I hope you enjoy!
Warnings: mentions of murder, child abuse, and violence. If this is going to trigger you, please don't read.
I don't own Supernatural, sadly.
The wind was the type that cut straight through him, cutting right to his bones and instantly numbing his fingers and toes. There were eight holes in his worn down shoes, nineteen holes in his battered trench coat, and he had had to throw his tie in the bin. He felt oddly bare without it.
He curled up even tighter, closing his eyes tight. Hunger's familiar ache lingered in his stomach, and he counted the few coins in his pocket once again. Not enough. It was never enough to fill his stomach or to warm him up or to make him feel human again. Heavy, staggering footsteps passed by, sending a spray of stinging gravel into his face. Drunken mumbled blurred into one above him, drowned out by the man's thoughts. Suzie. Whiskey, pubs, whiskey. So cold. Suzie. My Suzie. I'm sorry Suzie. So cold. Suzie. Castiel Novak sat up, opening his eyes a little more. The city was loud tonight. Roaring cars flashing by, drunken giggles and slurred insults pricked at his sleep starved brain. He needed to get some sleep soon. Soon his body would shut down, unable to heat itself on the little food he could scrounge up. His hair would start to fall out, and he would be totally unable to defend himself. Vulnerable. Just another helpless teen on the streets of a cold unforgiving city in the great United States of America.
He stood up, seeking somewhere away from here. Ducking down a dark alleyway, he stumbled over a homeless man and apologised hurriedly, striding away from the Sound. Quantum physics. String theory. I almost had it all. I almost had it all. Cas picked up his pace, suddenly needing to get far away from the deafening Sound of the city. He walked and walked until his legs wouldn't move anymore, and then he curled up underneath a doorway and closed his eyes. The Sound still stabbed at him, and he left trails of blood down the side of his face with his sharp nails as he scratched in a feverous desperation. The cuts stung, but the Sound still roared on.
His mind wandered briefly to silk sheets, walls thick enough to block out all Sound. To finely cooked breakfasts served on silver platters and the hot sun on your shoulders as your feet kicked around in cool turquoise water. Now the cold seeped to his bones, and rocks dug sharply into him like devil's fingernails.
He would never go back. Sleeping on worn sheets was better than sleeping on blood money, and being homeless was better than being a killer.
Before allowing himself to rest his aching leg, his stomach pulled him into a small shop. He placed his pitiful change on the counter and didn't look at the security camera. The pretty shop assistant with heavy eyeliner and purple hair fetched him some bread and a carton of milk without him even asking. Poor guy. Homeless. I wonder why. He's probably a junkie. Only looks young, what is he, sixteen? He thanked her, turning and walking out the door. The loaf of bread had a hastily stuck yellow sticker, and was well past his due date. To Cas, it tasted like the most beautiful thing he had ever tasted. He only allowed himself two slices and a mouthful of milk: the food was far too precious to vomit in some gutter somewhere. Finally he let himself close his tired eyes.
Cold sun rose in a colder sky when Castiel opened his eyes. Either the Sound growing louder and louder had woken him, or the pained turning of his stomach tore him from his restless sleep. He immediately started to walk, the nearly deafening Sound washing through him. Snapshots of different people's lives melded into one teeming mass of thoughts and emotions, making his eyes itch and brain throb.
Please don't.
I'm sorry.
I'm so late.
They're gonna fire me.
I need my hair done right now.
What if he doesn't like me?
When's the earliest to have a drink?
I'm scared.
I need coffee, stupid phone.
He tried to power straight through and not listen, even as the city turned to suburbs, which in turn changed to sprawling fields and the occasional house or run down shop. He didn't stop placing one foot in front of the other until the Sound had turned into a quiet hum and he could hear himself think.
A crumpled map in his pocket told him to keep going East, but all that was in front of him were fields and a smattering of unhealthy trees. In the distance a river threaded through the dull green, and beyond that yet more square buildings.
Ordinary buildings stacked like bricks, full of ordinary people with ordinary lives. For the briefest moment he ached to be like them: the women in ironed pencil skirts and men in pressed suits talking loudly about nothing at all. Then the briefest moment passed, and he was just a fifteen year old boy sat on a low hill in the middle of nowhere with aching legs and a fast beating heart.
Then he stood up once again and continued to walk. Harsh plastic cut into his hands and banged into his knees with every trembling step, as his stomach growled and complained. The familiar twisting hunger nearly made him succumb to the promise of his last slice of stale bread. He trekked up another endless hill, until he reached the top and sank to his knees. His legs ached more with every step, and he reached into the bag of milk and bread once again. There was only one slice left. One slice of bread, one swallow of milk. Only a few minutes until the sun hid its face behind the hills, and the barren hill offered no protection from the cold night. Hugging his legs closer towards him, he let out a single hopeless sob.
Then the rain began. One minute the dark sky was empty, the next rain poured down like a waterfall. Thunder rumbled and lighting cracked, the rain hammering down on his slumped shoulders. Tears mixed with raindrops, shivers racking through him. Dark clouds continued to churn above him as he turned his swollen eyes to the sky, and it almost looked like the world was ending. He almost wanted it to.
He struggled to his feet, clutching the bag tighter to him with numb hands. He stepped forward, and then his foot was slipping and he was lying on the soaking ground with the air knocked from his lungs. In slow motion the bag rolled away from his fingertips, and as he crawled through the mud after it his hand slipped again. His wrist crunched beneath him, and he started to roll down the hill. Flashes of the ground and sky blurred into a dark, heaving weight that choked the air from his lungs as he rolled down and down. The ground became rockier, and now he could feel the sharp stones digging into him and drawing blood. Everything ached and heaved and pounded, until at last the ground levelled out. Juddering breaths followed one another as he lay in the mud, the rain beating him like a thousand tiny fists. Every breath sent shots of agony shooting down his arm from his wrist, and bile rose up his throat as he saw the angle it was sticking out at. As he wretched on the ground, he cradled his wrist to his chest with barely enough energy to scream. The bag containing the precious food had gone, washed away by the rain. His shoes had gone: the unfitting sneakers had just rolled off as he had travelled down the hill. There was no sign of them now, and his feet were adorned with stinging scrapes and cuts.
He didn't know how long he lay there, only that the moon was high in the sky by the time he was trekking through the barren fields once again. His toes were blue, and he left bloody footprints behind him as he trekked onwards, cradling his wrist to him. Every part of him was screaming to give up, lie back down, or find somewhere tall enough to jump from and not have to live any more. But he carried on anyway, until not even he knew what was even keeping him alive. It sure as hell wasn't faith.
As the sun rose in the sky he sank to his knees, collapsing onto the mud soaked ground. He closed his eyes and drifted away, not even caring if he would ever wake up.
That is, until a boot dug into his ribs. He twisted to the side, cradling his wrist to his chest and keeping his eyes screwed shut. The boot nudged him again, and he let out a pained groan.
"Well, the son of a bitch is still alive. You're lucky you didn't drown, considering the storm an' all." Castiel didn't care about the voice, or the owner of the boot. All he knew was that he was cold and aching and his wrist hurt and he was hungry and he wanted to go home.
Home. Home.
No. He couldn't go home. He couldn't go home.
The last thing that passed through Castiel's lips was a single plea that he would die before ever going home.
This is the start of something I'm considering writing, so if you like it and have a comment I will love you forever. Thank you for reading, and if I get a good reaction I'll continue it.
This is something I quite enjoyed writing. The future holds a circus, a calculating Crowley, and a green eyed boy who might even actually care (in a no homo way of course). Please please review, follow and favourite. The more reviews I get the faster I type, so please please please be generous.