A/N This is a GiftFic for the amazing and talented Astroize (tumblr) to whom the kickboxing!AU concept belongs to, and I in no way take credit for the various ideas therein. To my Destiel!AU Overlord, please accept this meagre token of my appreciation - obligitory wing!kink included.

Chap.1 Mi Vida Eres Tu (You Are My Life)

Dean Winchester can be characterized in a number of ways – 'big brother', 'playboy', 'dropout', and 'smartass' are the popular choices – but the only label that can properly encapsulate him in all his damaged glory would be: 'Hunter'.

Dean had been hunting nearly his entire life, trained since an infant to always be on his guard and ready to fight the supernatural at any moment. In diners he sat facing the exit and in motels he always took the bed closest to the door. He slept with his bowie knife in hand and a sawed-off on the bedside table (he used to sleep with his dad's M1911 tucked under the pillow until Sam made the mistake of waking him up by tackling him and a half-awake Dean automatically fired a shot straight through the pillow and took out the motel alarm clock). Even when caught by surprise he was still up and fighting in half a second – no monster could get the jump on him...

...Except when he was watching his soaps.

Growing up on the road and being raised by a crazy-obsessive hunter for a father meant that Dean had had few moments of complete indulgence and, now that he was older and a little bit better adjusted, meant that he prized the times where he could relax like frigging gold.

His ultimate guilty pleasure was watching his soaps and telenovelas, a pastime that both baffled and amused his family but was accepted with little teasing on the unspoken acknowledgment that he deserved his downtimes whatever they were. Of course, just because Sam didn't give him (too much) crap didn't mean Dean was okay watching his serials in the motels or anything – no, nearly all of the actual watching went down at Bobby's where he had Ellen TiVo his stuff and he could settle down and just unwind.

There was an understanding for everyone at the Singer household that when Dean arrived with his pie in one hand and tissues in the other, everyone was henceforth banished from the living room to let him sob on the sofa in peace.

Dean was currently mid way through the latest episode of Mi Vida Eres Tu and a rather nice apple and rhubarb pie, eyes glued to the emotional confrontation on the screen.

"Son of a b-bitch" he choked out as Daniela sobbed brokenly over Gabriel's betrayal.

The cushion beneath him gave a violent lurch.

Frowning at the interruption, he scanned over the room to find nothing amiss. He was about to chalk it up to a very misplaced earthquake, when the sofa started to eat him.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean screamed, flinging out his arms wildly as an invisible force dragged him arse first into the cushions. "Ellen! ELLEN! For the love of–"

The tinny sound of heartbroken Spanish was already fading and Dean, bent in half, panicked when there was no reply.

His desperate "SOMEBODY HELP, QUICK! PAUSE MY SHOW!" was muffled by his knees in his mouth as he disappeared into the lumpy couch.

The crushing darkness pressed in on him, suffocating and unyielding as he was drawn down, down, deep into the abyss where any many of unknown horrors could be –

"Did I interrupt something, Pet?" Crowley asked with an amused smirk as Dean jolted into the chair opposite, slightly dazed. Being swallowed by the sofa was a new one – usually Crowley liked pulling Dean in when he was asleep, something about his absolute terror and disorientation of being sucked into a bed to somewhere else greatly appealing to the demon's sense of humour.

Dean finished (totally not) hyperventilating and scowled pointedly at Crowley's question when the answer was obvious by the pie smeared down his front. That had been his favourite Stones shirt, God damn it, and now–

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. "I see your anger is taking its time to translate into words, so in the meantime I'll do the talking," he said, pointing to the box on the desk. "Your moose just gave me a call and–"

"No!" Dean spat furiously, jumping to his feet to illustrate just how very serious he was. Sadly, the pie-encrusted shirt did lessen the image of the dangerous-and-not-to-be-fucked-with Hunter he was aiming for. "Damn it, I just got back being kicked into next Sunday from getting you that damn Rakshasa, I'm not about to go out again. I need some downtime, damn it."

And he was not whingeing, no matter what anyone might say.

