Fic: Falling From Grace Isn't Pretty {1}
Title: Falling From Grace Isn't Pretty Ch.1 ( Ch.2)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Destiel (develops later), mentions of past Sam/Jess and Dean/Many
Rating: M (eventually)
Warnings: Cursing, gore, vamp!fic, slash, loss of faith in God, no beta
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and I am not making any profit from this story.
Summary: Father Castiel should have known that one day his do-good attitude would do him bad, but he didn't expect it to land him in this mess.
Word Count (for chapter): 2,291
He supposed, looking back, that it had been a very foolish and bad decision to make. Incredibly foolish. So foolish that he wondered how he could have slipped and made it in the first place. Then again, it wasn't in his nature to doubt humankind, and the little girl hadn't seemed at all menacing - only odd. At worst he had thought he would have had his wallet stolen, but even then he would have been happy to have his money spent on helping a poor family in need of financial aid.
Father Castiel Novak was in Chicago for a religious convention. He was tired, worn, and felt completely out of place away from his small parish in the suburbs of Maryland and surrounded by the tall buildings, the smog, and the noise of the city in full night-time swing. His second day at the busy, over-booked convention had been full of lectures, full of lessons, and the sharing of knowledge and religious wisdom that came from studying the sacred Biblical texts for a lifetime. Whilst incredibly fascinating, and an experience he was delighted to take part in, the convention was wearing and had taken its toll. It did not help that he had not been quick enough with his payment to get a room at the hotel the convention was hosted, and instead had to trek the three solid blocks to his hotel - and then climb the stairs - and then unlock the door - and then undertake the necessary pre-bedtime procedures before he could finally find refuge between the scratchy, laundered sheets of the hotel bed.
It wasn't that far now, only one more block. The streets here were busier than they had been next to the convention's hotel, filled with the first swarms of late night party-goers, diners, dancers, and possibly the more shady characters, too. They sung with a kind of liveliness different to that he had found within the halls of the hotel - something a little fresher, and a little more carefree, away from the heavy philosophical questions and instead wrapped up in much lighter inquiries, such as, 'Where shall we eat?' and 'Should we walk, or take a cab?'
Castiel wrapped his coat tighter around his frame. His breath was vapour in the air, whispering away into the night sky in the bat of an eyelid. Still visible between the lapels of his tan trench coat was the unmistakable sign of his profession - a white collar pressing against his throat, surrounded by the stark black of his shirt and blazer. He can see the corner where he will turn. His legs and feet - aching in his new shoes - would have sung their thanks if they could. Father Novak shuffled along with the rest of the crowds towards his bed, eyes raking along each sliver of building revealed to him with each footstep. That is what caused them to meet.
With a stumble, Castiel found himself knocking into someone small, frail, and waist height. He caught them by the shoulders with his cold hands, feeling beneath the frozen skin small bones, worn fabric and long, lank, greasy hair. He looked down into the androgynous face of a youngster, all pretty wide eyes and a small nose, pale skin with purpling, bruised bags that sagged beneath their thick eyelashes.
“Woah, woah! Are you okay there?” He asked, and smiled down at them easily, displaying his whitened teeth, straightened from years of wearing a brace. He could feel the grooves in the sides of his cheeks where the metal had grated. The child blinked back at him, eyes fluttering to his collar and then back to his face. Their eyes were reddened and bloodshot as if they had been crying. “Are you lost?” He asked, to the dismay of his body, which longed for well deserved rest. But he knew that he would be unable to sleep if he ignored this poor child in favour of a prepaid bed and comforts they seemed not to know.
The child shook their head vigorously from side to side, eyes widening.
“You're a vicar.” They said with surprising strength and calmness. Castiel blinked, and then nodded. “That means you will do good things.” The child surmised, and then grasped his wrist strongly.
“Of course. Do you need help finding your parents?” Castiel asked in the kindest tone he could muster up.
“My brother is unwell. You will help him.” The child said, and then turned and led him towards his street.
“Well, uh, perhaps you should find a doctor - I hardly know my first-aid.” Castiel said, and immediately pitied the child before him.
“You will suffice. And you will help him, won't you Father?” They cast a glance back, their knowledge of the English language, and the seeming threat in such an innocent child's words staggering the vicar for a moment before he regained his footing.
“I will help in the best way I can.” He said, and made sure to inject a little authority into his tone. He sincerely hoped that the boy was not too sick - for every one's sake.
