AN: Hello all! This story is set in season 6, somewhere between episodes 12 and 15. I hope you like it, though your criticisms are always welcome - I'd be glad of ways to improve it. Cookies to my friend Rachel for a) introducing me to this amazing show and b) reading this through with me and helping me edit. I'm very sorry for the emotional breakdown in the library this caused you. Anyway, on with the fic!

Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural, Cas would get a lot more hugs.

With Only One Wing

We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another. - Luciano De Crescenzo

It was midnight, and it was raining. A woman, Celia, brushed at her waist length blonde hair absently with her fingers and poured herself her third glass of wine that evening. It had not been a good day. Rent had to be paid but her bank account just wasn't looking good this month - she'd have to get The Group together tomorrow to sort that out. The wine was quickly downed and Celia stood, stumbling a little. Just as she was about to stagger away to bed, there was a rustling flutter and suddenly a man was standing before her.

He was tall and thin, his pale, angular features making him seem as if he had sharp edges; you could paper cut yourself on his nose. With icy blue eyes, white blonde hair and a silvery grey suit, he looked cold and distant, ethereal in an almost translucent way. Celia blanched at his sudden appearance and had to grip the table for support as her tipsy body swayed slightly. "What the hell? Get out!"

"My name is Barachiel. I'm an Angel of the Lord." the man replied in a cool voice, his tone clipped and clinical.

"Angel of the Lord? Yeah right! More like demon if you ask me!" Celia guffawed, folding her arms as she studied her visitor.

With a roll of his cold eyes and a small huff of annoyance, Barachiel clicked his fingers and a deafening peal of thunder sounded, white light filling the room for a moment as the shadows of two enormous wings unfolded themselves from Barachiel's back on the wall behind. Gasping loudly, Celia flailed backwards, knocking her wine glass from the table. The musical tinkle of smashing glass went unnoticed. Trembling, Celia managed to stutter out, "W-what do you want from me?"

"You are Celia Miller, you govern the band of witches residing in this town?" Celia nodded shakily. "Celia, you and your coven have sinned. You have cavorted with demons and practiced black magic - your souls are destined for Hell. I can change this. I can guarantee you an eternity in paradise when you die, as long as you help me now."

Sam and Dean flashed their fake FBI badges at the police officer by the front door of the small country house and were granted access inside. The dingy, untidy front room would have been entirely unworthy of their attention had it not contained the corpse of the third victim in the case they were working. The boys had driven to the small town of Cedar Bluffs, Nebraska, three days ago after hearing about a man who was buying supplies at the local store and literally exploded right in front of the cashier. A few hours after they arrived, a dinner party turned into tragedy when guests reported seeing their host cough up live beetles, choke and die. Sam had discovered that both victims had worked many years ago in a now disused factory that the youth of the town deemed 'haunted'. They were about to check out the building when the news of the third death reached them.

The cadaver was a balding, flabby man, clearly past his prime. Revolting red growths covered his body; he had obviously died in a lot of pain. As Dean heard information about the deceased from the detective in charge, Sam surreptitiously inspected the room for anything that might give them a clue as to what they were facing. He discovered a hex bag hidden on the bookcase and flashed it to Dean with a grim smile before pocketing it and turning to leave. He was stopped in his tracks however as he noticed what appeared to be an Enochian sigil carved into the side of the bookcase.

'Angels? I thought we were dealing with witches?' Sam thought confusedly, catching Dean's eye and motioning towards the sigil before pulling out a notebook and copying it down. This was very strange. Very strange indeed.

Back at the motel, the boys were trying to figure out why the victim of a witch attack would have an Enochian sigil in his home. The victim had also worked at the factory years before but Dean wanted an expert opinion on the sigil before they rushed off anywhere.

"Cas, if you could wing your way down here, we've got a dead guy with Enochian carved into his bookshelf... C'mon buddy, come on down."

After a few seconds of silence, there was that familiar flap of wings and Cas appeared, looking weary and a little rumpled. "Hello," he sighed, "What do you need?"

'The war must be taking its toll' thought Dean sadly before clapping the angel on the shoulder and launching into an explanation of the witch victim and his mysterious Enochian sigil.

