Hello, everyone! Thanks for checking out the second chapter. I hope you enjoy, and please, read and review!
It wasn't until the next morning that Dean realized he was out of feathers.
He stared at the stark emptiness of the lockbox, disbelief opening up a yawning hole in his chest. There was a pounding in his ears. If he didn't have feathers, then he didn't have his fix. The day stretched before him, long, cold, and sober. It felt like too much. He sank back down onto his hard mattress, hands gripping the edge until they shook. Outside, the sun began to creep into the sky.
Withdrawal bit into him faster than he thought possible. Shouldn't be surprised, he thought, retching into the toilet. A hit a day for almost three years isn't something to fuck with.
Was he really in such a fog that he hadn't noticed as his feather supply dwindled? A long time ago, that kind of unawareness would have set his teeth on edge. Now, he just didn't care. He lay on the grimy tile of the bathroom, sweating and shaking. He watched the hours creep by on his watch, but the passage of time didn't mean much to him anymore. He fretfully floated in and out of consciousness.
After a very long while, his vision began to clear. He wiped a hand across his mouth and turned the shower on, hoping the heat would be enough to get him moving again. He stripped with aching muscles and stumbled in, bowing his head as the scalding water turned his skin a shiny pink. His mind slowly ground to a halt as he thought about what he had to do. He shut the water off, changed clothes, and left the apartment on autopilot. It had begun to lightly rain as evening fell.
It took him a moment to find the right key, but he was able to get the trunk of the Impala open with a sharp tug. Flakes of rust scattered to the wet asphalt. He unzipped the duffel bag sitting at the back, removing a gun and an angel sword. The shining silver blade twisted a painful memory, but Dean forced himself to stop thinking. He slammed the trunk shut and began to walk.
The nearest bar was several blocks away, and Dean's light jacket was nearly soaked through by the time he made it to the door. He quickly found a seat at the polished bar, draping the jacket across the back of his chair. He waved the bartender down and ordered three shots of whiskey. She quirked an eyebrow at him as she wordlessly passed him his drinks. Dean had been there many times, and the two of them had a ritual now. He would order too much to drink, and she would silently judge him. It worked.
Dean knocked back the alcohol, his mouth twisting when the burn reminded him of his other, much preferred, addiction. Feeling a light buzz settle in his head, he began to scope his surroundings. It didn't take him long to find the perfect target. She was young, beautiful, and obviously hoping for attention. He caught her eyes and smiled. She leaned against her table and smiled back. He had never seen her before, so no one would notice when she didn't return to the bar for a second visit. The perfect target.
He ordered two more shots and sauntered over to where she was sitting alone. Her curly red hair hung loose around her shoulders, and her dress dipped into a dangerously low V. He handed her one of the shots, and she flashed a blinding smile as she took it from him.
"Thanks," she said. Her blue eyes were too bright, like she was wearing fake contacts. "I'm Sara."
"Kyle," Dean said. He tilted his shot towards her. "Cheers."
She drank hers down without a flinch, and a small part of Dean was impressed. Maybe if it had been a different life, they could have been a good match.
They made customary small talk until it was socially appropriate for Dean to suggest that they 'got out of there.' She blushed like she was surprised by the question, and demurely agreed. Dean led her outside by the hand, pointing down the alley.
"My bike's in the back lot," he said. Sara smiled again. She was always smiling. It was beginning to grate on Dean.
"You have a motorcycle?" she asked. "That's so cool!"
"Sure is," Dean agreed. He led her into the narrow, dark space, away from prying eyes. Once they were hidden from view by a large dumpster, he stopped walking and turned to face her. Sara played nervously with the strap of her purse.
"Dean, what is it?" she asked. Her tone was stiff. She knew something was off. She was just about to take a step backwards when she froze, petrified into stillness by the metallic glint of Dean's gun.
"Stop," he ordered softly. She nodded, tears beginning to shining in her eyes. The show of emotion made Dean feel sick, but he kept his face firm.
"I'm not going to hurt you if you listen to me," he said. "What I need is very simple. I need you to pray."
Confusion, then anger crossed Sara's face as she put the pieces together. "You're one of those disgusting dealers, aren't you?" she asked.
"I'm not a dealer," Dean said. "I am, however, a user, and I am out of currency."
"Rot in hell," Sara snapped. "I'm not helping you."
"I'm not asking for your help," he said. He aimed the gun at Sara's stomach.
"You're aiming wrong," she said. "That shot won't kill me." Dean felt that pang of regret again. She was fiery and brave. Maybe they could have had something.
"That's the point," Dean said. "Do you have any idea how painful a bullet to the gut is? If you don't cooperate, I shoot, and you'll be praying for death. Easy way or the hard way, you'll pray."