*
Castiel was dragged past his hotel and down a wide alleyway, lit by a dim, bare light bulb fixed to a brick wall above a green door, bare and impossible to open from this side. The child knocked three times, their grip on his wrist still strong as if they were afraid he would run away at any moment. With how seedy things had become before the man's eyes, Castiel would be lying if he said he wasn't considering leaving, but the will to do good within him made him stand firm. He was determined, if scared, to help the young boy the child spoke of.
The door opened a crack, halting suddenly in its movement, restricted by a chain lock. An eye peered at them through the gap. The child holding Castiel stared back at the eye, and silently there came between them an agreement. The door closed, the chain came free, and then Castiel and the child were ushered into the building.
It reeked. That was Castiel's first thought. It reeked of death. He had not smelt death often, but he could tell from the way the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end that this was the smell of it. A smell that even when he shut his nostrils still seeped in, uninvited.
“Thank you, Jen.”
Castiel turned to face the man who had let them into the building; a stocky, balding old man who was fat and yet appeared as if he hadn't eaten for days. He was addressing the child, and let one heavy hand fall on her head, a small smile on his tight lips. His hand fell away and he went back to standing in front of the door to re-do the chain lock, his eyes sliding shut and nostrils flaring as if he were soaking in a wonderful scent hidden somewhere beneath the rot.
The hand still wrapped around his wrist tugged, and Castiel followed, stumbling slightly over his feet. The vicar was led through a doorway-sans-door and into a crowded room. Figures, some fully grown, some still in pubescence, stood or sat in a tiny and cramped space. There were blankets piled high. Furniture no doubt dragged off the street lay stinking in the room like giant dead beasts. Jen lightly stepped over a stained cushion almost empty of its down. They halted at the edge of a sofa, seemingly laden with another pile of blankets and cushions, omitting a foul odour that had flies crawling over the upholstery.
“You've found help.” A voice breathed, all but the only sound in the room. Castiel could not even hear breathing, only his own heart beating at a faster than normal pace. He looked to the owner of the voice, a middle aged woman kneeling beside the couch. She seemed oddly out of place in the room, which could only be described as a hovel. She was clean. Her hair wasn't limp and greasy. She was wearing a hint of make-up. Her clothes were sharp and pressed. They did not look as if they should rub against the filthy floor. “It's Thomas.” She said, addressing Castiel with a strong gaze. A meaningful look. She peeled back a brown blanket from the surface of the lump on the sofa.
What Castiel had presumed to be a mound of collected bedclothes was revealed to be the broken body of a young, dark-skinned boy. He appeared terrifyingly lifeless. His skin seemed to have greyed. His eyes were glassy and motionless. He did not even appear to breathe, his prepubescent, wide chest shockingly still. Castiel feared the worst, and his breath caught in his throat in a horrible parody of the picture of death before him.
“He's been losing strength for days.” The middle aged woman said quietly. “We've tried everything we could think of. Sam even...acquired some medicine for him. But he's just-”
Something painful and devastating wedged itself in Castiel's chest, making him hyper aware of his body and just how alive it was. He immediately despised himself for any thought he had had of leaving the place and returning to his hotel room. With hurried, scared footsteps he picked his way around Jen, the hand on his wrist finally falling away, and came to kneel beside the woman, before the child. She stood and stepped away so that he might get closer.
Castiel's hand shook as he reached out and felt the boy's forehead for a fever, longing for a warmth under his palm that would tell him the boy was still alive.
His heart broke when the skin appeared cool. Not cold, but not as warm as it should be. He stifled a moan of sorrow. Fear spiked through him until he could barely think, his breathing becoming staccato and uneven. His hand slipped gently to the boy's jugular to feel for a pulse.
That's when things went to shit.
In an instant the boy had leapt, inhumanly quick, into a seated position, his small cold and bony hands wrapping around Castiel's wrist in the same scarily strong grip Jen had used. Behind him a hand twisted in his hair, holding him sharply in place with the pain of his scalp being pulled and yanked raw. He shoved his free hand up to scratch at the fat fingers gripping him tight. Thomas was wild before him, his eyes lit up like burning embers, and his lips sliding back to reveal his wonky milk teeth, black with mistreatment. But it was the second row of teeth that descended on top of the first that made Castiel snap out of his panicked stupor.