Castiel listened intently to the story, nodding occasionally, but frowned when presented with Sam's drawing of the sigil. "This is used with four other sigils as a way of summoning an angel," he stated in a monotone. "On its own it is meaningless. Are you sure this was the only sigil at the house?"

"Uh, yeah. I think so anyway..." Sam muttered, forehead crinkling slightly in confusion.

"Man, this crap is getting weirder and weirder," said Dean, "I say we check out the factory. You comin' Cas?"

The angel hesitated for a second, as if deliberating something, then drew in a breath and nodded. "Yes," he said decisively, "It'll be good to get away for a few hours."

The old factory looked tired in the golden dusk, its derelict appearance a firm contrast to the vitality of the early evening. As Sam and Dean cautiously approached the building, assessing its size and how dangerous it looked, Castiel paused and took a moment to look at the sky melting from day to night.

It truly was beautiful. Orange and pink and red and purple smeared across the horizon, a cross between artistic genius and a child's picture. There were a few clouds scattered in hazy bunches, their fluffy texture bloodied by the sunset like slaughtered lambs. The sun sprinkled its last gold dust across the earth, warming the lonely factory as the moon hovered on the precipice of day, tussling for dominance. The sight grounded Castiel, immersed him in serenity the same way the chorus of the Heavenly Host had done before everything became so skewed. He needed this moment, if truth be told. Recently the war in Heaven had been so bloody, so tiring, that he had begun to lose sight of what it was all for. 'My advice - grab something valuable and fake your own death.' Balthazar's words had recently kept returning to him and once or twice he had privately begun to question why he was even fighting anymore. This sunset had reminded him. He wanted to preserve God's beautiful creation, to see righteous men like Dean Winchester walk in the dusk of another day like this one. Raphael could not be allowed to take control, the Apocalypse would not destroy God's most precious work. Chasing away the weariness and apathy clinging to his heart with renewed determination, Castiel followed the Winchesters into the crumbling factory, keenly searching out any danger.

From the moment he stepped into the building, Castiel could sense there was something wrong. Before he could figure out what was the matter there was a scuffling sound, a woman's voice chanting Enochian at him and a loud shout. Then Castiel knew no more.

When he came to, Castiel could feel something was different. He was standing, albeit limply, between two large pieces of dusty machinery. Chains attached to each piece wound their way down to Castiel's wrists, holding him up and in place. As he tried to shake the grogginess that had settled over him, the thought occurred that the chains must have some kind of spellwork etched into them to bind him. Another thought occurred as things slowly became clearer: Despite having his arms raised, Castiel could feel the coldness of the concrete floor.

Castiel could feel the coldness of the concrete floor.

His wings had manifested.

They were magnificent really, each one a gargantuan yet utterly elegant mass of black feathers, iridescent in the evening light streaming through the dirty windows of the factory. There were rips in his trench coat at the back where his wings had forced themselves through; the celestial appendages now curled down to rest their tips gently against the cold floor. Castiel scanned the room in search of the Winchesters but found that he was alone - he needed to find them and get out of this place immediately. He was vulnerable, more vulnerable than he had been in a long time and he needed to get away and let the effects of whatever spell had been cast on him wear off before something happened.

The spellwork on the chains would not be able to hold him for long, Castiel realised, pulling at them while his wings twitched a little in his anxiety at having them so exposed. Before he could pull free however, one of his brothers, Barachiel, appeared with an icy smirk.

"Castiel, what a pleasure. I trust you did not find the manifestation spell too uncomfortable?"

"Where are the Winchesters, Barachiel? Where's Dean? Why have you done this?" Castiel was in no mood to be exchanging pleasantries with someone who clearly wanted to do him harm.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about the vermin Castiel, I've got them locked up safe to be dealt with later. You should probably be more concerned with yourself!" Barachiel's voice became chilly, sinister. "As for why I'm doing this... Not to be crude, but I want you dead. More than that, I want you to feel pain before you die. You see, you destroyed our destiny. You and your apes spoiled everything when we could have had an end at last, and frankly that disgusts me. How dare you? What right had you to rebel and ruin it for all of us? And now you have the audacity to stand against Raphael as he tries to repair the damage. I was so angry I thought I would kill you myself. I got my little bitch - apologies, witch - to lure you here with a few strange deaths and a meaningless sigil so I could make you understand what you've done before I kill you. How stupid you are! Anyway, on to business." Barachiel stepped towards Castiel, shoes clicking smartly against the concrete.