Tears ran silently down Sara's face. She closed her eyes, but Dean interrupted.
"Pray out loud," he said. "I don't need you sabotaging anything."
She snapped her eyes open and glared at him. Slowly, she grit out a prayer.
"Please, I need help," she began, "I'm feeling very lost and alone right now. I might do something I'll regret. Please, help."
The silence stretched tensely for a moment. Then, there was a soft flutter of wings, and an angel appeared. He had short blonde hair and wasn't very tall. He faced Sara, unaware of Dean's presence. It was one of the blessings of angels; they were incredibly one-track minded.
"Hello, Sara," he said pleasantly. "I am an Angel of the Lord, and I am here to answer your—"
His words were cut short by Dean, who struck fast and hard. The angel blade sunk into the angel's shoulder. It began to spark. The angel let out a panicked cry and twisted to face Dean. The ex-hunter was so focused on the bright, white wings that had appeared in the angel's distress that he had lost track of Sara. Before Dean could finish the angel off, she had leapt forward and pulled the angel blade free from the angel's shoulder.
Dean grabbed desperately at the angel's left wing, and then he had vanished. He looked down at the three feathers he had managed to tear from the angel. Three feathers. The frustration almost made him sob.
"Get the hell out of here," he snapped at Sara. "If I ever see you here again, I will kill you."
Sara dropped the angel blade and fled, her high heels making sharp sounds on the pavement. Dean fell to his knees. He was screwed.
The next morning, he almost couldn't bear the pitying look that his waitress—since when had he stopped paying attention to names?—leveled at him. He glared down at his empty breakfast plate, where the ends of the feathers poked out from underneath.
"You know I'm sensitive to your situation, honey, but I can't do anything with three measly feathers," she said. "My boss will have my skin. Literally. I'm sorry, but I can't give you any blood until you have—"
She flinched at the icy expression Dean flicked up at her. "Do not ever refer to your product like that again," he said quietly. "I thought I had made that clear."
"Sorry," the waitress rushed out. Her eyes, however, did not soften. "Come back tomorrow, sugar, I'll have your normal amount. Just make sure you bring yours, too."
Dean clenched his fists underneath the table. He waited until she had left before he bolted, leaving the feathers under his plate. What was the point? It was like trying to buy a beer with a penny.
The withdrawal symptoms had never really stopped, and when Dean stepped out into the sunlight, he was struck with a migraine so sharp that it almost sent him toppling to the ground. He gritted against the pain and began the walk home, desperate to crawl into his bed and let the pain conquer him there.
In the end, that mile home was too much. He crumbled against the brick wall of a grocery store, too far gone to make it any farther. He hunched up on the ground and prayed for death. All he got, however, was rain. The chill drizzle drove him into the grocery store, where he impulsively bought several forties of cheap beer. The prospect of drunkenness led him back to his brick wall, where he huddled out of sight and guzzled.
Soon, he was drunk. It didn't feel nearly as good as the other high he was so desperately in need of, but it dulled his thoughts, and that was enough. He dozed off, woke up in the late afternoon, drank again. By the time night had fallen he could barely see straight. He thought about the reality that the next day would be his third without his fix, and the fury surged up so suddenly he threw up. Kicking the empty beer bottles out of his way in disgust, he stumbled to his feet and began to circle in the parking lot. The few people who chose to go shopping so late edged around him warily.
He needed feathers. No demon was going to sell him anything without them. He didn't have his weapons, but he was more scared of what his third sober day would bring than any angel. He punched at the air and screamed. He didn't like what he was turning into. He needed feathers.
He made his clumsy way to a narrow alley between the grocery store and the next door pharmacy. He didn't have his bait or his blade, but he needed to try. He was beginning to fear that he actually might die.
"Hey, you dicks with wings!" he shouted. "I'm praying, and I'm in need, and someone better get their feathery ass down here and help me!"
There was no response. Dean's shoulders slumped, and his anger drained away into the pavement. What the hell was he thinking, anyway? Did he really think he could take an angel head-on and unarmed? Maybe he really was trying to die.
He had begun to turn to go back to the grocery store for more beer when there was a ruffle of feathers behind him. He whirled around, a shocking need piercing his chest. He could still try! He could grab the bastard's wings and just tear, just rip until enough feathers came away—
His mind ground to halt. The angel facing him was slightly shorter than the ex-hunter. He had messy black hair and weirdly blue eyes. When he spoke, it was with a voice that Dean hadn't heard in years, and it brought forth such a violent wave of love and anger and betrayal that, for a moment, he couldn't breathe. The angel smiled sadly and repeated his words, knowing that Dean hadn't heard him the first time.
"Hello, Dean."