A/N: Wow, this is gonna be a doozy. I have been working on this monster of a fic for months now, plotting it out and polishing it off, and doubting all the time that I would ever actually post it. For those who are unfamiliar with me, I will say this: this will be slash, of the Dean/Cas sort. It's just a slow-building sort.

As a side note: This is an AU, as in, not our universe or the canon Supernatural. In this world, the popular motif of angels possessing wings- which is purely an artistic idea, the Bible never once even hints at angels having wings- never came about. So in this fic, the term 'angel' doesn't immediately call to mind a harp-playing blonde person with fluffy white wings.

July 29, 2001

Camden, NJ

Sam Winchester slammed the motel door shut behind him as he stormed out, hard enough that it hit the frame and bounced back open. He could hear his brother and father talking in the room beyond, and he moved away so he wouldn't have to listen to them agreeing on how he was a reckless selfish idiot. After a moment he realized he was still moving, and pointed himself towards the main road- he had no food, no money, no nothing, but he could make it work. Dad had taught him well.

"Hey!"

Sam ducked his head a little and lengthened his stride- he was already as tall as his brother, both taller than their father, and his long legs promised he wasn't done growing yet- at the sound of his brother's voice. A moment later Dean came jogging up, complete with a whack to the back of Sam's head. "The hell do you think you're going?" he demanded, grabbing Sam by the elbow and hauling him around.

For a long moment, the temptation to just start throwing punches almost choked Sam. He was done with taking orders.

"Do you know what this is?" he demanded instead, brandishing the letter- now crumpled and slightly torn- under his brother's nose.

"Full ride to Stanford? Yeah, I heard, Sam. So did half the eastern seaboard." There was something odd in Dean's tone, and any other time Sam would have noticed, would have realized something was wrong. But Sam was eighteen, and thoughtlessly self-centered as only teenagers could be, wrapped up in his own personal drama.

"Do you know how many people get this?" he continued, following Dean now as his brother moved away. "Especially people with school records like mine?"

"You got straight As," Dean protested, misunderstanding. Sam barked a laugh.

"Yeah, I did, in all fourteen schools I attended." He would have said more, except he tripped, stumbling over something big and bulky lying on the sidewalk. After he caught himself and got turned around he recognized it as his duffel bag.

For one long moment grief and anger warred for control, both rising up and tying his throat in knots. For all he had expected it, wanted it even, he had never actually thought this moment would come. Then he saw the second bag and anger won.

"He threw you out too?" he demanded incredulously, looking at Dean. His face shuttered, his brother merely shrugged it off.

"Something like that," he said as he circled around his car. "Get in."

"Dean-"

"Don't," Dean interrupted, still not looking at him. "Just… get in."

Sam looked at the two duffel bags on the ground, then over at the firmly closed motel room door. Then he grabbed his bag and hauled it around to the back of the car, tossing it into the trunk as Dean went to get the other.

He sat and stewed for the better part of an hour as Dean drove. Their father was obsessed and military-strict, that was true enough, but never had he given Sam any indication that his boys had stopped being the most important thing to him. He glanced at Dean, seeing the white knuckles of the hand on the steering wheel, the tension in his muscles, the occasional tic along his jaw. Four years separated them, and always it had seemed an insurmountable gulf, practically putting Dean right up there with the adults. But now, Sam saw something else- twenty-two was not so very old, still just a kid really, and this twenty-two-year-old had just had his life uprooted. At least Sam had plans.

"He probably didn't mean it," he said finally, noticing how Dean started just a little at the sudden words. "He's just pissed because of me."

Dean gave a hollow little laugh. "You think?"

"Just drop me off at the nearest town with a Greyhound station," Sam ordered. "By the time you get back, he'll have calmed down."

"He didn't throw me out, Sam," Dean said, and Sam felt the world shy sideways under his feet, like a skittish horse.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said quietly, after that had had time to process.