"Brother, please -"

"I AM NOT YOUR FAMILY!" the words were shattered glass, showering Castiel with tiny daggers as rage burned in Barachiel's eyes like a cold star. After a tense moment, Barachiel seemed to compose himself, sniffing and frostily repeating, "I am not your family. Nowhere near." With that, he quickly closed the distance between the two of them and yanked a handful of feathers from Castiel's left wing.

The pain was intense, and Castiel let out a strangled yelp, trying to jerk his wing away. Barachiel kept a tight hold, pulling out more feathers in the process. Then, with one swift movement, he twisted the wing forcefully, satisfied by the sound of bones snapping.

There was nothing Castiel could do but scream. Debilitating agony erupted across his wing and all he could think was pain pain PAIN as his knees sagged and he cried out brokenly. Somewhere in the distance he heard windows breaking and glass raining down at his torment, but that hardly mattered to him now. Barachiel chuckled at his brother's distress and whipped out his angel blade, smiling cruelly as he prepared to cut into the mangled wing.

The cool roughness of a brick wall against his back was the first thing Dean was aware of; the second being the thumping in his head usually caused by someone knocking him out. Slowly blinking his eyes open, the hunter blearily took in his surroundings. He was sitting against the wall of what appeared to be a large storage unit, empty save for his own body and Sam's unconscious form against the wall opposite. Dean rose to his feet, a little unsteadily, and strode to his brother, laying a hand on his shoulder and gently shaking him awake.

"Sam. Sammy? C'mon Sam, wake up."

"Mmph." Sam came to, blinking owlishly at his brother before frowning slightly and peering around the room. "What happened... where's Cas?"

"Cas? Crap!" Dean hadn't even thought of Cas, he'd been so preoccupied with Sam. Where was the angel? Dean worriedly scanned the room again in the vain hope that he had somehow missed his friend and he would miraculously appear beside him like he always did. After having no such luck, Dean helped his huge little brother to his feet and together they began to look for a way out. It soon became apparent that the heavy metal door in the centre of the wall was their only option. Dean figured that it would take some strength, but with their combined efforts they would be able to open the locked door.

And so the kicking began. Sam and Dean thumped and pounded and slammed against the door, wearing it down little by little until they would eventually be able to bust it open. Muted voices could be heard from the other side, rising slowly in both volume and pitch; someone was having an argument. The Hunters paused for a moment to listen.

"Celia, we have to leave! This has gone too far - they've stopped." It was a man's voice, quaking with terror that had spoken.

A woman replied. "Maybe they got tired. We did hit them pretty hard... anyway, we can't leave, he'll kill us! We have to see this through, Jason. Do you want to go to Hell?"

Having heard enough, Sam and Dean resumed their kicking and after about ten seconds the door gave way, swinging open to reveal four petrified looking people. Before the Winchesters could say or do anything, one man, Jason presumably, let out a pathetic little scream and bolted for the exit. He was quickly followed by a beefy looking man and a petite woman, leaving only a beautiful young woman of about twenty with long blonde hair standing before them. She wore a grey tank top and dark jeans, boots covering most of her lower legs. with no jacket on, she looked cold as she gripped an angel blade so tightly that her knuckles were the colour of snow. Fear and determination were at war in her hazel eyes.

"St-stay back. I'll use this!" Eyes wide, she gestured manically at the brothers with the angel blade.

Sam stepped forward gingerly, hands raised and a gentle expression on his face. "Look, we don't want to hurt you, just put the knife down." He took another step towards the woman, fixing her with those winning puppy-dog eyes of his.

"I said stay back!" She had clearly not fallen for it, stumbling backwards a little as she gestured with the blade again. Dean was not impressed, rolling his eyes and muttering "We don't have time for this" before stepping in front of the woman and easily catching her wrist as she clumsily swiped at him. With a hint of regret in his face, Dean pulled his arm back and deftly punched her in the face, sending her bloody and unconscious form sprawling across the floor.