Lazily flicking his fingers, the arch-demon sneered as Dean was thrown back into the chair. "I wasn't aware I cared about your feelings," hissed Crowley. "You forget darling, that I own your arse, so when I say 'fetch' you don't bark about it, you obey. Or do you need some more 'training'?" A sly smile ensured that was recognized to mean something more along the lines of 'cruel and embarrassing torture'.

Dean grinded his teeth to stop the angry slew of insults he desperately wanted to scream, just in case Crowley was serious. The demon was far too changeable for his liking.

"Now back to business." Crowley tapped the wooden box with a nasty smile. "The giraffe thinks he's uncovered an angel hiding out in Des Moines, and I reckon he's right on the money. So hurry up and collect it before anyone else decides to get a slice of angel cake."

The word 'angel' instantly had Dean on edge – the few they'd managed to wrangle had been the hardest hunts he'd ever undertaken, and the side-order of guilt from enslaving the Host of Heaven was one of the few things that managed to keep him up at night.

"Sam can barely track a werewolf, let alone an angel," scoffed Dean with false bravado. "No way he'd ever stumble on angels in the outfield; us Winchesters aren't known for our luck."

Crowley narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Really? Because you boys seem to be painfully lucky when it comes to stumbling right into something you really shouldn't. Or perhaps it's more... getting the warm fuzzies for the other team now are we?" he mused to himself.

Trying not to look too uneasy, Dean shrugged and shot his winning smile at the demon.

"Actually I'm more of The Lone Ranger type myself," said Dean as casually as possible, eyes refusing to stray onto the polished wood of the box.

"Well then partner, Tonto's a-waitin' for you so y'all best be off," said Crowley cheerily, clapping his hands.

Any further protests Dean would have made lodged in his throat as a blast of putrid air washed over his face. Instinctual fear squeezed his heart tight as he glanced to the left to see Crowley's enormous Hellhound circle him, throat rumbling in a pleased growl when its master petted it.

"Growly's going to keep you boys company," Crowley explained. "Make sure that your work is... undisturbed."

Bristling at that, Dean levelled him a heated glare as he stood. "I don't need the watchdog, Crowley. As you said, I'm your boy toy whether I like it or not but I'll still get the job done. I always do."

Crowley snorted contemptuously, shaking his head. "I'm not worried about your Heaven sympathies – you may be barely functioning morons at best, but at least you boys know better than to try and con a conman. Growly's not for you; an angel is Hell's Most Wanted right now and, for some reason, demons still think it's a smart idea to try taking on a pair of Hunters just to get their grubby little mitts on one. I don't want any more repeats of the last angel-hunt you boys went on."

Oh crap, Mystery Spot.

And boy did Dean really not need any reminders of the Tuesdays-that-never-were. Sam had gone apoplectic after that one; his revenge quest to recapture the Trickster had ended in a trail of dead monsters (instead of netting them like he was supposed to) and a livid Crowley when there were no Fighters for the next match, meaning 'a special guest match' instead. Sam had been laid up for a week after the Battle Royale from how hard Lucifer ended up riding his arse and Dean was none too keen to let the Devil back into his little brother again anytime soon.

Silently pocketing the wooden box, Dean patted his leg to the Hellhound – refusing to flinch when the slick oil-like fur brushed the length of his arm. The Hellhound growled happily, making the air shriek as its bone-tail sliced through the air.

"Give 'em Hell, boys!" said Crowley and snapped his fingers.

Wind and darkness rushed into Dean then blasted out into the crisp evening air and happy chatter of American suburbia. A bell tolled in the cathedral behind him, signalling evening Mass.

The vertigo hit him a moment later, passers-by staring as he doubled over and dry-retched at the too-familiar stench of sulphur that accompanied his arrival. Beside him and unseen to the humans, the Hellhound opened its jaws in a horrifying 120 degree yawn, stretching contentedly.

"Still not used to flying 'Demon Air'yet?"

