The Fallen Angel
The faint chirping of a small bird was cut off by the piercing bleep of the 6 o'clock alarm; waking the man who lay on the large bed centred in the bedroom of the small house. Dean yawned and stretched the fatigue from his muscles welcoming another average day, stepping out of bed making his way to the small wooden wardrobe. Dressing himself in his work clothes he slumped his way to the kitchen making breakfast before dashing out of the red door to work. Today was normal, just as any day was to Dean. The children that made their way to school; the early morning joggers; the lone sparrow that sat atop the old oak tree at the end of his street, it was all so average. But Dean liked average it was controlled, easy to manage which he liked. He enjoyed sticking to a schedule of get up, work, go home. Simple.
The day drifted by on the site of the construction, Dean occupied himself with the daily tasks set out in front of him, like he would any other day; each second punctuated by the dull thud of the hammer. One thing Dean didn't like was people, men, women, anyone, all social interaction was not his forte. Dean was quiet around his co-workers barely ever keeping a conversation longer than 5 minutes if possible.
Dean sighed when the clock hit 5, finally he could go home; the loud mumble of the lively construction site died down to a faint whisper. He made his way down the dark street, lamps flickering to life. He smiled. Off in the distance he could see the tail of light from a shooting star that flew over the horizon. His pace sped up as he, for no apparent reason, began to feel happy, confident. It was alien to him as if that single star filled him with joy. Dean smirked, mentally hitting himself for not making a wish upon a star; he reached his house and made his way in after unlocking the door with a loud clunk of the tumbler. He made his way to the bedroom, trousers dropping, shirt off. The man's hand travelled over the white pyjama bottoms that sat in the drawer. His fingers hooked into the waistline of the tight green boxers and he slid them down his legs, he stepped into bottoms and pulled a large loose fitting vest over his messy hair. Dean slumped into the large recliner and with a small hiss he opened the beer bottle that sat on his table.
A few hours passed as Dean sat in the chair watching very terrible television, he stretched his arms and his eyes slid over his skin that were covered in a layer of dirt. He decided it was best if he were to shower and turn in for the night; he dropped his clothes on his bed and strolled through his house to the shower. Dean turned the taps and the water fell from the shower head. The small droplets ran down the curves of Dean's body, he lathered himself with a bar of soap and he moaned happily; he could feel the dirt wash away and swirl down the drain leaving him relaxed. He finished up and dried himself with the large towel which was dropped into the washing basket; he made his way to the bedroom and climbed into bed, after pulling on a pair of grey briefs. He curled into the sheets and his eyes fluttered shut and he drifted off to sleep.
Dean tossed and turned in bed, his head thrashed on the pillow; his fist clenched into the thin blanket. His eyes shot open and he sat upright gasping for air. Dean never usually suffered from wet dreams but when he had one they were vicious and would leave him covered in sweat; writhing in his bed. This one was very peculiar to Dean however, it seemed almost real. Yet the man in his dream he had never met; he shifted in his bed and was, not so happily, welcomed by the sticky feeling on his stomach. He swore under his breath throwing the sheets of him and pulling off his underwear. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and began clearing himself up before changing the sheets on the bed, throwing them into the washing. Once again Dean slid into bed and shut his eyes. Dean jumped out of bed when a loud banging of his door reverberated through his house; he ran to the living room and grabbed the wooden baseball bat and slowly walked to the door.
The banging got louder, harder and quicker. Dean's hand shook when he reached out for the door; his fingers jumped at the cold metal of the handle. Under his breath he counted down to one before swinging the door open raising the bat to strike. He froze. A man stood in his door way dressed in a suit and a tan trench coat; he was drenched in sweat and from Dean could see; blood. The man stepped forward and locked eyes with him, the strangers voice shook and he whispered out one phrase.
"H - Help me".
The man's knees gave in and he fell to the floor, unconscious. Dean grabbed the mans arm and dragged him into his house, shutting the door behind him.
Today was no longer normal.