Disclaimer| I do not own. Obviously. I wish I did though.
A/N| I love supernatural and I love the concept of angels, so I wanted to go a bit deeper into that. This is not a happy story. But it's hopeful.
Summary| Angels are a rare species. There's something in their blood the government needs. Castiel is the only one to have survived this long. Dean will do whatever it takes to save him.
Castiel hadn't seen the sky in eighteen years.
He remembered rain, the one thing that stayed constant in his mind. He missed the feel of it against his skin, and absently he traced a trembling finger over his forearm. The rain in his mind is cold, and refreshing, and it chills his bones and makes him feel clean. And he misses it. Anna never liked the rain, not as much as he, and often before she was separated from him she would talk about the sun.
Since Castiel didn't remember it he relied on her interpretation. She said it was bright, brighter than the white florescent lights here. Warm and comforting was her favorite description.
Castiel hadn't felt warm in years.
He shivered. Ironically, and pulled his knees up closer to his chest, breathing deeply through his nose. The dull throbbing at his side made him sigh and he stretched out his legs once more. The monotonous white room surrounding him was still blurry. He was still under. Unconsciously he pulled up the hem of his starch shirt, a sinking feeling dropping in his stomach when he saw the stitches that lay black and contrasting sharp on his skin.
Gingerly he poked it. The pain was minor, nothing he hadn't felt before and he let his shirt fall back down again. What had they done this time? Tissue samples, liver? He swallowed, throat dry. In the end it didn't really matter what they did. His body would heal itself within a day's time; although his healing process was slower now then it used to be.
He was cold.
He studied the tips of his fingers, the paleness of his skin. He was almost as white as everything around him. Faintly, he heard the click of a woman's shoes, the click of a button, the muted dialing of a phone. The hushed screams of another. He looked down at the number imprinted onto his wrist. 401. He was the last one left it seemed. Nothing after him. And he was tired. So tired of this.
A woman came into his room. She placed a needle in his arm, and he watched lazily as his blood was sucked up through the poke and pull of the needle. He didn't flinch anymore. His arms were dotted with muted purple bruises, yellowed from when the needle wasn't properly clean.
"Are you hungry?" The woman asked, although her voice sounded harsh and Castiel blinked, shaking his head slowly. The woman lifted up his shirt, moving his arms aside like he was a doll. A puppet.
An experiment.
She picked at the stitches and Castiel let his eyes wander to the ceiling. Her hand went lower; fell heavy on the inside of his thigh. Her eyes were dark. Her fingers were confident, and Castiel almost told her to stop. He quickly discovered that his skin was tingling, numb but he could feel the heat of her palm, and his breathing stuttered. She left ten minutes later. He felt violated. Her warmth lingered on his skin.
Castiel had been alone for eighteen years.
"How are you feeling today?" The man wore white apron and gloves. He looked bored. Castiel tried his best to glare up at him. It came off as an unblinking, tired stare.
"I can't feel my arm." He responded, voice rough from disuse. The man's eyes flicked up to his, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"That all you can't feel?" Castiel didn't reply. The man dipped down, took his chin in his gloved hands and turned his head, up, right, left, down. "You're bruises have disappeared. That was quicker than last time." He let go of Castiel's chin, and wrote something down in the small notebook he held with him. "It seems like the antidote is working. Your body's not rejecting it."
There was a hint of pride in the man's voice, an undertone of excitement. Castiel didn't feel excited. He felt sick. His stomach churned dizzyingly, and he groaned softly, eyes fluttering. The man did nothing as Castiel bent over, heaving dryly onto the floor below his cot. The "bed" whined under his moving weight. The man left some time later, but not before slipping another needle into the underside of Castiel's arm.
Castiel took to counting the bruises that decorated his skin.
1…5…9…14…
Dean Winchester looked down at the woman lying below him.
Her red hair was spread out like a bleeding halo. He dipped down, touching the pulse point of her neck. Nothing.
"Shit." He muttered, eyes closing for a moment as his fingers pinched roughly at the bridge of his nose. "Shit." He repeated once again, eyes opening to study the woman once more. Gently he picked up her wrist, turned it and studied her number. 399. He shook his head and let her arm fall back down. She was fine a moment ago, before the silver shimmering bullet pierced through the back of her head and out of her forehead. She had told Dean enough to get him moving again, and he bent down and lifted her slim, limp body off the muddy floor of the alley. She had gotten far. Why she had escaped and then turned back was a mystery to Dean.
She had said a name though, and that's all Dean focused on at the moment. He walked nimbly down the street with her in his arms, the streetlamps letting off a sick yellow glow. The trains above his head shrieked through the night. Dean looked up at them longingly. One day he'd get on one of them. He'd leave.
He couldn't though, until his work was done. He shifted the woman in his arms, supporting her drooping frame with one arm until he opened the back door to the Impala and laid her down on the seat. He glanced up once more, the stars barely visible through the smoke and layers of clouded pollution. The apartments on either side of him were run down but sleek, and he took them all in. Green eyes followed up the road, and over the tops of the buildings he could see one that towered over the rest. No windows, nothing.
Again, Dean found himself amazed at the woman's drive and determination to escape. He stole another look at her in his car. But, if he truly thought about it, she hadn't really.
He felt the familiar jolt of failure cascade through him at the sight of her prone form and with a click of his tongue he slid into the front seat of the Impala, put the key in the ignition and brought her to life. He drove quickly through the deserted streets, pulled up behind the back of a tucked away shop. He knocked twice on the door and a bearded man answered. Dean grinned sourly, balancing the girl in his arms.
"Got another one, for ya, Bobby." The man regarded him silently, mouth pressed into a tight line.
"What are they doing to them?" He whispered, head shaking and he sighed, eyes coming up to meet Dean's. Neither of them had an answer. Or they already knew.
"Looking for something. No luck I guess." Dean answered, pushing past Bobby and going down the narrow hallway.
"Just put her on the table. I'll clean her up and burn the body after I have some dinner." Dean didn't answer, just laid her down gently and studied her forlornly for some time.
"I can't save any of them." He whispered, and Bobby was beside him, hand a heavy weight on his shoulder.
"You got two out once. You and Sam. Sent 'em right on out of this hellhole. Don't write off everything you do as failures, boy." Dean swallowed thickly, nodded and let out a choked chuckle.
"She was going back, Bobby." The man turned small eyes upward, and scratched beneath the hat on his head.
"What the hell for?" He asked and Dean felt his mouth twist into a sour smile.
"She said there was someone she couldn't leave behind. She tried, almost got to the station before she headed back."
"Family?" Bobby guessed and Dean shrugged.
"Dunno. But I got a name."
"Well, let's hear it." Dean focused on the woman's face. She was pretty. Simple features, but defined. She was skeletally thin.
"Number 401. Castiel Novak."
I'm not too sure about this yet, but I love SPN and I wanted to write SOMETHING about it.
Please review, it would mean a lot, and keep me writing!