Huaorani people seems to indicate as much when he moves to an empty seat closer to the back of the bus, making a remark that reminds Castiel of the joke Dean attempted to explain to him regarding tuna fish sandwiches and female orifices—which he still fails to understand—but he understands enough to know that it is not intended to be a mere jest this time.
So this is what having sweat glands is like. Castiel decides he’s not particularly fond of them.
One thing hasn’t changed since becoming human, though: asking himself what Dean would do.
Dean once told him about a place with communal bathing, but Castiel doesn’t recall the name. Neither does he remember when recalling things became a much more mentally strenuous process, but it regrettably seems to be yet another drawback of the corporeal experience. The only memory he has of that moment is Dean asking him about a song involving villagers and then proceeding to wave his arms in an unusually grandiose manner, though Castiel still doesn’t know how he planned to direct air traffic from the inside of a motel room.
Of two things he is certain: he needs to find the Winchesters. And a shower.
He isn’t certain which task will be more difficult.