Dean's answer was to turn on the radio, skipping stations until he found a hard rock song and turning it up until Sam could feel the bass beating in his chest like a second heart.

"Dean…" he tried, one last time.

"Seriously, dude, let it go," Dean snapped. "Unless you wanna start walking."

He didn't, so he let it go.

Mardi Gras, 2002

New Orleans, LA

The Rider was drunk. And, with a girl on either arm and a glass of what was most likely whiskey in one hand, quite thoroughly enjoying it.

It took quite a bit of effort to get a Rider drunk, but this one had the knack of it. He managed to find the exact balance, drinking just enough, just often enough, to keep himself cruising along in a pleasantly tipsy state without overwhelming even his durable system. By this point, he had been drunk for a week and a half, and not one minute of the entire experience had been unpleasant. Alcohol poisoning was for lesser species.

The girls flanking him both spoke with a sharp twang; West Texas, if he had to guess. They weren't quite drunk enough for him to safely suggest they all retire to his motel room, but they were close. He was debating whether it was worth getting up to get a refill, since the bartender's attention was divided between the hundred-odd people crammed into the bar, and had almost managed to catch the man's eye when a roadblock presented itself.

"I know what we are," the intruder said. His voice carried a soft-edged accent, English possibly. The Rider blinked up at him, hoping against hope that he had misunderstood.

"I know what we are too," he replied, giving a slight toast with his almost-empty glass. And he did- though the name be unknown and the face unfamiliar, a Rider always knew one of their own.

"I know what we were," the English Rider ground out.

"Interruptin' is what y'are," the left-hand girl muttered sourly, running her words together in that delightful Texas way. The older Rider merely sighed and tossed back the last of his maybe-whiskey.

"Sorry, girls," he said. "Family matters. I'll only be a minute." He got up with a small bit of difficulty, trying to disentangle himself from the women, the dozen-odd bead chains around his neck clicking together wildly. He moved past the other Rider, over to the bar proper and placed his order in French, complete with helpful hand gesture should something be lost in translation.

"Why?" the younger Rider demanded simply. There was no point in asking what he meant by that.

"Kid, if I knew why…" the older Rider snorted and laughed derisively, shaking his head a little. A moment later the bartender thunked a heavy, full bottle in front of him and set two glasses beside it. He busied himself with taking the cap off one-handed, so he wouldn't have to see the other's expression.

"Why?" the younger one repeated, and the drunk sighed.

"Because of what we might have become," he said after a long moment, quiet and solemn. He looked then, watched the emotions march across the other Rider's face. He was familiar with the procession.

"That's it?"

He nodded and turned to watch the two Texas girls as he sipped at his glass- bourbon this time.

"I thought it would be something… more," the younger Rider began. Outrage, right on schedule. Then he looked down, a bit blank, at the glass that had been pressed into his hand in an attempt to short-circuit the process.

"It sucks," the older Rider agreed. "But there you go. Drink it, it helps," he added when he heard the glass impacting the wood of the bar.

"I didn't come here to get drunk," the younger snarled.

"No, you came here to talk to me. Drink up; that's my advice. Drink, eat something, have a little fun. It doesn't matter anymore, does it?"

The younger Rider took the bottle of bourbon as he reached for a refill. "That's your idea of advice? Alcohol and prostitutes?"

"Hey, you came to me," the older Rider said dismissively. Then he leaned over, as if to impart some great secret. "Also, they're not prostitutes. They're tourists, which is like prostitutes, only free."

"I don't think so," the younger one said, pushing the bottle into the other's hands. The older Rider rolled his eyes and huffed a laugh.

"Of course not," he muttered to himself, moving away from the bar. He turned back long enough to impart one final piece of wisdom. "Why not? We're all damned anyways, might as well make it worth it."

The Texan girls welcomed him back gladly, making plenty of room for him. And even more for his bourbon, but he chose to ignore this. A moment later the right-hand girl narrowed her eyes and looked up.