"It's kind of a shame... she was freakin' hot!" Dean grinned at his brother before stooping to arm himself with the angel blade that had clattered to the floor.

"You have no shame," Sam quirked his eyebrow at the elder hunter before glancing around and adding: "We need to find Cas."

Their favourite angel's location soon became horribly apparent as they heard a scream of pure agony burst from somewhere down the corridor to their left. But that couldn't be Cas... could it? Dean glanced at Sam fearfully before taking off in the direction of the offensive sound.

The factory was a labyrinth, a twisting maze of corridors and useless rooms that seemed at some points to take them further away from the harrowing screams instead of towards them. The Winchesters knew they were getting close however when a particularly loud scream blew out the windows of the corridor they were frantically running down. Dean's throat was constricted painfully in fear for his friend. If it was Cas making the horrible noise, what the hell could have made him like that? It sometimes seemed like 'stoic' was Cas' middle name and it honestly frightened Dean that there might be something that could break his angel so completely. Of course, it might not be Cas that was wretchedly screaming, Dean reasoned, sprinting towards the double doors at the end of the corridor where it was now clear the sound was coming from. It was more likely that the angel was kicking some son of a bitch's ass and was perfectly fine - maybe he'd roll his eyes if he knew how worried Dean really was. The Righteous Man clung to this thought as he and Sam burst through the foreboding doors, unsure of what awaited them on the other side.

Dean felt as if he had been punched in the gut, hard, at the sight that greeted them.

Castiel, Cas, his best friend, was chained up, a look of agony that transcended Dean's understanding of pain etched on his face as a man who oddly reminded Dean of Jack Frost sliced into one of two achingly beautiful black wings protruding from his back.

For a moment Dean could do nothing but stand and stare in shock, his mouth agape even as Sam began running towards the scene with an angry yell. The Jack Frost look-alike turned in surprise but caught Sam just in time, grabbing his shirt and hurling him across the room to land in an ungraceful heap, unconscious. This violence towards Sam spurred Dean into action, blood boiling at the hurt caused to his two brothers as he rushed at the offender like a man possessed, angel blade held aloft.

The ring of metal on metal as the two blades collided in the air was sickening. They quivered there for a moment, the purity of Dean's clean knife against its opponent, slick with Castiel's blood, made the hunter's stomach turn. Dean and Barachiel stood inches apart, arms raised and angel blades pressed against each other in the air. In Barachiel's eyes Dean saw nothing but glacial hatred as his lips curled into a feral smile and he forced his blade down, shoving Dean hard with one hand.

The elder Winchester felt himself sail through the air momentarily before crashing down on his backside, pain shooting up his back and taking his breath away. His angel blade was useless to him, dropped as he was thrown back and now far out of reach. Dean looked up at his attacker with a stony expression as the corrupt angel stalked towards him, blade prepared to strike.

"I was rather hoping to deal with you later," he snarled. "I wanted to make you suffer like our poor Castiel before you died. Alas, we can't have everything!" Snickering to himself at the joke he was about to make, Barachiel lifted his blade high and screeched, "SAY YOUR PRAYERS!"

Before he could swing his arm down and end Dean, the tip of the angel blade Dean had dropped violently burst from Barachiel's chest, blood tainting his immaculate grey suit. Eyes impossibly wide, the angel gave a choked little gasp and fell to the floor, light so bright Dean had to shut his eyes spilling from every orifice Barachiel had. After a second or two, the light abruptly faded and there was a beat of peaceful silence, like when the first flakes of a snowy winter fall. Barachiel lay stone dead on the concrete, the black shapes of his wings stretched elegantly about him. Dean opened his mouth to say something along the lines of 'Say yours, Douchebag' but stopped short when he saw who had killed the angel.

Castiel stood on heavily trembling legs, face bloodless as he regarded Dean with a dazed expression. His right wing was tense, ready for flight while the other hung limply at his side, a single feather floating gently down to the ground.