He shouted, legs sweeping underneath him so that he sat on the grubby floor, and kicked at the body of the sofa to drive himself away. He bit his nails into the hand that held his head and clawed wildly. He struggled and thrashed, pulling his arm but finding it impossible to wrench from Thomas's grip. He couldn't be human. Father Novak was descended upon.
Teeth ripped through his coat, jacket and shirt with terrifying ease, and sunk into the join of his shoulder and chest. Now Castiel screamed, eyes screwing and sealing shut. Words flew from his mouth. Curses and pleas. They went unheard under the sound of tearing flesh and the sickening slurp and glug of blood pouring into Thomas's mouth. Castiel wanted to have a last thought, but his mind hadn't caught up yet; overwhelmed by the what and the why and the how, it was stuck trying to figure out how Thomas had been dead under his fingers one moment and alive the next, growing a row of teeth as sharp and thin as needles.
There was a crash and bang, and Castiel put it down to breaking something in his thrashing. He yelled again as Thomas bit in a second time, his voice loud and cracking. Under the ringing of his own screams in his ears he started to hear the sounds of movement and commotion. He writhed with renewed vigour, Thomas losing his grip and his teeth sliding away momentarily, the pain of removal aching deep in the muscle. There was the crack of a gunshot. A thud. The hand in his hair fell away. There was a yelling voice other than his. Something yanked Thomas's head back from Castiel's chest. There was the sickening wet thud of something being hit, a wet squelch accompanied by a thwack, and a liquid spattered thickly into his mouth. Weak, he coughed some over his chin and was forced to swallow the rest so that he could breathe. He gagged, knowing that he must have just swallowed blood. All of him ached and shuddered with pain.
Arms hooked underneath Castiel's armpits. He was dragged backwards. Panic overcame him again and he struggled.
“Don't worry, we're here to help you.” A voice said, urgent and slightly breathless. “Dean! Let's go!”
“Okay, okay!”
Footsteps. Someone hurriedly coming closer. More gunshots. A thud. Castiel was unceremoniously dumped as someone fiddled with the chain lock. He kept his eyes closed. He hadn't opened them since Thomas first bit into his chest. There was a jangle and clatter, then fresh air permeated the reeking smog of the room and the vicar was hauled out of there, feet struggling to find purchase on the ground.
Someone grabbed his waist.
“Run.” They growled. Eyes shut, Castiel ran, his rescuers either side of him, holding him up.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Destiel (develops later), mentions of past Sam/Jess and Dean/Many
Rating: M (eventually)
Warnings: Cursing, gore, vamp!fic, slash, loss of faith in God, no beta
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and I am not making any profit from this story.
Summary: Father Castiel should have known that one day his do-good attitude would do him bad, but he didn't expect it to land him in this mess.
Word Count (for chapter): 2,291
He supposed, looking back, that it had been a very foolish and bad decision to make. Incredibly foolish. So foolish that he wondered how he could have slipped and made it in the first place. Then again, it wasn't in his nature to doubt humankind, and the little girl hadn't seemed at all menacing - only odd. At worst he had thought he would have had his wallet stolen, but even then he would have been happy to have his money spent on helping a poor family in need of financial aid.
Father Castiel Novak was in Chicago for a religious convention. He was tired, worn, and felt completely out of place away from his small parish in the suburbs of Maryland and surrounded by the tall buildings, the smog, and the noise of the city in full night-time swing. His second day at the busy, over-booked convention had been full of lectures, full of lessons, and the sharing of knowledge and religious wisdom that came from studying the sacred Biblical texts for a lifetime. Whilst incredibly fascinating, and an experience he was delighted to take part in, the convention was wearing and had taken its toll. It did not help that he had not been quick enough with his payment to get a room at the hotel the convention was hosted, and instead had to trek the three solid blocks to his hotel - and then climb the stairs - and then unlock the door - and then undertake the necessary pre-bedtime procedures before he could finally find refuge between the scratchy, laundered sheets of the hotel bed.
It wasn't that far now, only one more block. The streets here were busier than they had been next to the convention's hotel, filled with the first swarms of late night party-goers, diners, dancers, and possibly the more shady characters, too. They sung with a kind of liveliness different to that he had found within the halls of the hotel - something a little fresher, and a little more carefree, away from the heavy philosophical questions and instead wrapped up in much lighter inquiries, such as, 'Where shall we eat?' and 'Should we walk, or take a cab?'
