It was a weekend, so Castiel wasn't obligated to do training. He opted instead for a day in Hollywood, meandering through the Ripley's Believe it or Not emporium. Half the exhibits were shams or coincidences, but the weird science intrigued him. Made him feel a little more normal.
He was on the subway on his way home when his phone rang. It was up to his ear in seconds.
"Michael."
"Castiel, we've got a gang of hoodlums to take down. Take care of it. At the corner of Buena Vista and Washington." Castiel sighed and calculated in his head where it was, how fast he could get there, and where the culprits would be by the time he made it.
He got off at the next stop and immediately rushed up the stairs, knocking over a lanky man in a bowtie and hitting the street running. He found the nearest alleyway, and within seconds, he was in the air, wings extended to about 15 feet.
Castiel loved flying. Something about freedom, strength... Whatever it was, it felt incredible. Gave him an impossible rush.
His wings were the color of ink-soaked shadows, ruffled and sharp and wide. They caught the wind and lifted him, sent him soaring.
Normal people couldn't see his wings. The only ones capable of that were other Angels and some people, most of which had been eliminated shortly after discovery. The only one who hadn't been was Ellen Singer. He had met her in that shadowy park all those years ago, then gone home and done private research on her. Her records were nearly empty, besides a birth certificate and a few arrests. She was almost unknown.
Castiel tried not to dwell on Ellen. She had changed something in him, something that scared him. Something he didn't want to think about. He shook his head and tried to get back to his search. He peered down. About 30 blocks up and to the left, that's where he assumed the culprits were.
Angels were terrifying. The last thing you wanted to run into as a criminal was one of them.
They were trained since birth: Physically, mentally, emotionally. They were cold, unfeeling, strong, fast, cunning, and brilliant. The Angels were feared above all.
Cas had always gone into a fight with nonchalant confidence. He'd never lost, it had never been a problem. Never in his life. Until now.
"Demons." He growled, snapping into stance. This wasn't his first run-in with the gang, he'd had a brush with some of the grunts years ago which had left him pretty badly beaten up. He wasn't worried this time though, he had recieved a good amount more of training.
He landed in front of them, snapped into a fighting stance, wings pressed into his shoulder blades.
"Angel boy," one of them smirked. His accent was distinguishably British, and he had a cocky grin that made him angry. "Castiel, I've heard? So good to meet you."
"Shut up." He gritted his teeth.
"Well, that's not terribly polite, is it?" He frowned. "My name is Crowley. I'm your brothers... Second in command, you might say."
"SHUT UP!" Castiel shouted, taking a swing at Crowley.
All hell broke loose.
Two of the grunts lunged at Castiel, who hit them point-blank in the stomachs, but was knocked off balance. Another grunt took advantage and went for Castiel's jaw. Cas whirled into the street, dazed, and looked up to see the dusky headlights of a bus.
"LOOK OUT!" A voice called. Castiel was paralyzed. Suddenly, a solid object hit him, and he felt the asphalt, warm and crunchy, under his arm. His mind tried to assess the damage, tried to collect itself. Everything was whirling. He heard the sounds of shouts, felt his wing snap, and everything went dark.

Cas awoke in a well-lit room. Sunshine streamed through the cloudy windows, illuminating a mass of cluttered bookshelves and tables. There were open inkwells and brushes, with paper strewn everywhere. Another window on the far end looked over a ravine filled with craggy rocks and shrubs. He grunted as he sat up, and shrieked as a bolt of pain shot through his wing.
The shriek echoed off the walls and he was left with a tingling in his wing and a ringing in his ears. Being cautious of his wing, he tried again to sit up, and groaned as a dull ache set in. His first instinct was to go for the ibuprofen, but he realized quickly that that would be ineffective.
He hobbled to the doorway and peered out to see a boy sleeping in an armchair opposite a buzzing TV. He was sprawled ridiculously out, head lolled back against the arm, legs stacked on the nearby piles of books. He tentatively retreated back into the room he was in before and searched until he dug up his tan hoodie. He nearly cried when he saw his nice headphones were in a grocery bag, shattered into small pieces of metal and silicone.
He left the headphones and snuck out into the crowded TV room.
As he tiptoed through, he noticed a collection of pictures hung lopsidedly on the wall. He glanced back at the sleeping boy to ensure he was indeed still sleeping. He was, and he figured it would be okay to take a quick glance at the photos, scope out his surroundings. He scanned them briefly, there was a picture of a gruff looking man standing in front of the sign of a salvage yard, and picture of two young boys with rifles cocked, smiling brightly. There was a drawing of a yellow bird done in crayon framed, with the caption "Finchy".
He was about to leave when something caught his eye. It was a tarnished looking photo of a young woman, smiling eyes and a green sundress. Her hair was a luscious pumpkin orange with streaks of chocolatey brown.
"Ellen." He whispered. "I'm in Ellen's house."
"Hey."
He felt a cold ring of metal dig into the base of his skull. "Angel boy. What are you doing up?"
The boy had woken up. Little did Castiel know, so had a part of him.