As Dean scrambled up and towards his friend, Cas sank down to his knees, standing obviously having become too big a strain. Catching the angel as he tipped sideways, Dean sat down and pulled Cas' back to his chest, cradling his friend as his wings splayed around the pair.

Dean looked around anxiously for Sam and felt a tiny measure of the panic he was feeling dissipate when he saw his brother lumbering to his feet. One injured family member he could just about deal with, two and Dean feared he wouldn't be able to handle it. Hell, he could barely handle it now.

And so the hunter held his angel, Dean struggling to comprehend the fact that Cas even had real, physical wings. He had no idea where they had suddenly come from, but the air caught a little in his throat at the resplendent beauty of the right wing compared to the awful state the left was in.

Cas' wing was truly wrecked. Twisted and broken, it stretched out pitifully across the ground, blue light spilling from the gashes decorating it like macabre fairy lights. Feathers had been entirely ripped out in places, leaving gruesome bald patches on the wing and a small trail of bloody plumage on the floor. Castiel's face was chalk white and clammy, his breath coming in laboured pants as his eyes rolled a little back into his head. Seeing that his friend was only semi conscious, Dean lightly tapped his cheek to rouse him.

"Cas? Stay with me okay, I've got you, just stay with me. You're gonna be fine, you're gonna be just fine. You hear?"

"Dean..." Castiel's voice was soft, breathy, so unlike him that Dean shivered.

"Yeah I'm here, I got you Cas I'm here."

"Dean... I'm cold. I think... I'm dying..."

"No. No no no you're not dying, don't be stupid," Panic swiftly rising, Dean called out for his brother but Sam was by the door, fist fighting the blonde woman who had apparently woken up and was intent on attacking them. "You're not dying, you'll be flying again in no time. Even if you've got one wing, I'll hold you up and we'll fly okay?" Dean was aware he was babbling but just couldn't stop himself; sorrow and fear threatened to overwhelm him with every frenzied beat of his broken heart.

Voice now impossibly weak, Castiel choked out, "I'm... sorry. Dean, I'm dying. I'm... so sorry."

"Listen here you stupid son of a bitch," Tears burned in Dean's eyes and the tightness in his throat made it hard to speak, but he wavered on regardless. "I don't want your apologies. If you die, I won't forgive you. I swear to God I won't. You can't give up, Cas, you've gotta fight this!"

Castiel held Dean's eye for a long moment, blue boring into green until their individual gazes seemed to blur and become one. The rest of the damn world fell away as Dean stared into Cas' astonishingly blue eyes and saw a myriad of emotions resting there: regret; anguish; deep affection; pain. So much pain. Dean knew that Castiel would see the same thing as the angel looked into his own eyes. Then, with a tiny sigh, Castiel's eyes flickered shut and did not reopen.

"Cas? Oh God, Cas! SAM HELP ME!" The tears were really threatening to spill over now as Dean fruitlessly tried to wake his friend. Receiving no response, Dean Winchester heaved in a shaky breath, bowed his head to lightly rest his forehead against Castiel's, and let a small tear fall.

'Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.'

At first things were dark and very distant, and Castiel wondered vaguely if he was at the bottom of a deep lake. It certainly felt like he was floating. After a few seconds (or was it hours?), the angel reasoned that lakes were cold and uncomfortable, dangerous even, and he felt... warm. Safe. Comfortable. So where was he? Castiel endeavoured to find an answer.

'And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light.'

Breaking the surface of the deep, dark lake, Castiel drew in a gentle breath and opened his eyes. Daylight flooded his consciousness, stunning him, brightness and warmth pervading his senses as he stuggled to understand where he was.

Once his eyes had adjusted, Castiel turned his head and took in his surroundings. He was lying on a bed at the centre of Bobby Singer's panic room, shirtless and alone. Confused as to how and why he was here, Castiel sat bolt upright, which was a mistake. A sharp pain shot through his body, bringing back the memories of his ordeal as he winced and gritted his teeth. After the initial sharpness had subsided to a dull sore sensation lingering over him, Castiel allowed himself to run over the events that had led him to this room.