Castiel wrapped his coat tighter around his frame. His breath was vapour in the air, whispering away into the night sky in the bat of an eyelid. Still visible between the lapels of his tan trench coat was the unmistakable sign of his profession - a white collar pressing against his throat, surrounded by the stark black of his shirt and blazer. He can see the corner where he will turn. His legs and feet - aching in his new shoes - would have sung their thanks if they could. Father Novak shuffled along with the rest of the crowds towards his bed, eyes raking along each sliver of building revealed to him with each footstep. That is what caused them to meet.
With a stumble, Castiel found himself knocking into someone small, frail, and waist height. He caught them by the shoulders with his cold hands, feeling beneath the frozen skin small bones, worn fabric and long, lank, greasy hair. He looked down into the androgynous face of a youngster, all pretty wide eyes and a small nose, pale skin with purpling, bruised bags that sagged beneath their thick eyelashes.
“Woah, woah! Are you okay there?” He asked, and smiled down at them easily, displaying his whitened teeth, straightened from years of wearing a brace. He could feel the grooves in the sides of his cheeks where the metal had grated. The child blinked back at him, eyes fluttering to his collar and then back to his face. Their eyes were reddened and bloodshot as if they had been crying. “Are you lost?” He asked, to the dismay of his body, which longed for well deserved rest. But he knew that he would be unable to sleep if he ignored this poor child in favour of a prepaid bed and comforts they seemed not to know.
The child shook their head vigorously from side to side, eyes widening.
“You're a vicar.” They said with surprising strength and calmness. Castiel blinked, and then nodded. “That means you will do good things.” The child surmised, and then grasped his wrist strongly.
“Of course. Do you need help finding your parents?” Castiel asked in the kindest tone he could muster up.
“My brother is unwell. You will help him.” The child said, and then turned and led him towards his street.
“Well, uh, perhaps you should find a doctor - I hardly know my first-aid.” Castiel said, and immediately pitied the child before him.
“You will suffice. And you will help him, won't you Father?” They cast a glance back, their knowledge of the English language, and the seeming threat in such an innocent child's words staggering the vicar for a moment before he regained his footing.
“I will help in the best way I can.” He said, and made sure to inject a little authority into his tone. He sincerely hoped that the boy was not too sick - for every one's sake.
*
Castiel was dragged past his hotel and down a wide alleyway, lit by a dim, bare light bulb fixed to a brick wall above a green door, bare and impossible to open from this side. The child knocked three times, their grip on his wrist still strong as if they were afraid he would run away at any moment. With how seedy things had become before the man's eyes, Castiel would be lying if he said he wasn't considering leaving, but the will to do good within him made him stand firm. He was determined, if scared, to help the young boy the child spoke of.
The door opened a crack, halting suddenly in its movement, restricted by a chain lock. An eye peered at them through the gap. The child holding Castiel stared back at the eye, and silently there came between them an agreement. The door closed, the chain came free, and then Castiel and the child were ushered into the building.
It reeked. That was Castiel's first thought. It reeked of death. He had not smelt death often, but he could tell from the way the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end that this was the smell of it. A smell that even when he shut his nostrils still seeped in, uninvited.
“Thank you, Jen.”
Castiel turned to face the man who had let them into the building; a stocky, balding old man who was fat and yet appeared as if he hadn't eaten for days. He was addressing the child, and let one heavy hand fall on her head, a small smile on his tight lips. His hand fell away and he went back to standing in front of the door to re-do the chain lock, his eyes sliding shut and nostrils flaring as if he were soaking in a wonderful scent hidden somewhere beneath the rot.
The hand still wrapped around his wrist tugged, and Castiel followed, stumbling slightly over his feet. The vicar was led through a doorway-sans-door and into a crowded room. Figures, some fully grown, some still in pubescence, stood or sat in a tiny and cramped space. There were blankets piled high. Furniture no doubt dragged off the street lay stinking in the room like giant dead beasts. Jen lightly stepped over a stained cushion almost empty of its down. They halted at the edge of a sofa, seemingly laden with another pile of blankets and cushions, omitting a foul odour that had flies crawling over the upholstery.
“You've found help.” A voice breathed, all but the only sound in the room. Castiel could not even hear breathing, only his own heart beating at a faster than normal pace. He looked to the owner of the voice, a middle aged woman kneeling beside the couch. She seemed oddly out of place in the room, which could only be described as a hovel. She was clean. Her hair wasn't limp and greasy. She was wearing a hint of make-up. Her clothes were sharp and pressed. They did not look as if they should rub against the filthy floor. “It's Thomas.” She said, addressing Castiel with a strong gaze. A meaningful look. She peeled back a brown blanket from the surface of the lump on the sofa.
