Under Repair(the feathers of an angel remix)
The park’s not really on the way home, but Dean might, maybe, be a little too drunk to care. He’s got a hundred bucks of hustled pool money in his pocket and he needs to get home to Sam but the streets are empty and the night is cool and misty and he’s bored.
Maybe there’s something out here, something dangerous, something he can sink his knife, his bullets, his teeth into. They don’t hunt any more, not since the wall came down and Sam shattered into a million pieces, but that doesn’t mean something couldn’t find them. Dean almost hopes it does because you can’t fight a crumbling wall. One blow could send the tottering framework tumbling down, burying Sam so deep he’d never be able to dig himself out. He needs something he can hit, hard, until his hands bleed and his head clears and he can find the right brickwork and plaster to erect a barricade so thick the pit will never trouble Sam again.
He’s calculating measurements, running down a list of materials, making plans for the best wall ever when the corner of a bench catches him on the side of his knee and he almost goes down; only his hunter quick reflexes allowing him to crack his elbow across the seat of the bench instead of his skull on the concrete walkway.
Now, when his gun hand is a mass of tingling flesh, would be the perfect time for something to come at him because when has anything ever gone right? Dean pushes himself up slowly with his good hand, eyes scanning the darkness between the two closest streetlamp because that’s exactly where he’s fallen, and decides that maybe evil has taken the night off. That, of course, is when he hears the beats of thousands of wings.
Well, maybe it’s not thousands, but it’s definitely in the dozens and Dean’s got his knife out but he doesn’t carry his angel skewering blade around with him
anymore and that might, maybe, be a mistake. It sounds like thousands, or maybe dozens, of Castiels coming in for a landing though Cas hasn’t popped by in quite a while. Dean’s trying to cultivate wall builders, not wall tearers down though he only knows one builder and Death’s not exactly coming by for coffee every week either.
Dean ducks, though he can’t see what’s making the thunderous racket, as thousands, or maybe dozens, of somethings come noisily in for a landing all around him. Feathers rustle and loud, harsh sounds cut the darkness as the angel things mill around. Dean gets slowly to his feet and something hisses, sinister and echoing along the foggy path by the river. The sound comes from well below Dean’s ears and he shudders away the vision of evil angel babies crawling after him as he backs away.
It doesn’t take forever to get to the nearest light post but it feels like it does with dozens, or more likely thousands of miniscule, snake tongued angels stalking him. He strides, perhaps a little unsteadily, into the much welcomed circle of light and whirls, blade flashing in front of him and waits. Not quietly.
“Come and try it you feathered motherfuckers.” Dean can put on a pretty menacing tone if he does say so himself. Freaky tiny angels aren’t the only things that can sound scary. He thinks maybe they’ve backed off when nothing follows him into the light but then one small figure moves into the glowing circle of visibility and then another. And another and another and another. Dean didn’t think angels could possess non humans but looking at these things, he’s beginning to suspect it’s possible.
One by one they strut closer, chests stuck out and beady eyes gleaming. They look like Canada Geese but obviously Canada Geese are dicks, so angels inhabiting their puffed up, feathery meatsuits isn’t that farfetched. With speed Dean didn’t think that something small and waddling would possess, one scurries forward and pecks viciously at his leg.
“Son of a bitch.” Dean swipes low with the knife but his aim’s a little off for some reason and another angel goose nails the back of his hand. He’s got to formulate another plan here because stabbing a flock of milling, heaven influenced water fowl is going to take him all night if it’s even possible to kill them at all without the angel blade. Sam’s alone back at the apartment because he almost never leaves it these days and if the angel geese get by Dean that’ll be their next stop, he’s sure of it. If Dean’s off his game, Sam’s not even on the field. Dean’s brother spends his days searching out normal, everyday obituaries online and cataloguing them. If Dean doesn’t make it out of here he wonders what Sam will make of his obit. Except Dean won’t have one, he’ll be on page nine under ‘unidentified man mysteriously pecked to death in park’. And that will leave Sam alone with only the rotting timber in his mind and Dean’s non-Samloving cat for company. With all the evil still in the world, Dean doesn’t think that’ll be enough.
He feints left and goes right, left foot connecting solidly with a deceptively fragile body, the angel goose letting out a surprised squawk as it catapults backwards into the dark. Dean manages to make it through the rest of the gaggle/garrison with no more than a few bruises and a small tear in the hem of his jeans. He doesn’t think they’re following as he hauls ass back home but if they are, he’s got plenty of ordinance there to take them down. Maybe feathers from the armies of heaven will mix into the wall repair Dean’s planning and make it even stronger. Can’t hurt to find out.