Dark Wings
bring dark words

The scent of blood still made Dean's stomach twist. He preferred his steak and burgers on the side of rare, but there was just something different about the smell of blood pouring from a freshly torn wound. Over the years it registered as acidic on his tongue. An unpleasant tang of rust, rot, and death itself. Perhaps it was his imagination. Living as a hunter all his life, Dean knew that the smell of blood meant that someone was dead.

In his dreams, that person was him.

The hellhound ripped away strips of flesh with its teeth. Dean thrashed, but the long claws embedded in his chest prevented his escape. Blood filled his mouth and he was drowning. Dean could feel himself choking as every fiber in his being screamed in agony. It should have been over in seconds, yet Dean lived on as if he was reliving the moment over and over. It was hell all over again. Day after day of being thrown on the rack and having Alastair tear him apart bit by bit.

The smell was everywhere.

Dean woke abruptly, as he always did, and sat straight up in bed while gasping for air. His darkened room came into focus, shadowed but still as neatly arranged as he remembered it. He was safe - alive. Dean ran his hands over his chest all the same to assure himself there weren't any holes. His fingers passed over a wet spot. He rubbed his thumb against his palm, smearing it, and when he inspected it, he thought it looked like tar.

"The fuck... ?"

Confused, he sniffed at it. His stomach twisted into knots.

Blood.

Dean nearly ripped his shirt in his haste to pull it off and check himself over for wounds. His body was clean, but his bedding was spotted with blood. He scrambled out of bed, throwing the sheets away from himself. His bare feet found damp spots in the carpet. It was everywhere. He stumbled backwards. His back hit the wall, knocking one of his shotguns from its mount. Dean caught it against his shoulder and brandished it at the darkness.

He thought to yell for Sam, but when his eyes adjusted further to the dark, he saw a familiar shape standing at his desk. There was no mistaken it. No possible way it could be another man standing there in the droopy trench coat. Dean was afraid to acknowledge the name that skipped across his memory. Scared because he's certain that if he speaks it, the visage before him would disappear.

But the smell of blood made Dean concerned, so he whispered, "Cas... ?"

"You took it out of your wallet."

After a moment, Dean understood. Castiel was holding the picture of him and his mom. Dean swallowed down the lump in his throat. It did feel odd to have it out in the open. Every time he walked out of the room he felt the urge to slip it back into his wallet, because he didn't want to lose it. Each time he had to remind himself that he would be coming back. "Yeah," he lowered the barrel of the gun, "I guess it was only right."

"You always keep it with you."

If there was any form of doubt that this was indeed Castiel standing in front of him, it was erased with that statement. Castiel always had the annoying habit of knowing a truth that was only subconscious. The angel sensed it - detected something wrong about it.

Castiel turned, picture in hand, "You're leaving it for Sam."

Dean closed his eyes, unable to meet Castiel's probing gaze. It hadn't been that long ago that he had explained to Sam that he didn't see light at the end of the tunnel; that there was no happy ending for him. Dean didn't want to have a second conversation about it. So he did what he did best when faced with an uncomfortable topic, he changed the subject. "Where've you been, Cas?"

The angel went back to staring at the photograph in silence. He carefully set it back against the desk lamp, leaving a bloody fingerprint on the corner. Dean's eyes widen. This time when he looked around the room, he saw a drop of blood fall out thin air and drip onto the carpet. "Cas, are you... "

"Bleeding. Yes, unfortunately. I... apologize. I didn't mean to make a mess."

That was the last thing on Dean's mind, "Why are you bleeding - and from where?"

Castiel's chin tipped in toward his chest and Dean knew the angel wasn't going to willingly elaborate. Dean gritted his teeth against the anger that shot through him. Castiel was a martyr. It takes one to know one. It wasn't hard to guess why Castiel always seemed to understand him. Always seemed to know, without asking, when Dean was going to do something in self-sacrifice. Just like the photograph, Castiel simply knew him too well. The same went in reverse, and when Dean wasn't busy feeding himself lies, or burying the truth, he acknowledge that he knew Castiel just as well.