Dean spat out the taste of rotten eggs and threw Sam a rather good imitation of his brother's bitch-face. "God, is that anyway to greet me? I'm a demon's chew toy – gimme a little sympathy here." Sam sniggered, looking far too smug. Dean stabbed a finger at him, "Hey, if it wasn't because of height restrictions, you'd be getting your giant butt zapped everywhere too."

Sam smirked at Dean. "Yeah, I have to drive everywhere instead. What a pain."

He shot his little brother a filthy look. "Don't think I won't revoke your driving privileges Sammy, because my baby doesn't like being driven around by bitches."

Sam held up his hands in surrender, not bothering to hide his grin.

"So where's this angel at?" asked Dean, assessing the roads in the light of the dwindling twilight.

"Right here." Sam nodded to the church. "St. Ambrose Cathedral, blessed by Pope John Paul II in the 70s and the main church in the Diocese. About a year ago, a man appears overnight and starts living in the Rectory with Father Roberson, but the parish were told he was a relative so not much of a fuss is made. But then the dude never leaves and the only times he was even seen was at Mass – apparently he went to every single one."

"And you think this guy is an angel 'cause of that?" scoffed Dean. "Sounds to me like Father Roberson just decided to stash his gay lover next door for some side action between work or something. It's not even that suspicious! Least, not enough to fall into our territory."

Cue epic annoyed bitch-face. "That's not all, Dean. Get this, not long after he arrives, some of the church-goers try and question him and he starts spouting all this talk to do with angels and demons, and everyone just assumes he's crazy. Until a few months back. Then everything – every single mention of this mystery guy just stops, but not because he'd left. When I came to check, thinking it was nothing, like you, a one lady lets slip that there was a healer amongst them. When I dug a bit further, turns out that almost twenty people were 'miraculously cured', all of them parishioners here. But, none of them had told the hospitals or papers or anything, so all these 'healings' weren't obvious enough to draw attention."

He finishes with a look that just screams, "TOLD YOU SO!" but Dean has never admitted to being wrong to his kid brother unless it was life-or-death important that he do so – besides, he's got an image to pretend to himself he still has.

Sam's knowing smirk still pisses him off though, and refuses to disappear even after receiving an annoyed shove.

Grumbling loudly, Dean eyed the church complex and the people slowly filing in for the weekday service. The buildings were all of pale stone in that old-worldy European style with the cathedral dominating the area ('the large belltower was the perfect vantage point, ideal conditions for sniping and damn it that feathered bastard better not have though that too') and the rectory was painfully close ('easy to slip from building to building, gotta remember to cover all exits'). It was on a street corner to boot, which meant no privacy ('which meant civilians and like a billion escape roots, damn this angel!').

"This is going to be really hard," said Dean slowly.

"Gee, you think?" Sam said sarcastically, "And normally it's so easy to catch an angel but today? Today it'll be a walk in the– is that pie down your shirt?"

Annoyed, Dean smacked his arm roughly before pulling out the Beretta, checking it as he spoke. "So if this maybe-angel attends every service and lives in the Rectory, the only time he'll be outside will be for a few seconds at most when he leaves."

Sam nods, moving his own body to ensure his checking his own gun go unnoticed. "The space between the two buildings is about three metres wide but there's nothing to conceal us, so we can't jump him there, and the Rectory isn't viable either – there's sigils making sure only certain people can enter. I almost cracked a rib trying to break in."

This was just getting better and better. "So what, our only chance is in the Church?" asked Dean unhappily. "'Cause if that's what you're suggesting, that's a terrible plan."

"Most demons can't enter the church," Sam shrugged, "So he probably won't be on guard."

"Probably?" Dean repeated. "Well, that's very reassuring."

Sam raised his brows. "Got a better plan, Einstein?"

From behind, the Hellhound gave an impatient whine. Sam jumped, looking around blindly for the source of the noise.

"Was that – is that a Hellhound?" he asked worriedly, hand shooting to rest on his gun.

Dean hummed an affirmative, busy frowning thoughtfully at the Cathedral.

"Why the hell did Crowley send his Hellhound with you?" said Sam, shuffling closer to Dean as he still tried to pinpoint the invisible creature. "He never has it come on hunts."

"Scared, Sammy?" said Dean with a grin.

