Author's note: This was a prompt I found on Tumblr. I couldn't help but relate it with Castiel (most of what I see and/or hear I easily relate to Supernatural, anyway), and thus, this little guy was born! I will add the actually prompt at the end of this, because I have no idea if it would give too much away or not.
This is my first Supernatural fanfic, and although I know these characters like my own children, I am not sure how well I'll actually portray our precious Angel in words. So we'll see!
This is AU, but I think this could be placed somewhere between season 5 and season 8. No Spoiler warnings.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own any of these beautiful people, nor do I own the characters or SUPERNATURAL itself. All rights go to The CW, Eric Kripke, and everyone else involved.
A bone-deep, throbbing pain... It registered in the back of Castiel's mind, in a place he didn't want to listen to, a part of him that was weak to the sensations that burned like fire throughout his entire being.
By chains, his vessel dangled pathetically by his arms. Wrists spread to either side in a way that reminded the angel, tragically, of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. He realized now, even more so, what an unfortunate death that had been. And all those years ago Castiel saw it happen, but was not allowed to lift a finger to stop it — to save the Son of their beloved Father.
And now, two millennium later and with no holy orders besides his own to follow, Castiel could not even lift a finger to save himself.
The chains hoisting his body above the ground, at the metal cuffs around his wrists, were sigils. Angel traps. Carved precisely and effectively into the metal to delude his powers. His grace had sunken into the pits of what felt like his stomach, trying to escape and somehow dodge the undetectable attacks the sigils made against his angelic power.
He coughed weakly into the silent, dark room, the action sending his vessel spiraling into nausea. A feeling an angel usually does not feel. For the first time since his captors—a few wayward demons—had left him to linger in his own torment, Castiel peeled his eyes open, and with effort looked down upon his vessel, checking the damage.
He was filthy and somewhat shirtless, the clothing torn and frayed, barely concealing his skin anymore. Beneath the strips of his once white shirt, he saw bruises, littering his torso—and he could only wonder what his face looked like. But none of that bothered Castiel. It was the dark, thick red substance trailing down from his abdomen that had him concerned.
It did not "hurt", really—angels did not feel much from the damage done to their vessels. But the wound did leave a bit of discomfort in its wake, and Castiel could not help but ponder if a wound like that could bleed him out. And in the condition he was now, his vessel unable to heal itself as long as he remained cuffed, it probably might.
While his bodily damage seemed somewhat minimal, the areas that were the cause of anything painful was beneath the skin.
It was imprinted on Castiel's mind, the cruel sneer of one of the demons as it had jabbed a needle through his forearm and straight into a vein. He had stared directly into its black, void eyes with the unwavering attributes that was unafraid, that basically said do your worst — something he'd picked up from the Winchester's upon years of fighting side-by-side. He came across as a true dignified angel; still fairly powerful and strong.
As compared to what his condition was in the next few moments.
He felt the pressure as the evil creature squeezed the plunger and injected him. He didn't know what it was. Not until, well... until it started. And for the first time in the handful of hours he's been in here, his voice carried on throughout the small room in gut-wrenching screams.
Demon Blood was pumped into his bloodstream, and it channeled no easier than lava through his veins. The corruption of it by Lucifer himself burned against everything that made Angels holy, attacking every nerve ending as it moved throughout his body, and more than just his vessel began to quiver and convulse, his entire being erupting into its own entity of pain.
The demons wanted information, and... he hated to think how close they were to breaking him in that moment.
He was helpless to stop it, and it continued relentlessly for what felt like years, but was probably no longer than mere minutes. Tearing him apart from the inside.
Then there was an even stronger source that broke through, and his pitiful wails cut off in a choked hiccup as something snapped behind him, echoing like the breaking of a bone. It had been a sharp force of immense misery somehow worse than the current, mouth hanging open in a silent gasp. He heard and... God... felt it a second time, the snap of some sort of limb. Then finally, relief came. Pulling him into unconscious in one big wave. And Praise his father — he felt nothing.