Dean stepped forward, but paused when the air brushed his face. It was a warm caress, and when Dean lifted a hand to catch the phantom touch, his fingertips came away slick with blood. His green eyes searched for the source, but found nothing. It was starting to freak him out. He wiped the blood off on the fabric of his jeans. Having his own room didn't change all of his old habits. He still slept fully clothed because who knew when he'd need to get up to deal with the latest monster of the week.

"I just came.. " Castiel's voice broke through Dean's daze. "I wanted to.. thank you."

No, no, no.

Dean's heard it all before - those exact words - right before Castiel would disappear. Dean seized Castiel by the upper arm. His fingers tightened, hoping that if he held on strong enough, Castiel wouldn't be able to leave him. "What the hell is going on, Cas," Dean turned Cas around. "Don't give me any bullshit. You've been gone for months and haven't bothered to drop in to let us know you're okay."

The angel met his gaze, his expression stoic aside from the storm brewing in his eyes. It was a conflicting mess of emotion and centuries of watching the world pass by but never being able to play a part in the events. Castiel had played the role of watch up until the point Dean came along and knocked the Angel out of heaven. Dean stared back, trying to sort through the confusing intensity that was Castiel's gaze.

"Tell me."

"Dean..."

"Please, Cas, you're keeping me in suspense and I don't like it."

"I'm sorry..."

"Damnit Cas!" Dean took Castiel by the face, noticing how pale and worn the Angel looked between his hands. "Tell me."

The shadows moved where Dean could see them out of his peripherals. It must have been a trick of light, because for a moment his heart staggered in its rhythm at the shape of wings spanning across the wall of his room. Torn, bleeding, yet when he shifted his full attention to the sight, there was nothing there. He wanted to ignore it - pretend he really hadn't seen anything at all.

He knew better.

Castiel studied Dean's face for a long moment, as if he hadn't already memorized it down to every last freckle. He slowly shook his head from one side to the other as if in a daze, "I just... "

Castiel's fingers passed over Dean's check, wiping away the smear of blood.

The touch lingered and Dean did nothing to brush it away. Castiel withdrew his hand after a moment, "I wanted to say goodbye, and that I've always valued your friendship."

Dean curled his fingers into Castiel's hair, refusing to let the angel slip away, "You're leaving."

Dying felt like the more appropriate word, but Dean didn't want to cement it in his thoughts by speaking it out loud. The stench of it was all around him, making his throat tighten and his eyes burn. "You just got here, you son of a bitch, you can't just leave."

"I'm sorry, Dean." His voice was growing soft, like a whisper left on the wind.

"You're hurt. You're not leaving. I'll wake Sam and we'll fix this, whatever it is, Cas, we'll fix it."

"Dean..."

"Shut up, Cas."

Without thinking much of it, Dean pulled the Angel close in hopes of giving Castiel a reason to change his mind. He wanted to claim his lips, to kiss him, to confess his feelings in actions because words failed him. He knew the Angel cared about him, enough to rebel against all of heaven, and the least Dean could do was acknowledge it.

His hands fell away, clasping the empty air between his palms. Dean's eyes shot open and took in the unoccupied space of his small room.

Castiel was gone.

"Cas!"

Dean bit back on the sob threatening to rip out of his throat. He bite down on his knuckle, hoping the physical pain would override the screaming in his chest. "Cas, please, don't do this."

He glared up at the ceiling.

"Get your feathery ass back here!

Dean yelled at the walls until his voice broke, and Sam was insistently knocking on the other side of his door. When his brother gave up on being polite and entered, he found Dean on his knees, hunched over the side of his bed with his hands tightly clasped. It appeared as if he was praying. Sam didn't question it, not when he caught the muttered sound of Castiel falling from his brother's lips.

The stench of blood clung to the air.

AN: It was actually a picture in my head that I wanted to draw, but seeing as I have little artistic talent, I wrote out a little scene instead. Angst-ridden, because waiting to see what becomes of Castiel in the show is slowly killing me. Tumblr has such a way of getting my hopes up, of drawing such tempting parallels. I want to believe with them! Two more weeks, one more episode, then Castiel will be back (for that episode, at least?) I could spend a great deal of time debating all the opinions of anti-destiel fans , but I won't, because I'm preaching to the choir, right? I just had to get this piece of ache out of my heart.