Inspired by How To Train Your Dragon. Not gonna lie about that. I love that movie like nobody's business. This was going to be longer, an actual full length fic, but I dropped it. I really don't have time for it.


Angel Wings

(In which things that started off good actually end up going terribly wrong. And then somehow end up better than before.)


It started with Sam.

They'd just gotten back from a hunt, shaking the dust off their boots from a town plagued by a group of rather nasty vampires, and Sam was being unusually quiet. When Dean had asked what was wrong (in an off hand sort of way, mind you, because brothers didn't ask that of each other, they just didn't), Sam had simply shrugged him off and said nothing.

Later, though, Dean had walked in on an argument and it all became clear.

Sam didn't want to be a hunter anymore and John Winchester, Sam and Dean's father, was less than pleased. Dean didn't know what to do about it. All he could do was stand there and watch as his already fractured family tore itself apart. Sam wanted to quit the hunting life, leave the family legacy behind, and live a normal, apple pie life with his girlfriend Jess. Dean could hardly blame him for loving a girl. He'd been dating Ruby for two years and even though their relationship was a rocky one, she was a hunter too and she understood that hunting meant protecting people at the risk to your own life.

Except then that little bit went downhill too.

Ruby was "tired" and she "needed her own space" and before Dean, who had come to her for comfort, could understand what had happened…he'd been dumped. Well, wasn't that just peachy. His father and younger brother weren't speaking, his girlfriend had just dumped him, and he didn't know where to turn.

So he went home. Only things weren't much better there. Sam had packed up and left, heading over to live with Jess and John was stomping about the house in silent fury. Dean really didn't want to talk to him in that kind of state but he needed to talk to someone.

"Dad?"

John grunted, not looking up from the gun he was cleaning.

"Um, about Sam—."

"I'm leaving for a hunt tonight." John interrupted. He obviously didn't want to talk about his youngest son.

"Wha—but you—we just got back from one!"

"There's a nest of demons packing outside of town. We don't know how far but they're tearing apart anyone who gets too close." John put the gun back together and stowed it away, still not looking to his eldest, "They're too dangerous to let live. We're leaving tonight."

Dean lost his temper, "You're leaving tonight! I'm not going!"

"You going to quit hunting too?" John still wasn't looking at him.

"No." Dean snapped bitterly, "But I'm taking a break. I need to get away from all…this." He gestured around the room and then spun towards the door, "Don't bother waiting up for me." And he slammed the door shut behind him before his father could say anything.


The forest surrounding their hometown was a place of solitude. Quiet, especially at night, warded on its borders by sigils and demon traps, marked out by silver and iron stakes, and clearly defined a ring of dead ground where a line of salt was laid over and over and over again. Mythos was a hunter town, there was no denying it, it could almost be called a fortress.

Dean pushed his way through the woods, shoving aside branches and kicking down underbrush, anything to vent his frustrations. Sam was an idiot for leaving, Ruby was an idiot for dumping him, and his father was being a stubborn idiot. Now he didn't know where to turn because everyone had turned against him. He was frustrated, alone, and completely lost. The part of his mind still able to think rational thoughts told him he could have gone to Bobby but Dean's angry told it to back off. Being alone was what he needed.

So blinded by his emotions was the young hunter that he failed to notice the sheer drop in front of him. One second he'd been stomping across the forest floor and the next second his boot had met air and he was tumbling head over heels down a rocky slope that had been hidden by the underbrush

It was a narrow, too narrow, and Dean's elbows scraped the sides, holes being torn in his jeans by the rough rock walls. Then it abruptly widened and he found himself in a…what? A gorge? A cave? His head was spinning but as he pushed himself to his feet and looked up, he could see the moonlight slicing through the thin crack he'd fallen through. It bounced off the surface of a shallow, underground pond, casting a silvery glow that lit up the cavern. Ahead of him, Dean could see a passage leading into darkness; it was either a way out or a maze of caves he would die in.

Something shuffled behind him and he spun around, already yanking a knife from the sheath at his waist. But what he saw made him freeze.

It was a dragon.

Dean didn't think he'd seen anything so magnificent in his entire life.

It was twice as big as a horse but lithe and curved like that of a mink or a ferret. It had a long tail that ended in silver-white feathers that swept the ground, the same colored feathers were flattened across its neck from the base of its narrow head and sprouted at the ankles of its four feet. It was crouched low to the ground, the silvery claws on its toes digging into the rock beneath it, the wing-like ears on its head flattened down like an angry dog.

But what captured Dean were those eyes. They were brilliant blue, impossibly blue, electric and wise, like ice against the perfect diamond and snow white of the dragon's scales. The moonlight hit those scales and refracted off into shafts of gorgeous silver. But when it struck those eyes, the blue seemed to pulse and glow.

Dean swallowed and took a step forward. The dragon made a hissing noise and Dean froze again. The two stared at one another for a long, silent time. Dragons were legendary. It was said that the hunters had nearly driven them to extinction and forced the great beasts into the farthest corners of the world. Most of them, it was rumored, were hiding in Europe. Dean didn't doubt that. But here was a dragon, right in front of him, like a precious gem hidden beneath the ground.

