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The day that he notices Dean Winchester's eyes are green is also the day he loses the first feather.
Angels do not perceive the world as mortals do. When Castiel looks upon verdant meadows of dew-dappled grass, he knows precisely how many blades are ranged before him; he can hear the minute shifts of earth being pushed slowly, slowly aside by each new leaf that eases its way up towards the sun; he can taste the sweetness of the sap that flows beneath the skin of each slender stalk; he knows the location of each and every plant, insect and creature that lives and grows within the meadow, and knows the individual name of each one in the language that God speaks; he knows the precise composition of the soil and can still taste the musty mingled memories of the long-dead plants and insects and animals whose flesh has rotted down to form it.
But he does not see green.
He would not draw comparisons with emerald or jade or moss, if anyone asked him to describe the meadow, because to Castiel emerald and jade and moss bear no relation at all to the field of wind-stirred grass. He does not see the simple surfaces of things. He does not see in colour.
So the day he notices that Dean Winchester's eyes are green should really terrify him, should send him flying from his mortal shell for fear of what's to come. Instead he finds himself transfixed. Fascinated. Charmed. Dean's eyes are green, and for Castiel this is the only spot of colour in all the planes of existence, in all the millennia of the earth. And not one simple green either – Dean's eyes are a dozen different shades, little brush-strokes of colour darting out from the dark pupils that house his soul. Castiel cannot look away.
This is green. The colour that humans ascribe to plantlife; the way they see half the planet. In Islam, it is holy. Castiel knows all the words for all the shades of green in all the tongues of men, living and dead – but the concept has never meant anything to him until the moment when somehow, in the midst of all the myriad gradiations of grey, in the midst of all the light and shadow and texture and depth, Castiel suddenly sees that Dean Winchester's eyes are green.
It rewrites the meaning of beauty.
Green.
This, he supposes, foolishly, is a side-effect of dwelling so long within a human host. He is beginning to perceive things as they do, is beginning to adapt, gradually, to their limited senses.
It is odd, then, that the trees and grass and the depths of the sea remain a mass of many-shaded grey.
When the first feather falls, a slender sliver of shadow that detaches itself from his pinion and drifts gently, quietly to the ground, he does not notice its loss.
Red is the next colour to enter Castiel's world. Red in a splatter of Dean Winchester's blood, pooling on the dirty floor in the room where Castiel had sent him to face his worst nightmare. Red on Dean's broken skin. Red on the knuckles of Alastair's hands, and welling from the marks that Dean made upon his flesh at Castiel's insistence. This is beautiful too, a startling burst of brightness in the midst of Castiel's monochrome world, but it is a terrible beauty, something shocking, and shameful. Something that makes Castiel flush hot with horror and regret.
He notices the feathers that flutter to his feet this time, as he watches Sam Winchester lift his brother's battered body from the ground, and it is only then that Castiel finally begins to understand what is happening to him.
By the time his brethren storm in upon him and drag him back to Heaven, Castiel can see the way the sun sparks gold in Dean's dark hair; he can pick out all the colours of the sunset; he can itemise all the different shades of Dean's skin, from the soft brown of his freckles to the dark pink of his lips, from the shiny red of Castiel's own handprint to the pallor of Dean's buttocks and the ruddy flush that mounts his cheeks when he touches himself in the shower; he has watched the rainbow glitter of a trout's scales as it darts to the surface of a river; he knows the precise shade of golden brown that indicates a piecrust Dean will declare perfection; recognises the rich ruby glow of Dean's spilled blood and the particular hue of each of his precious guns. And by the time they seize him, his wings are torn and tattered, his fallen feathers scattered to the winds, born and battered to the four corners of the earth, delicate little wisps of flickering shadow that humans cannot see except, perhaps, out of the corner of their eyes – although cats can see them, and chase them furiously.
By the time they come to save him from himself, Castiel can see the world as humans do, and his wings are almost gone.
When he returns to the earth, an immeasurable time later, his pinions are restored to their former glory and his world has been leeched of colours once again. Castiel's soul has been scoured clean, and his heart is raw. He has been forced to see the error of his ways, and he is brimming with shame. He understands that colour is an indulgence, is a debased way of seeing the world. A corruption of reality. It is not something he should crave.
And so he gives no sign at all for any of the angels watching him, when he looks upon Dean Winchester and sees that his eyes are still green.
(*hilariously, I honestly didn't think of "pied" as pertaining to pies until just now. Do love that poem. But, Jesus, hello, appropriateness!)