Fic: 'Fallen'
Title: Fallen
Rating: PG-13
Characters and/or Pairing: Demon!Dean/Castiel, Demon!Sam
Word Count: 2200
Summary: Castiel makes yet another sacrifice for the love of Dean Winchester.
A/N: IMPORTANT - This fic is part of my Darkside Verse, and probably won't make much sense unless you've watched the original trilogy of videos it sprang from.
A/N2: Omg I’m not dead! I apologise for so long a hiatus, and can’t promise I’ll be quick or consistent in updating this ‘verse, but I can assure anyone who’s still interested that it will continue.
Okay, so, there is actually another story I have in my head which comes before this one, but since I’ve never managed to post any of this ‘verse in the right order, I figure why start now?
xxx
None of them realise it, to begin with. It’s not like Cas has a power meter they can check on from time to time. Hell, it’s not even like they can see his wings, given that such a sight would likely incinerate the two demons on the spot, and if the fallen angel ever had a halo, the light on that thing had flickered out like a dim bulb a long time ago.
So the first time it happens, Dean actually finds it pretty damn funny, and it’s only later he realises the grave depth of his mistake.
For once, they’re not in a motel. They’d been meandering through city suburbs when Dean had called a halt for the night, too irritated by a crick in his neck to drive for much longer. They’d broken into some cute little semi-detached, stashed the Impala in the garage, and now occupied the cushy, well-used front room of the place, the bodies of the married couple who’d once lived there cooling nicely in the basement. Surveying their new domestic digs with black eyes and a sharp-edged smile, Dean drops his duffel onto the rug in front of the fireplace and lets out an impressed whistle. “Know what? I could get used to this. Nice TV, free food, wallpaper that doesn’t burn out my corneas.”
Sam grunts distractedly, examining the contents of a bookshelf on the wall. “Yeah, and for once maybe I’ll actually get my own room. Cuz yanno, nothing beats having to lie awake listening to you two dry-humping in the next bed over…” he mutters caustically, glaring over his shoulder. Then he raises an eyebrow, and scratches delicately at his cheek. “Dude, you got a little something, right here.”
Dean swipes at his face, succeeding only in smearing the light spray of blood all the way down to his jawline. Sam rolls his eyes and turns away in disgust.
Castiel prowls quietly about the room, poking and prodding at any random trinket that catches his attention. He frowns at a painted statue of a dog as though it has personally offended him, and then gently wraps both of his hands around a ceramic pot which holds a small cactus - communing with it or some shit, for all Dean knows. The demon watches with fond bemusement for a minute or so, and then, shaking his head as Castiel accidentally sprays himself in the mouth with a bottle of perfume, turns on his heel and makes his way into the kitchen.
It’s nice. Not nearly as skeevy as some of the motel kitchenettes they’ve been forced to endure over the years. There’s even a wine rack on the island counter, and Dean grabs a bottle as he passes, using a frission of demonic power to pop the cork. He takes a gulp, wincing mildly at the sharpness, and sets it aside in distaste. The fridge is a behemoth of a thing against the far wall, and it’s with no small sense of happy anticipation that he yanks it open.
His face falls so hard it practically hits the floor, his initial impression consisting mostly of… green.
“Son of a-! Health freaks, Sammy! What are the chances?!”
Unsurprisingly, his brother is beside him faster than if Dean had screamed, Help! Someone’s dousing me with holy water! Little bitch.
“Hey, fresh cantaloupe,” Sam points out brightly, dweeb that he is. “You want some?”
“Cantal-? No, I don’t want some! Pizza, Sam. Pizza is what I want.”
“So go order some-”
“Too slow.” And with this declaration, Dean strides purposefully back into the sitting room, where Castiel appears for all intents and purposes to be deeply invested in a staring match against the mirror. Dean clears his throat. “Long as I’m not interrupting or anything, you fancy flying us in some dinner?”
The angel glances blankly across at him, shifting his shoulders. “What would you like?”
“You know I’m easy. Pizza. Pepperoni. Beer. Sam can make do with that shit tonne of salad he just found.”
Castiel nods, and in the blink of an eye is gone. Dean knows better than to bother moving. The angel could traverse the globe in under three seconds flat; zipping round the corner on a pizza run is nothing. He braces himself for the imminent return of fluttering wings and the usual impingement on his personal space.
Instead, he finds himself flinching at the deafening, metallic crash from outside the house and the high-pitched car alarm that starts up in its wake. Dean swears under his breath, already darting towards the window with gun in hand. He inches the blinds open with a finger, peering out into the gloom, and Sam is at his back.
“What’s out there?”
It’s rare that hunters or fellow demons manage to track them down, but it happens on occasion. Dean shakes his head, uncertain. “I don’t…” He pauses, squinting at an angle like maybe that would help make sense of what he’s seeing. “The hell?”
xxx
By the time Dean has stalked down the idyllic garden path, past the white picket fence and out onto the road, he’s starting to find it funny. He holds his hands out in bafflement as he approaches. “Dude, did you miss?!”
There’s a Castiel-shaped dent in the side of next door’s blue Toyota, two of its windows are shattered, and the yappy little thing is shrieking and blaring its protests at the maltreatment to the whole neighbourhood. The angel himself is a rumpled pile of trenchcoat on the sidewalk, blinking dazedly up at them like he has no clue what just happened. It brings to mind the YouTube clip Sam once made him watch of the puppy running headlong into glass patio doors. Dean hurriedly raises a fist to his mouth to hide a grin, then ruins it by full on giggling when Cas’ confusion morphs into a scowl. Taking pity, Dean shuts down the piercing car alarm with a flick of his hand, returning some semblance of peace to the night.