Until he woke up. Which was where he was left with now.
His achy body winced at the far-to-fresh memory. He wished he could forget. But the sensations beneath his skin now were only after-affects. Slight tremors of the Demon Blood stinging like a small flame as compared to the previous, but almost literal "lava in the veins". However, even that was slowly being deluded by the fresh blood his vessels heart pumped and did its best to produce. Not to mention the wound in his gut, slowly trickling out not only the Demon Blood, but blood in general unto the concrete floor.
Still, the worst of the pain was at his back, where he had felt the cracking of one or more of his bones. It ached, throbbed, on the angel himself though and not just the vessel. Usually, what humans would label as physically painful instead sent goosebumps up his spine. But this was directly inflicting on Castiel's being, his soul and heavenly form. And recalling the loud bone shattering snaps he had heard before blacking out, it must not be good...
He was not expecting to be able to see anything, but with a strange hollow feeling in his stomach, he tried. Lifting his chin off his chest, turning his head and, with some difficulty, tipping it back to see over his shoulder. Icy blue eyes took a moment to focus, adjusting to the darkness. But when his vision steadied, brows frowning above his eyes, his breath came unannounced in a half-audible sob.
The sight of his wings, once a beautiful mass of feathers and glory that would stand at attention behind his entity, looking like they contained worldly strength, were now a dangle of broken limbs and dripping a dark red.
They weren't even wings anymore, but rather a skeleton.
Each wing hung from the middle joints; broken. Blankets of feathers, once making soft, thick layers made out of dozens, were gone. Missing. Stripped, besides a single, remaining one that hung desperately to the muscle and bone of his left wing. Barely attached; blood covering and tarnishing the remaining feather, darkening the glow it used to carry.
Usually, they were not manifested — to be seen nor touched. But possibly, in his weakened state, and the corruption of the Demon Blood still flooding inside him, maybe... maybe his vessel was not containing his true form anymore. Not well enough.
He could not tear his eyes away. He refused to breathe — his chest tight with something he's never experienced before on such a high scale. This is what true sorrow felt like?
His head dropped and lolled in what felt like all his energy escaping him. He gasped in a shaky inhale, something so human-like coming from his core in that moment, pulling and yanking and tearing at his insides so much that it burned his lungs.
The only prized asset of an angel's heavenly form were their wings. They kept pride in owning them, it made angels who they were. And seeing his now, it was like losing a part of his soul.
And this... this was the worst pain Castiel could feel. And in that moment, the great fallen angel, warrior of Heaven, cried. Broke down for the only things he had with him that the demons could take away. And what remained of them now was a single, charred feather...
Truly, he was an angel fallen from grace.
They had nothing more to take from him now. Nothing.
...
Except for that one eldest sibling.
"Cas!"
And that one younger.
"Hey, hey, buddy. Hold on..."
A large hand was cupping his neck, squeezing gently, and he could not recall if it was his imagination or not.
But those humans, that pair of brothers. The Winchester's...
"It's okay."
...his family. Nobody, absolutely nobody will take them from Castiel. Not the same way they were able to with his wings... He won't allow that; he could not bare it. He will not feel that kind of pain.
"We gotcha, Cas..."
Not for as long as he lives...
"We've got you."
A/N: The prompt was: "And all that I had left of my wings was a single, solitary feather." I can see something along these lines happening, Crowley going all evil and trying to get information about heaven, yada-yada. I don't know!
Tell me what you liked / disliked about this piece or this writing style - so I can improve! And I was thinking on making this a 2-shot and writing a second part. But I don't know yet, tell me what you think and we'll see. Thanks so much for reading!
Also: Here is the description on "Angel Traps" that I used in this story, in case any of you don't know what it is. Type it in a search engine: www . supernatural . wikia wiki/Angel_Trap