"You're British, right?" she asked. The younger Rider, standing once more before their table and looking awkward, spared his kin a swift glance.

"Mostly," he said finally, reluctantly. He, like all Riders, was from a time before there was a Britain.

"Got some bad news recently," the older Rider drawled. "He's had it rough."

That got him a dark look, for the other Rider could hear the sarcasm and the lazy taunt in the words, but the two girls cooed and shifted over, making room for the newcomer.

"You're not the first to ask me why," the older Rider said later, while the younger emptied his stomach into the gutter. The knack for balancing alcohol consumption was a hard-won skill, and the heaving Rider appeared not to have mastered it yet. He would learn.

"I think I hate you," the kid groaned, curling over and hiding his face from the too-bright sunlight with his arm. "Why can't I heal this?"

"Because I really know that," the older Rider scoffed. He looked around at the empty streets. The city was still recovering, smelling of alcohol and Cajun spice and sweat, the inhabitants all in the same general shape as his companion. It looked like a bomb had gone off.

"Do any of the others know?" the young Rider asked after a moment.

"Some. No more than a quarter. Me and the other three, we never forgot." He rocked his weight back on his heels, hands in his pockets. "Best to keep it to yourself, the others are happier not knowing," he added after a long silence. He looked back down and grinned, then crouched down by the huddled form. "I've got things to do. Think you can take it from here?"

He didn't wait for an answer. For one second, there was the brilliant dazzle of light dancing across the street as he spread his wings, diamond feathers shattering the sunlight into a rainbow of colors, and then he was gone.

The younger didn't watch him leave.

11.50 p.m., June 20, 2006

Lawrence, KS

The night John Winchester died, hours before the final bell tolled, he did something no one else had ever dared. He summoned a Rider.

He used a rundown old groundskeeper's shack on the edge of the cemetery attached to a grand Catholic church, whose doors had not opened in almost ten years- the summoning would only work on hallowed ground and on certain nights, and he was almost desperately grateful that the summer solstice was one. He drank Jack Daniels and listened keenly for any sounds outside and drew the circle with human blood stolen from a blood bank.

Most people- of those who knew what it meant when the first 'r' in Rider was capitalized- tended to give these creatures a wide berth. No one wanted to piss these things off. John, however, was past the point of caring for common wisdom. He had nothing to lose.

He poured himself another shot of Jack- in a McDonald's kiddie cup, which was almost sacrilege, but it was the best he'd had- and settled himself back in his chair. After a few minutes he moved again, getting to his feet. He was getting old, he thought wryly. Fortunately he wouldn't have to worry about getting any older.

The feather had been cared for, folded gently in a silk handkerchief and tucked alone into a wooden jewelry box. It was a good eight inches long, slightly curved, blunt at the tip with only a slight narrowing. It was a deep bluish-grey with a startlingly white tip. The white caught the light, reflecting it, even shone a little bit in the dark, like it had been painted with starlight.

He was not a born and bred hunter like Mary had been. He had come into the game late, and from the moment he had heard of them, he had had nothing but the utmost respect for the Riders. But he knew what was at stake, better than any other human, better even than a majority of the Riders themselves, and this was something that needed doing. He put the feather in the center of the circle- better to draw in its owner - and lit the candles.

At midnight, the Rider came.

It arrived with the breathtaking feel of power, pouring into the room like an ocean funneling into a bathtub, pushing at the rotting walls, shaking the building and cracking the windows. Something churned the air, a powerful thumping noise, a bird beating its wings against the bars of its cage. John caught a glimpse of gunmetal-blue shapes on either side of the figure solidifying in the center of the circle, that starkly white band at the bottom catching the flickering light of the white-burning candles, before the wings faded away to wherever they went when the Rider wasn't using them.

John stood outside the circle, arms folded over his chest, watching the Rider. In person, there was nothing overly impressive about it- average height, average build, messy dark hair and wide blue eyes. The feeling of power was gone, tucked away with the wings, and John found it surprisingly easy to stand before it and meet its gaze.