Sam shuffles up beside him, hands in his pockets. “So. This is new.”
Dean is still trying to work it out, though. “Cas… Seriously, what the hell?”
The angel makes no attempt to rise from the ground, his face undergoing a rapid series of expressions. Well. That is to say, of course, Castiel’s version of expressions: barely perceptible twitches of facial muscles near his mouth, miniscule frown lines, a very slight shifting of his gaze that in anyone else would translate to a wild darting of the eyes. It’s a little sad that Dean can read him so well, but in that moment he’s glad of the knowledge. His smile fades from his face, and he takes a hesitant step forward. Something’s wrong.
A door opens nearby as the owner of the Toyota emerges from his house in pyjamas and fuzzy slippers. He’s shouting something about the damage to his precious little car, and it’s a distraction Dean could do without.
“Sam,” he snaps.
“On it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his brother slip forward silently, intercepting the guy in his doorway. There’s a wet gasp, and then the shouting stops. Dean’s glad of it. He doesn’t bother checking to see what Sam does with the remains, too busy kneeling down before the angel, reaching out to grasp his shoulders.
“Cas! C’mon, man, what’s happening?”
Castiel frowns even deeper. “They gave out on me,” he answers, like that explains anything.
“Huh?”
“My wings.” Blue eyes drift up towards his own with trepidation. “Dean, my wings gave out on me. They’re not… working properly.” His voice has dropped so low and gravelly that Dean knows immediately this is real distress, and his own anxiety ratchets up accordingly.
“Cas…” But he doesn’t really know what to say, he finds suddenly. Is the angel sick? Injured? Before he can even figure out how to proceed, however, Castiel shoves violently away from him. Dean lands on his ass, surprised, and the angel on his hands and knees. There’s a sharp crack of air, and Castiel is gone again.
Only to reappear in a tumble three houses down, rolling across the tarmac. Dean stands slowly, something painful unfolding in his chest as he watches the angel struggle to fly.
“Cas.”
Another determined wingbeat splits the night air, this one even less effective.
Dean walks forward. He doesn’t know what he’d going to do, exactly, but he knows he has to put a stop to this. He passes by Sam without a glance, aware that if he looks he’ll only see his brother’s blackened eyes full of sympathy. “Castiel!” he calls as he strides down the centre of the road, injecting more authority into his voice this time.
But the angel doesn’t even seem to hear him. Yet another mangled flap of wings is his only response, and this one dumps him on his face a mere few feet away. Even from a distance, Dean can see he’s shaking with either pain or fear, and when the angel lets out a huff of sound, inarticulate and fraught, it’s the last straw.
Using powers he rarely bothers with, Dean abruptly surges forward, closing the remaining distance between them as he materialises right atop the angel. He crashes down against the struggling figure, using all his demonic strength to restrain him (and is privately horrified by how easy it is). Castiel fights, for a moment, but there’s a horrible weakness to his every movement.
“Stop!” Dean snarls, pressing down against his back. “Castiel, I said stop it.”
At last, the angel hears him. Dean has spent the last year or so asserting an authority over Cas he can’t quite believe he gets away with sometimes, but apparently it’s still effective. Castiel trembles into utter stillness beneath him, breathing short, shallow breaths through his nose. His face is turned to one side, and with the one eye visible he stares up at Dean expectantly. It feels like soothing a nervous animal.
Weirdly shaky, Dean sits back a little. He doesn’t want to get up entirely just yet, though, in case Cas tries to… to fly again. He’s pretty sure it won’t end well.
“Dean…” His voice sounds broken. “I can’t…”
“Yeah, I got that.” He hesitates, casting about for what to say. “It’s… It’ll be fine, okay? You’re hurt.” It comes out more of a question than he’d intended.
Cas is already shaking his head, though. “It’s worse than that,” he insists, monotone. “This is… I think… Dean, I think I’ve finally Fallen.”
At that, the demon has to admit to being confused. Considering how long the angel’s been with them, and the type of things he’d done for them in that time, Dean had been pretty damn certain that Cas had fallen just about as far as he could go.
“I thought-”
“And now you are cursed from the ground, which has opened its mouth to receive your brother's blood from your hand,” Castiel intones solemnly, and it doesn’t take long to realise he’s quoting something, undoubtedly the Bible. “I murdered fellow angels, Dean. My siblings. For you.”
Dean knows that very well, and even now can’t help the flash of selfish, inappropriate pride that flares inside him.
“It would seem there was only so much my grace could withstand before it left me altogether,” Castiel mutters, and then lets out something like a giggle, although the sound has too many sharp edges in it for Dean to share the humour.
The houses around them are stirring as lights flick on and neighbours twitch curiously at their curtains, alerted to the commotion they’d made. Humans stare out at them with rapt attention, probably unsure what to do about the two men crouched together in the middle of their road, Sam moving to stand over them like some kind of hulking bodyguard. They’ll all be witnesses, Dean realises, when people find the bodies they’d left. He wonders idly if the FBI will start up its doomed hunt for them yet again.
He moves backwards to sit on the road, and with gritted teeth he hauls Castiel with him. The angel slumps against him without protest, as though numb, and Dean secures an arm around the slim, fragile torso beneath the oversized trenchcoat. He understands what Castiel isn’t quite saying, or thinks he does. Flight is just the first thing to go. They’ve pushed him too far. Polluted his grace too thoroughly.
There in Dean’s arms, Castiel is becoming human.
He doesn’t know quite how to react to that.