Y'ello,everybody! It's been a while since I've uploaded anything,but here's a small piece which I created on Tumblr a while back - and I thought to publish it on here,considering I haven't had any new material posted up in quite a while.

Summary: Time progression of Castiel losing his Grace.

"If angels fight,

Weak men must fall, for Heaven still guards the right."

- William Shakespeare

—-Prelude—-

Castiel had always been used to hearing the voices of humans in his mind, praying to him, asking for guidance or help. Even on Earth, he would hear them constantly asking for him or his siblings - it was a painful symphony of souls that needed saving, and the angel could only listen. Listen to all those children who prayed for comfort before they went to sleep, unbeknownst of the mayhem that was happening in Heaven. Their desperation was falling on deaf ears as angels were falling and fighting one another. Castiel had learned to push those voices to the back of his mind, and pay attention to his superiors back then - and the one human that he once vowed not to serve.

Castiel missed those voices now.

They were gone, and he couldn't hear them any more.

Those prayers were a secret comfort to the angel, knowing that humans still believed in him. It was never admittance, but the angel found comfort in Dean's voice whenever he used to pray for him to appear. It made him feel welcome, and part of the family he had. Dean, Sam, Bobby; he always came for them.

But, now the prayers are replaced by silence. And the comfort dead.

"No..." Castiel spoke as he watched blood trickle down his shoulder blades from two, long wounds where his wings would be. The tips of his wings were no longer there as the erosion worked its way down to the centre, causing the expanse of his wings to look nothing less than a wired frame. They were diminishing.

It was the first time the angel had ever been frightened as he reached his hand around to touch his shoulder blade, causing pain to shoot down his spine where the scapulars would connect from his wings. "Not my Grace..." Castiel struggled to say as he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he refused to look any more. He had to remain strong-willed.

But, all that strength diminished quickly as the angel felt light touches across his skin, travelling down to the soles of his feet. Castiel opened his eyes slowly and let out a choked sound as he watched his pure, white feathers fall softly to the ground, collecting around his feet. The shadow of his wings on the wall depicted the feathers individually dropping, and the structure of those wings crumbling as the angel watched in the mirror.

It was his punishment. He knew it. This was his punishment for the mistakes he made, and he didn't deserve the Grace he was blessed with. There was no blame; Castiel didn't share anger towards Dean for his decision on rebelling against Heaven - no, he couldn't blame Dean for his own judgement in helping the Winchesters. It was his Father's will in the first place for the involvement with the hunter, but the angel knew He had not expected his own son to get so close.

—-Onwards—-

It seemed that those prescribed tiny, yellow pills were forever being shoved down his throat in the weeks of losing his Grace; Dean told him that they reduced pain for the ache in his wings, and recommended to only take two a day. However, Castiel was quickly becoming immune to the pills as he took more than the recommended dosage by the end of his second week, just as the last of his wings were rotting away. Neither of them knew it wouldn't be the last of the pills.

The pain was unbearable as the last of his Grace was ripped from the very core of his soul, feeling as though a part of him had been snatched away. It was all he had that reminded him of home before the fight between his two brothers happened, and now the connection had been cut.

Humans weren't meant to see an angel's wings, but there was no point in hiding the grotesque product from Dean; the feathers were dead, no longer vibrant white as they hung loosely like the leaves off an autumn tree, covered in the blood that trickled from his scapular wounds. Castiel felt disappointed - in a way - that the hunter hadn't seen his wings before losing his Grace, because he would have liked them. He was sure of that. Dean deserved to see the beautiful creations of his Father for once.

Neither spoke a word as they cleared the dead feathers from Castiel's back, removing any evidence of his wings ever being there. It was a messy job as the feathers never seemed to end, some of them baring remnants of bone which had to be pulled out forcefully, causing the angel to cry out in pain. Once or twice, Dean froze as he heard the strangled noises coming from the male; it wasn't Castiel any more because he could easily heal himself in less than a second, and not once had he been in pain so extreme.

It took over three hours to stop the bleeding and make sure that all bone was removed; the long slits remained, and Dean breathed in deeply as he retrieved the first-aid kit. But, his body stiffened as he heard Castiel mutter;

Dean, I'm scared.

"Don't be a baby, Cas." The hunter responded, though his tone was soft as he sat Castiel down on the floor with his face facing towards him, before pressing the tip of the needle at the start of the left wound. It would take them fives hour, and over two hundred stitches by the end of it. "It'll be over soon."

It was the first time that Dean had seen Castiel shed tears.

—- Epilogue—-

"Cas, hurry up, we're leaving." The Fearless Leader's voice sounded from the door of the fallen angel's cabin, his knuckles rapping against the wooden frame as he attempted to alert his attention. He expected him to be passed out on his bed, or off doing yoga in his usual spot on the outskirts — there was always a note left for him, tacked to the cabin wall: 'Off to do yoga x'

Castiel was home, but what Dean saw in the cabin made his body stiffen.

Incense was burning on the cabinet as usual - familiar scents of and lavender mixing together to create a hazy comfort - and Castiel's jacket was stuffed half-way in the top drawer, messily. The ex-angel wasn't the tidiest, but his cabin was by far the cleanest; he prided himself in keeping everything clutter-free, as it 'disrupted the karma, man.'

What caught his attention the most was the male himself, standing in front of a cracked mirror and his loose, yoga shirt pushed upwards as he stared at the faint scar lines adorned on his back. It had been over four years since Castiel lost his Grace, and Dean swallowed thickly as he remembered having to stitch him up. Those scars were a strong reminder.

Four years since Sammy said 'yes' to the Devil. Four years since Castiel turned human.

The fallen angel caught Dean's reflection in the mirror after he washed down a handful of pills, his expression a mixture between despondency and surprise as he dropped his shirt back down. "I'll be right behind you." Castiel answered, offering a wide smile as he grabbed his jacket and slipped it on, stuffing the bottle of pills in his pocket.

Dean dead panned, "You shouldn't keep doing that." Twice it had happened where he caught Castiel staring at his non-existent wings, as though he was silently hoping that they would appear again. "I told you to quit it." Both in referral to his scars and pills.

Because he couldn't stand to see the scars he caused on the back of the angel. Or the constant dosage of drugs he took each day; a piercing blame from the first time he told Castiel to take his prescribed pills. They screamed guilt. Four years of suffering for Castiel, and he was now dragging him into the firing line for the fight against Lucifer.

"Just reminiscing, Dean."

Dean watched as Castiel made his way past him and out of the cabin without a further word, leaving the hunter at the door where he stared at the burning incense. At least, he thought, when they beat Lucifer - they wouldn't have to worry about the past any more.