What Castiel had presumed to be a mound of collected bedclothes was revealed to be the broken body of a young, dark-skinned boy. He appeared terrifyingly lifeless. His skin seemed to have greyed. His eyes were glassy and motionless. He did not even appear to breathe, his prepubescent, wide chest shockingly still. Castiel feared the worst, and his breath caught in his throat in a horrible parody of the picture of death before him.
“He's been losing strength for days.” The middle aged woman said quietly. “We've tried everything we could think of. Sam even...acquired some medicine for him. But he's just-”
Something painful and devastating wedged itself in Castiel's chest, making him hyper aware of his body and just how alive it was. He immediately despised himself for any thought he had had of leaving the place and returning to his hotel room. With hurried, scared footsteps he picked his way around Jen, the hand on his wrist finally falling away, and came to kneel beside the woman, before the child. She stood and stepped away so that he might get closer.
Castiel's hand shook as he reached out and felt the boy's forehead for a fever, longing for a warmth under his palm that would tell him the boy was still alive.
His heart broke when the skin appeared cool. Not cold, but not as warm as it should be. He stifled a moan of sorrow. Fear spiked through him until he could barely think, his breathing becoming staccato and uneven. His hand slipped gently to the boy's jugular to feel for a pulse.
That's when things went to shit.
In an instant the boy had leapt, inhumanly quick, into a seated position, his small cold and bony hands wrapping around Castiel's wrist in the same scarily strong grip Jen had used. Behind him a hand twisted in his hair, holding him sharply in place with the pain of his scalp being pulled and yanked raw. He shoved his free hand up to scratch at the fat fingers gripping him tight. Thomas was wild before him, his eyes lit up like burning embers, and his lips sliding back to reveal his wonky milk teeth, black with mistreatment. But it was the second row of teeth that descended on top of the first that made Castiel snap out of his panicked stupor.
He shouted, legs sweeping underneath him so that he sat on the grubby floor, and kicked at the body of the sofa to drive himself away. He bit his nails into the hand that held his head and clawed wildly. He struggled and thrashed, pulling his arm but finding it impossible to wrench from Thomas's grip. He couldn't be human. Father Novak was descended upon.
Teeth ripped through his coat, jacket and shirt with terrifying ease, and sunk into the join of his shoulder and chest. Now Castiel screamed, eyes screwing and sealing shut. Words flew from his mouth. Curses and pleas. They went unheard under the sound of tearing flesh and the sickening slurp and glug of blood pouring into Thomas's mouth. Castiel wanted to have a last thought, but his mind hadn't caught up yet; overwhelmed by the what and the why and the how, it was stuck trying to figure out how Thomas had been dead under his fingers one moment and alive the next, growing a row of teeth as sharp and thin as needles.
There was a crash and bang, and Castiel put it down to breaking something in his thrashing. He yelled again as Thomas bit in a second time, his voice loud and cracking. Under the ringing of his own screams in his ears he started to hear the sounds of movement and commotion. He writhed with renewed vigour, Thomas losing his grip and his teeth sliding away momentarily, the pain of removal aching deep in the muscle. There was the crack of a gunshot. A thud. The hand in his hair fell away. There was a yelling voice other than his. Something yanked Thomas's head back from Castiel's chest. There was the sickening wet thud of something being hit, a wet squelch accompanied by a thwack, and a liquid spattered thickly into his mouth. Weak, he coughed some over his chin and was forced to swallow the rest so that he could breathe. He gagged, knowing that he must have just swallowed blood. All of him ached and shuddered with pain.
Arms hooked underneath Castiel's armpits. He was dragged backwards. Panic overcame him again and he struggled.
“Don't worry, we're here to help you.” A voice said, urgent and slightly breathless. “Dean! Let's go!”
“Okay, okay!”
Footsteps. Someone hurriedly coming closer. More gunshots. A thud. Castiel was unceremoniously dumped as someone fiddled with the chain lock. He kept his eyes closed. He hadn't opened them since Thomas first bit into his chest. There was a jangle and clatter, then fresh air permeated the reeking smog of the room and the vicar was hauled out of there, feet struggling to find purchase on the ground.
Someone grabbed his waist.
“Run.” They growled. Eyes shut, Castiel ran, his rescuers either side of him, holding him up.