"I'm not scared – I just don't like being around those things, especially when I can't even see them."

And okay, wow, how could Dean have even forgotten that? A little over a year of being some demon's bitch, but he should never ever get used to that, forget that it's not normal to be able to see things that other humans can't, things not even other Hunters can perceive. That tiny, subtle reminder of his curse – the mark of his failure as a Hunter, as a son and brother. As a person.

Scenting his dark mood in the air, the Hellhound growled deep in its throat, prowling behind him to rub disgusting fur-pelt-skin-whatever against his back in a comforting gesture that made him went to vomit.

He didn't want that false reassurance, that facade of kinship from a monster that only he could see, the type of thing he'd been fighting against his whole life. He shuddered in horror, forgetting for a moment that Sam was still there, could still see him, jumping when a large hand clapped his shoulder.

"You okay, man?" asked Sam, searching his face worriedly.

Dean wanted to scream, scream and yell, "Don't touch me! I'm a monster, Sammy, can't you see that? Can't anyone see what I am?" because it wouldn't do any good. He could stare at himself in grimy hotel mirrors for hours and try and find some kind of tell that he was not right, not some ordinary Joe who had never heard of angels or demons; that still held the rights to his own soul. But there was nothing. He'd gotten so good at lying, at hiding to truth – who he really is, deep down – from the world that he didn't even recognise himself when he looked in the mirror anymore.

He didn't know that professional, smiling man who could walk right up to a person and calmly stab them in the back at the whim of some demon.

And Dean was suddenly struck with a very stupid and dangerous plan. And really, really wished he could think of a better one.

Oak pew, furnished in Davenport. Old hands that were rough and worn from many years work liked working knew the wood well. Oak but not from one tree. Many trees a forest a forest with a stream. Little owl lived in a hollow there many years family of owls liked their hollow their tree. But not just one tree this tree was not loved by a family of owls but was tall reached for the sky the sun liked the sun warmth on its bark its leaves. Shiver in the wind whisper whisper howl in a storm shake the leaves but tree stands tall stands firm. Then pain. Pain pain pain pain. Cutting cutting away no soil no sun. Falling. Down. Down down into nothing. Dead dying lie lying. Lying down never waking falling down never breaking.

"Not the singing type?" Lightning in the sky strikes the tree sets ablaze. A rough voice piercing through his unconscious and tearing at his serenity. The memories the sensations everything breaking broken shattered.

The sudden words are almost painful to Castiel, jerking him back into the present moment with a gasp. Sound slammed back into him, the loud chorus of human voices grating on his ears, singing their worship to the Son of God in feeble harmony. Nothing like the sweet music of the angels in Heaven. But the humans made up for it with pure adulation, a deeper love that came from a faith that could not be proven, and yet, not be shaken either. More powerful than any angelic choir.

Raising his bowed head, Castiel eyed the man who had spoken to him. Sprawling posture: disrespectful uncaring purposefully alluring. Well worn clothes: not rich, likes what he owns, active lifestyle. Calloused hands: job is rough, works with hands. Dirty blond hair, short and unstyled. Stubble, freckles, bow-lips quirked in a roguish grin. Eyes the most brilliant shade of green. Like the forest. A forest of trees, deep and impenetrable, hiding secrets in its depths. Guarded, won't be chopped down, not this forest, not a forest at all, a jungle, wild and unkempt and full of dangers.

"I have no occasion to sing," Castiel finally replied. A lifetime had passed, hours weeks no seconds only seconds not too long don't delay humans respond quickly mustn't forget that.

The newcomer raised his brows in surprise (new a stranger knew everyone in the congregation faces and people and voices and histories dangerous new not safe never safe careful with new unknown don't know). "Really? Don't want to lift up your voice to the Heavens, or whatever?" he smiled, friendly but guarded. Untrusting. Didn't trust him no one ever trusted him. They said there was something off something not human to him right they were right not human at all. The green eyes could tell, could see something strange in him.