He and the Winchesters had gone to the factory after the sigil had been found in the victim's home... they had been captured... Castiel's wings had manifested at the hands of Barachiel... his brother had tortured him. Castiel swallowed thickly at the memory of the pain, grimacing as he glanced to his shoulder where he should have been able to see his left wing were it still a physical presence. He had obviously healed enough for them to unmanifest, which gladdened him greatly - having them exposed had been a truly horrendous experience.

The fact that he had healed at all and not died surprised Castiel. His memories after he had stabbed Barachiel were cloudy at best, but he knew that the condition of his wing was dire. Gratefulness for the amazing power of healing his Father had given him rose in Castiel and he smiled gently. Moments later, his musings were interrupted by a soft voice at the door.

"You're awake," Dean stood with an intense look of relief on his face, a faded tshirt twisting in his grip. "Thank God." Castiel smiled slightly and nodded, unsure of what to say. A second passed in awkward silence before Dean stepped forward. It occurred to Castiel that Dean might be about to embrace him but the hunter stopped at the foot of the bed, holding out the shirt.

"I thought you might want to wear this, your clothes are kinda ripped..."

"Thank you," Castiel took the shirt but made no move to put it on, simply resting it in his lap. "How long was I... unconscious?"

"Four days, give or take. Your, uh, your wings had healed up and disappeared yesterday."

"Oh."

"Yeah... how come we could see them in the first place?" The conversation felt uncomfortable for both of them but Castiel was compelled to continue it anyway.

"Barachiel found a spell to manifest them into a physical presence. He wanted to make me suffer before killing me, and thought that torturing my true self would be the best way to accomplish it. He was insane."

"Uh-huh," Dean wandered a few metres away from Castiel then stopped, facing away from the angel. There was a beat of silence before Dean sighed, a weary sound full of four day's worry and sleeplessness. "Don't do that again Cas, you scared the crap out of me. I thought... I thought you were going to die."

"I could hardly help it."

Dean gave an exasperated grunt and whirled round, glaring at Castiel. Maybe it was his weakened state, but the angel must have let the sting he felt at the look show because Dean's expression softened. "What I mean is that you're my friend, Cas, and I don't wanna lose you. And I'm sorry... for not being there to stop him doing that to you."

Castiel was fully aware that Dean would not have been able to stop Barachiel even if he had been there, but he appreciated the sentiment. "Thank you Dean." There was a pause, much more comfortable than the last, in which Castiel regarded his human affectionately and Dean looked like he was working himself up to say something.

"Cas. When you were... y'know... why did you apologise?"

The question caught Castiel off guard, his head tilting in confusion. Had he apologised? He searched his hazy memories until recognition sparked in his mind. He had said that he was sorry to the hunter as he lay in his arms, certain he was about to die.

"I apologised for everything," he replied simply. "For every time I failed my Father, my brothers. For every time I failed you. For allowing myself to be captured and tortured and maimed in such a disgraceful manner. For being so much less than I should have been."

His words left a poignant silence behind, Dean's face displaying a curious mix of fondness, incredulity and sadness. Then, "You don't need to be sorry for any of that Cas. Ever. I don't know what else I can say."

"You don't need to say anything, Dean," Castiel was proud that, although wincing, he did not stumble as he slowly stood up, shirt in hand. "I need to get back, I will have been missed. The army needs commanding." Before he could summon the energy to flap his tender wings and fly away, Dean strode forward and grabbed his wrist.

"Don't go. You just woke up, I don't think you're all better yet! Me and Sam could show you a movie? Please Cas, just stay." Dean's eyes were intense, staring into Castiel's and for a glorious second the only clear memory of the whole ordeal flashed into the angel's mind. As he was about to lose consciousness, Castiel had experienced a bizarre moment of lucidity and found himself staring into Dean Winchester's eyes. The moment had been comforting, allowing Castiel a brief second of solace before he gave in to the unendurable pain. The memory tugged at something in his chest and he felt himself agreeing to the hunter's request with a resigned nod. He was still recovering, after all. What harm would a few more hours away from Heaven do?

The angel and the hunter smiled at each other, the trials they had and were to bear pushed aside for a solitary afternoon of profound friendship.

Fin