It crouched down for a moment, touched its fingertips to the bloody circle before withdrawing quickly, as though it had been burned. It looked around the building and over the watching human with an expression of curiosity. If the creature was worried about its current predicament, it was doing a fantastic job of not showing it.

"My name is John Winchester," the human said, to see what reaction he would get. He was fairly infamous in certain circles. The Rider merely blinked at him and stood up. It swept another cursory glance over the circle before looking back at John, pinning him with a look, and he realized suddenly that it had been taking it easy on him. He felt like a butterfly, pinned to cardboard; like this creature could see into his very soul.

"What do you want of me, John Winchester?" it asked, its voice deeper and rougher than he had expected. He went back to his chair, picked up his cup again and drained it dry. This was not going to end well.

"I want to make a deal," he said, and even though his back was turned, he knew it was angry. He could feel it, like a change in air pressure before a storm.

"I am not a demon," the Rider said, voice still calm, even if there was a hint of snap in the words. "I do not make deals."

"You do today," John told it, not entirely unsympathetic. For all their faults, Riders were relatively inoffensive beings. As much as they were capable of relandscaping a city with one temper tantrum, the basic fact was that they didn't. As far as any hunter knew, the Riders had been around for thousands of years, but there was not one record, story, or even rumor of any violence against humans. It wasn't that they were harmless- they could cut through demons and other such unfriendly critters like Ginsu knives, when the mood so struck- more like they simply thought the humans too far beneath them to make the effort.

Either that or they were so good they didn't leave witnesses.

"This circle will not contain me indefinitely," the Rider said, once again crouching to study his prison. "And you cannot hurt me."

"Oh, I can hurt you," John corrected mildly, causing the Rider to look up at him with flashing eyes.

"Not seriously," it allowed after a moment, voice even rougher, as if it was considering the possibilities. Still, it steeled itself, and John had to respect that if nothing else. Torture was torture, regardless of how temporary the damage. "There is no incentive."

"Actually, there is," John told it as he sat back down. "You just don't know it yet."

He poured himself some more whiskey and shifted into a more comfortable position, waiting. The Rider watched him with a strange intensity for a long moment before returning to its careful exploration. They waited in silence, strangely companionable, John sitting and drinking and watching as the Rider closely examined every single inch of the circle.

It was almost a quarter to one when the first barks sounded outside. John would have shrugged it off, because there had been some little yappy dog going off sporadically all night, except for the Rider's reaction. It surged to its feet and spun to face the direction of the noise, all the color draining out of its face.

"There's your incentive," John said, earning him a wide-eyed glance from the Rider. He pointed to the circle. "That keeps you in, not something else out. You wanna be stuck in there when they get here?"

"I cannot call them off," the Rider said, and for all its almost-visible fear, it still sounded as calm as though they were talking about the weather.

"I know." John finished off his whiskey and set it aside, the last good memory of this life he would have. He stood up, moving towards the circle once more, watching the Rider's wide eyes swing from him to the wall and back. There were things that frightened even Riders, it seemed.

"I want to make a deal," John said again.

This time, there was no anger, simply grim resolve that settled in over the Rider's features as it set its jaw. Then it dipped its chin in what might have been a nod. When he told it what he wanted, it didn't ask any questions. And when he released it- he had to use a sponge to break the line, the blood had dried and was too thick to scuff up with the toe of his boot- the Rider spread its magnificent wings and disappeared without saying a word.

In the silence, John stood and looked up at the ceiling and listened to the sounds outside. He dialed 911 on his cell phone and set it aside without saying a word to the dispatcher, ignoring her increasingly anxious questions. They would find him- not soon enough to be any help, but at least he wouldn't lay out here undiscovered and alone for years, and that was all he really wanted by now.

Then he pushed the door open and stepped out into the summer night beyond, and the hounds closed in.