The singing finished – the Hosanna – and isn't that ironic, that he, a member of the Host of Heaven, couldn't bring himself to utter the declaration of praise, the cry for salvation, even now when he needed to more than anything. Because he knew, he knew there was no one listening. Not anymore.

All in the congregation that are able kneel as one, those too old or injured remaining seated as the Eucharistic Prayer is recited by Father Roberson. Neither Castiel nor the man beside him kneels, but they're at the back, so no one pays them any mind. The familiar words wash over Castiel, soothing but bittersweet, a reminder of what has been lost. Zoning out is easier now than when he first manifested on earth, the sounds and sensations that come with the physical world no longer so grating.

Normally, he just sat through Mass and meditated, the pleasant hum of hundreds of human souls buzzing with faith was just enough to slowly heal him, sowing back together his tattered Grace. Each passing week he grows stronger, but not strong enough yet, not to fight the lost war alone.

This time, there is a strange murmur that disrupts the pulse of faithful souls, something stronger and darker that also burns as bright as wildfire. Castiel is a bee, drawn irrevocably to this new flower, pulled by the sweetest of scents, more potent by its uniqueness, a rare blossom in a field of common garden.

He wasn't at all surprised it was the forest-green eyed man who is switching between being openly bored and appraising Castiel.

Catching him staring back, the stranger grinned wolfishly, not at all abashed by the scrutiny, before pointedly turning back towards the front of the church and feigning interest in the proceedings, a playful smirk as he pretended to ignore him. Castiel tried tuning in to the man's soul once more, but the congregation chose that moment to noisily stand and his concentration was lost.

He paid no attention to the parishioners' chorus of the Lord's Prayer, and the stranger didn't bother reciting it either.

"Hah," the green-eyed stranger murmured, but Castiel still heard him. "'Who art in heaven'? Poor suckers don't know God has left the building."

Rage and sudden alarm arched through him, because it's true too true terribly true but humans don't know can't know ignorant little things that they are. Back tensing in preparation to attack, ready to smite this human who knew too much, knew secrets of a hidden war, and the green-eyed man with the remarkable soul turned to him as well, challenging guarded knowing too knowing –

– and stretched out his calloused hand.

"Peace be with you," said the green-eyed man, an ironic little smirk twisting his lips.

Castiel stared. Then stared at the offered hand. Around them, people were doing the same, repeating "Peace be with you" and shaking hands with a friendly smile.

The sign of peace.

Realisation.

He'd been mistaken not unusual humans still baffled him and he was even now much too caught up thinking like a soldier, jumping to conclusions the man didn't know couldn't know he was right just blindly saying things he knew nothing of anyway probably an atheist.

He extended his vessel's smooth unblemished unmarked hand to the other and smiling slightly, stared into forest-green-guarded-too-deep eyes. "Peace be with you," he said and meant it truly meant it for this man, this injured beautiful valiant soul.

Peace I leave you, my peace I give you.

At once, forest-green eyes turned sad melancholy broken so broken. "Sorry, buddy. Wish things didn't have to be this way."

Rough and calloused, the hand gripped his own and then Castiel was screaming, breaking into pieces, ripped and ripped and torn, worse than Hell, worse than demons clawing at his wings, pain unimaginable that was too much endless and he was breaking glass turned to sand an ocean of nothing scattering in the wind tiny little specs grains lines wood oak in a forest of trees people demons screaming howling crying dying lying.

The darkness of the forest watched him fall.

Stain-glass windows shatter, images of saints and angels vanishing in an explosion of multicoloured light and powdered glass.

The sound is absolutely deafening, piercing the air with an unearthly reverberation that sends everyone to their knees. Even Dean, who had made sure to wear earplugs, was clutching his head in pain one-handed, still locked in the grip of the angel as its Grace is torn from it and it writhed in agony. The true voice of an angel was something that none but a few could withstand – and an angel in pain was unparallel torture. Twice now he had had to do this and every time made Dean want to curl up and die, the angelic wails breaking something deep within him – if he didn't know any better, he'd say it broke his spirit, but he's certain if he ever had one it's gone now.

