Was it really so wrong to save him?

Castiel had spent almost the past thirty years guarding Dean. He had watched the Winchester grow from a child into adulthood. He spent every second protecting him as best as he could, doing everything in his power to keep the young hunter safe.

So many strings needed to be pulled. There were many instances in which the hunter was meant to die, but Castiel always found a way to avoid it. It wasn't easy work by any means. It never is for guardian angels who are assigned hunters. Most angels simply get tired of it and give up. They let their charges die, then move on to be assigned to some boringly average human that they don't have to pay as much attention to.

Though somehow Castiel had managed, taking his job as serious as ever. But for what? For Dean to throw it all away with a single step?

He couldn't let that happen. He was supposed to. But he couldn't.

And now he pays for it in full.

Castiel plummets through the air at uncontrollable speeds, turning and flipping with no control of his own body. Wind rushes against him, pushing at his skin and hair, trying to push and pull him in every direction at once. His throat is sore from screaming, it burns painfully as the high pitched screech tears through his throat, slowly becoming lower and more human-like.

In a last, impulsive, and desperate effort to save himself, he spreads his wings, expecting for them to catch the air and help him glide safely to the ground. Immediately, he regrets his actions. The force pushing against him as he falls is too great. His right wing catches the wind before it can fully extend, causing the air to rip it backwards, sending a searing jolt through his body.

The feeling of pain is new to Castiel. It's much worse than he would have imagined. It's electrifying, and hot like fire beneath his skin. There's nothing like it; no way for him to associate it with anything he has felt before. It's killing him, he thinks, its burning him up and it just won't stop. For some reason, he was expecting for pain to be a momentary feeling, then for it to fade. But no, it just increases, getting hotter and hotter. It crosses his mind that maybe the feeling will last forever, tearing him apart until there is nothing left.

Just when he doesn't think it could get any worst, he reaches the ground, letting out a blood curdling scream of agony as his vision goes black.

Castiel is comforted by a soothing, pitch black, nothingness for only a few minutes. It's enough time to give him a break from the pain but not enough to dull it at all. So when the far off sound of someone yelling awakes him, the pain returns, hitting him suddenly at full force. Though this time it's much worst, rippling throughout his right wing and into his shoulder, dominating his senses.

Castiel lets out a helpless whine as he moves up onto his forearms and knees weakly. For someone who just fell from the sky, perhaps he should consider himself lucky. He can move his arms and legs, though not without some difficulty, and most of his pain is sourced at the large, black, feathered wing that extends out of his right shoulder blade. The rest of his body is covered with a sore ache, though it is masked significantly behind the pain of his wing. If he had been an average person, he would have surely burned up during the fall. He can only assume that the remainder of his grace kept his body intact from the moment he exited heaven, to the second he hit the ground. But now that he has landed, he can feel the last of his grace leaving him slowly.

He works his hands beneath himself to push the majority of his weight onto his knees. The foreign, cold, metal surface below him has been bent and dented from the force of the fall. He tries to fold his wings inward, but the motion jerks him to the right quickly, onto his side, and sends pain shooting through his entire body. A scream works its way out his mouth to be followed by a pathetic sob.

Castiel's new body is beginning to shake from a mixture of the cold night air, and the fear of what is going to happen to him. He doesn't know how badly he is injured, or if it's even something that can be fixed. All he can do is fight to stay conscious, take deep breaths, and figure out what his next move needs to be.

The angel forces his eyes open once again, fighting to get them to focus, and for the first time, looks at the world around him. The night is dark, and there is just barely enough light to make out his location. He is surrounded by junk. Broken machines, trashed cars, construction material, and scrap metal, litter the area. Some of it is set to the sides, pushed into small groups of various metals and machinery, and some is just stacked up into unorganized piles of various sizes. There are old wooden light posts every so often, though all of the light bulbs in them seem to have been blown out recently, leaving the junkyard in the dark, only to be illuminated by the dull moonlight.

Castiel knows this place. He's seen it before, though not from the ground like this. This is Singer's Salvage Yard. It is located on the property that Dean inherited from Bobby when the old hunter died. His eyes dart across the area quickly, looking around the junk yard for a moment longer. Why did he land here, of all places?

When he looks to his right, he can make out the outlined shape of his dark wing. It's clearly bent unnaturally in the middle, with a long, vertical, and sharp piece of what seems to be scrap metal, impaling it. He stares up at his injury in horror, trying to keep his pain to a minimum by holding still.

That is, until he hears a gruff voice from somewhere not too far off in the distance call out, "Who's there?!"

Castiel's eyes widen a bit and he tries to stand, whining when he doesn't get anywhere, only managing to drag his wing further up the rusty metal. His eyes brim with tears of pain as he continues fighting to pull his injured wing from where it is stuck. His other wing flaps quickly, trying to give himself some form of leverage to get up, but only succeeds in knocking him onto his stomach again which drags his hurt wing back down the metal spike, sending more and more pain through him. The helpless angel keeps struggling, glancing up at his wing often in a panic as he flails and keeps pulling away from where his injured wing is trapped, tearing and ripping it even more than before.

Suddenly, a beam of light moves across the yard, illuminating individual junk piles in turn, before settling on Castiel, allowing him to see his wing more clearly. It's torn up significantly from the angel's fight to free it. The metal that protrudes through his wing is likely more than eight feet high. It's jagged and pointed in a way that resembles a lightning bolt at the top, and its drenched in dark, shiny red blood. His black feathers reflect the light, tinted and damp with that same deep red. His feathers are mused in different directions from the fall, giving him a chaotic appearance.

The click of a shotgun is what draws Castiel's attention over to the space in front of him. His eyes squint shut quickly and dance with black patches behind his eyelids as he is practically blinded by the flashlight that shines in his face.

"Don't move!"

The angel obeys the familiar and angry voice, holding as still as the rest of the world around him.

The man standing in front of him is someone that Castiel never thought he would actually meet. Not for a long time anyway, and surely not on earth. Though the light only allows for him to see the outline of the man's body, Castiel knows who this is. He's tan and freckled, with sandy blond hair and piercing green eyes. Castiel has become so familiarized with this man. He knows everything about him, and gave up everything to save him.

And now, the man that Castiel fought for so long to keep safe has a shot gun pointed right at the wounded angel, finger on the trigger.

"D-Dean?"