Mustering his courage, he took another step forward and the dragon sank lower to the ground, shuffling its wings. And that's when Dean took a really good look and something in him simply broke.

The dragon's wings, compared to the rest of its glorious body, were—and there was no other word for it—dying. They were grey and lifeless looking, hanging off the dragon's sides like useless weights, dragging in the dirt. Dean supposed the feathers were usually the same gorgeous silver-white as the ones on the dragon's tail, legs, and neck.

Without even thinking, he dropped the knife and was across the cave in a second. He stopped short of the dragon, though, seizing up as he gazed into the things eyes. It didn't trust him. Dean swallowed and held up his hands, a universal sign that he was unarmed. The dragon cocked its head to the side and its ears flicked forward. Dean licked his lips and edged closer. The dragon's gaze followed him. He continued to move closer, inch by inch, and the dragon kept following him, turning its head so it could keep the boy in its sights.

When he finally reached the wings, he dropped to his knees, raised a hand, hesitated, and then ran his fingers gently over the feathers. The effect was immediate. The dragon relaxed and lay down on the ground, stretching its wings out as far as it could. Dean paused and then smoothed down some more feathers, straightening them so they lined up. The dragon hummed and the sound came from deep in its belly, vibrating across the cave floor to beat in Dean's chest like a bass drum.

Dean kept stroking and smoothing the feathers, running his fingers over their silky surfaces. And as he did so, he began to talk. He told the dragon about his family, about how his mother had died in a house fire and how his father had been left to raise them on their own. He told it about his younger brother Sam and how he would do anything to protect his sibling. He talked about the hunts he'd been on, the evil he'd defeated. He talked about the girl's he'd met, about how he'd been dating Ruby and how, he realized, it had never actually worked out. He talked about his father's anger and Sam leaving and how much it hurt.

And as he talked and smoothed and groomed, the feathers beneath his fingers lightened, became silver-white, almost crystalline in their beauty. Dean froze when he saw what was going on, his fingers still deep in the gorgeous feathers. Gone was the decayed look, gone was the gray, molted appearance. The dragon's wings appeared healthy and perfect.

"What are you?" Dean whispered and the dragon lifted itself off the ground, turning slowly to face him.

It spread its wings, sweeping them forward to wrap around Dean and the teen let out a small cry of fear. The dragon paused and raised a clawed foot, reaching toward Dean. Again, Dean made a noise of terror and tried to back away, running into a wall of feathers, sure that he was about to be eaten. The dragon dropped its foot and cocked its head to the side. Then its tail slowly swung around and it brushed the large feathers on the end across Dean's face.

The teenager shuddered, swallowed, and took a step forward. Those amazingly blue eyes stared deep into his own green ones. Dean raised a trembling hand and moved closer. The dragon did not move. Closer and closer the teenager inched, hand outstretched in front of him, ready to pull it back at any second. The dragon remained perfectly still, even its tail lay unmoving across the ground.

When he was mere centimeters away, Dean froze. His fingers hovered just over the dragon's narrow nose. Cool breath tickled across his skin as the great beast breathed out. Dean swallowed and, after a split second of hesitation, let his fingers brush across the dragon's scales.

It was like touching glass. His fingers slid across the pure white scales, traced the edge of that powerful jaw, and then pulled away. The dragon seemed to smile. Then it stretched its forepaw forward and pressed it against Dean's arm, its long fingers pushing aside the sleeve of his t-shirt to push his upper arm. An icy cold, so cold it burned flashed through Dean and he stumbled back with a shout of pain, collapsing to the floor and clutching at his arm.

A soothing coolness wrapped around him and he suddenly found himself pressed against the dragon's belly, wrapped in great silver-white feathers with a pair of concerned blue eyes looking down at him. Dean shuddered again and pushed aside the sleeve of his shirt to see the damage. There was a raised mark on his usually smooth skin, like a welt or an angry burn, in the shape of the dragon's hand-shaped paw.

Dean looked back up at the dragon in a mixture of awe and shock, "You…you marked me."

The dragon made a strange, warbling noise and cocked its—no his—head, ears flicking towards Dean's voice.

"But I'm a hunter."

There came a bouncing, deep throated hum and Dean realized that the dragon was laughing. Dean smiled, he couldn't help himself. Still sitting sprawled against the dragon's broad chest, he held out a hand,

"I'm Dean. Dean Winchester."

The dragon stared curiously at the offered hand and then pushed his nose into it, forcing his head under Dean's fingers. Dean chuckled and pulled his hand away, "No, silly, you're supposed to tell me your name." The dragon cocked his head again, "What? Dragons don't talk? I thought you guys were all about riddles and stuff?"

The dragon blinked those great blue eyes at him and then leaned forward and pressed his large forehead against Dean's.

In an instant, Dean's mind was flooded with information. Most of it didn't stick, his brain trying to figure out what all the information it was getting was about. But he did understand several things: this was a dragon called an Angel, he had been separated from his nest, without companionship his wings had wilted, Dean's passion had healed them, he had marked Dean as his own, for protection, to stay by his side forever and always.

And his name was Castiel.