But it didn't matter, couldn't matter to him, because if he cared he couldn't continue on. And he'd promised. Sammy and Bobby and Ellen and Jo, all of them were the reason he kept fighting, kept working, even when there was no hope left. Even when he had to go and destroy an angel with piercing blue eyes in a rumpled trench coat. Because his promises were all that still belonged to him and no-one else.

At last, the ringing noise petered out into a silence that was almost tangible, a physical pressure that hung heavy like a fog over the unconscious bodies littering the cathedral. Dean rose shakily, head throbbing in pain as he surveyed the damage.

Every window had been blown out, the candles gutted and every single church attendant out cold. If there were already distant cries of alarm from outside, Dean couldn't hear them; even after pulling out the earplugs the ringing in his ears persisted.

Sam appeared at his side without warning, or maybe Dean really was a little wacked out from angel mojo, because he didn't protest when Sam pushed him back into the wooden pew.

Leaning over him, Sam slides a hand down Dean's arm, jiggling it slightly. He's mystified as to why until a sharp zap arcs through him – Sam gently prying the limp angel's hand from his numb grasp sends a final bolt of power from its host to the little wooden box tucked against Dean's chest. While Sam is checking the angel's vitals – still bent over Dean's lap, and Dean really wanted to make a dirty joke about that but his mind and his mouth apparently aren't getting alone at the moment – Dean's eyes wander the disaster the rest of the church is in. The side entrance has large wooden doors that were shut during the service but now stood wide open; Dean scowled when he realised that must be Sam's fault.

"Didn't lock the door behind you, Sammy," Dean said, slurring a little.

Sam grunted in response, finishing with the angel and settling back into the seat beside him. He was cradling Dean's hand in his own, which was straight out of a chick-flick in Dean's opinion and had to stop immediately before something embarrassing happened, like a heart-to-heart, before oh God, Sam was opening his mouth which meant they were going to have a talk.

"Can you feel this?" Sam asks at the same time as Dean snarls, "Not the time for having a moment, dude!"

They both blinked in confusion.

"Wait, what?" Dean frowned, because clearly he was missing something here as Sam's face pales in alarm.

"This?" Sam said frantically. "Can't you – doesn't this hurt?"

He holds up Dean's hand so that Dean could see Sam's thumb driving sharply into the bony flesh just above his knuckles. Oh. Oh. Yeah, that definitely should be hurting right about now, so Dean tried to focus his wandering thoughts back into the present, on himself instead of all over the place, and sudden searing burning pain finally filters through and hits him hard enough to make him let out a (manly) whimper.

"Feels like most of your bones were shattered," Sam said as Dean cradled his hand to his chest, swearing under his breath.

"Frigging angels, man," he hissed, glaring at the angel being propped against Sam's shoulder, but his brother doesn't give him an ounce of sympathy and instead shoots him another bitch-face.

Even though the ringing in his ears hadn't stopped, Dean can still hear the encroaching sirens and worried voices from outside. Hurrying along the aisle, Dean pokes his head out of the side entrance, but the coast is clear. Sam grunts behind him, half dragging the unconscious angel as he snaps, "Dean, hurry it up, we're almost out of time!"

Dean took offence to that. "Hey man, you were the one spending all that time mooning over me back there," he said irritably, because his hand now felt like it was on fire and this day just could not get any worse.

The doors at the back of the cathedral burst open, men clothed in black rushing in. Great, now the cops were here too. Dean whistles loud and sharp, grabbing the angel's other arm and helping to drag its dead weight outside.

"Leave it," he orders when Sam moves to close the door behind them. The police are yelling at them, shouting that they stop at once but it's too late, they're too late, won't make it in time as the Hellhound rounds the corner of the cathedral at an alarming speed, not slowing down as runs and leaps, jaws opening wide in an unearthly howl.

There's a tug at Dean's chest.

Darkness and wind and the smell of sulphur engulf them.

The police run through the side entrance and skid to a confused halt, staring around in confusion, but the three men had seemingly disappeared into thin air.

A/N This (hopefully) shouldn't become abandoned, as I've got most of the story written/outlined already. Update will be soonish.