I thought it'd be funny to post Halloween themed chapter during Easter, so here we are (ffn came back up in time to still do it) :)

Chapter XI

Rot in the Feathers

Dean heard the chanting the second he reached the basement stairs.

Murmuring, "Finally," he signaled Sam on the other side of the hallway that he found it.

It had been an annoyingly long day. Don, the obnoxiously chipper teacher, hadn't just been hiding a collection of children's bones in his desk. No, the bastard also owned multiple properties across town, forcing them to waste precious time checking each one. Naturally, with Winchester's luck, the last place on their list turned out to be the right one.

Time was running out. They had to move.

Weapons drawn, Dean took point, Sam right on his heels. The stairs soon opened up into a wide space, cluttered with random junk on the edges and smelling of musty mold. Dean halted, crouching at the landing, eyes sweeping the scene.

Across the room, Don stood before a makeshift altar, his voice echoing around the basement as he chanted in an ancient, guttural language. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows over the various tools on the altar. Behind him, suspended from the ceiling with a rope binding her wrists above her head, Tracy struggled, groaning over the gag, her eyes wild with urgency.

Dean turned to Sam, tapped his inner pocket, then shook his head. No demon. They had holy water at the ready, but it didn't seem that a demon involved itself here after all.

When Don finished the chanting, he picked up a knife and approached Tracy. While he was busy dragging a knife over her skin, his eyes gleaming with ritualistic fervor, the brothers seized their chance to sneak down the steps for a clear shot.

The knife went up for a killing blow.

Four gunshots rang through the basement in quick succession.

Don's body jerked with every shot until he collapsed and hit the ground with a dull, final thud.

Sam immediately moved to check for signs of life, to make sure he was dead. Dean, meanwhile, stepped in front of Tracy, who stared at him, chest heaving. And that was when it hit him, the feeling of magic. He could practically smell it on her.

Maybe she was too rattled to keep the cloaking spell straight, Dean wasn't quite sure why he didn't notice it earlier, but one thing was certain—this woman was a witch.

Tracy wiggled impatiently, gesturing to her tied wrists, eyes pleading.

Dean just smirked. "No, no, sweetheart," he said. "I'm not really into it, but you're gonna have to stay like that till we know it's safe."

Her glare could have burned a hole through his skull. Sam's almost did. He hadn't been fully on board with Dean's idea of two perpetrators before, but he didn't fight against the idea either. Now, leaving a potential victim tied up must have bothered him a bit too much to not object.

A sound of soft flutter reached Dean's ears.

Someone appeared behind Sam.

His instincts screamed.

A blade, gleaming in the dim light, swung downward.

"Dean, maybe we shou—"

In a span of a heartbeat, Dean lunged forward, shoving Sam aside with a bit too much force, but there was no time to hold back.

The blade didn't stop, even if a different person ended up in its trajectory.

Pain exploded through Dean as it sliced across his chest. His knees hit the hard floor, air forcing itself out of his lungs in one brutal cough. One of his hands barely broke the fall, while another pressed uselessly against the wound as blood poured hot and fast through his fingers.

Dammit, that hurt like a bitch.

"Dean!"

Sam sounded frantic. Dean forced himself to look up.

Gunfire rang out. Three shots. Each one hit its mark, slamming into the attacker. And did absolutely nothing.

With a sword in her hand, a woman stood there, unshaken. She didn't even stagger. Tall. Long dark hair. Dressed in a pristine business suit, except for the fresh bullet holes in the fabric. Holes that fixed themselves before their eyes.

She ran her fingers over the place where one of those holes had been just a moment ago, brushing over it as if it was nothing more than a speck of dust. Her lips curled into a sneer.

The basement lights flickered. First dimming, casting deep, stretching shadows, then flashing too bright, buzzing with a surge of energy before stabilizing again.

And for a fraction of a second, shadows of unfurling wings spanned across the basement's wall. Massive, daunting, and invisible as the lights went back to normal.

Sam's eyes widened. He had seen it before. He knew what it meant, who they were up against.

Dean saw more than just shadows. He saw wings that had once shone with divine radiance, woven from celestial light, now ruined and broken. The feathers, once perfect, were tattered and mangled, blackened with decay. Some were missing entirely, ripped away in jagged gaps. Between the ones that remained, thick, dark ooze seeped out like tar, dripping sluggishly, corrupting everything it touched, as if the very essence of her grace was rotting from the inside out.

And it did. Dean could feel it.

Her grace was foul and revolting, abominable in the way that pervaded his senses and crawled under his skin, sickly and wrong, coiling inside his gut until nausea burned the back of his throat.

She wasn't just some rogue angel. She was a Fallen. One of those who abandoned Heaven long ago to follow Lucifer, seduced by his rebellion, only to be left stranded on Earth after his imprisonment in the Cage.

This was bad.

Sam and Dean could handle demons or witches or monsters, but an angel? Even a fallen one, stripped of their rank and left to wither over the centuries, posed a lethal threat. They had already struggled against Azazel, a Grigori who had discarded his angelic identity and fully embraced the corruption, but this one managed to somehow preserve a portion of her grace. Enough to keep her angel's blade.

An angel's blade wasn't just a weapon. It was made to cut deeper than the flesh—to sever something fundamental. Each blade was unique, tailored to be wielded to its full potential only by its owner as an extension of their will. The moment it struck, it carried that will inside the wound, spreading like venom, poisoning the very essence of its target.

Good thing that this angel didn't think of them as a real threat. She merely swung her sword and saw no reason to use the meager reserves of her diminishing grace to funnel her full killing intent into it.

Dean's head felt dizzy. At least, only his blood spilled all over the floor. His grace remained hidden, tucked safely behind his soul. A small victory, all things considered.

Not that it meant much. Because no matter how he looked at it, they were so screwed.

"Who the hell are you?!" Sam demanded as he carefully made his way back to Dean.

"Mmhmm mm mm brhmmm mmmhmm..!" Tracy garbled something behind her gag, writhing against her restraints with renewed vigor. "Mmmm!"

The angel spared Sam a single glance, but otherwise ignored him. Instead, she walked to Tracy and, with one fluid motion, cut the rope.

The witch collapsed forward, gasping.

"You useless wretches." Disdain dripped from every syllable that the angel had spoken. "I gave you two a simple task, and you failed even that."

Sam's attention moved on to Dean. He crouched beside him, putting one hand on his back. "Dean, you okay?" he asked quietly.

Dean wanted to laugh. Of course, he wasn't okay. He just got sliced by the angel's blade of all things. A breathless, "Peachy," felt like being punched out of him. A painful cough followed, leaving blood dribbling down his chin.

Sam's hand shook where it rested on his back before closing into a fist around the handful of his jacket.

Dean already guided a few small, imperceptible threads of grace to the wound, trying to keep himself from bleeding out, but it was slow. Weak. Not nearly enough. And yet, he couldn't chance using more, couldn't risk exposing himself. Definitely not to the Fallen.

Sam sucked in a sharp breath when he leaned down to assess the severity of the injury. Yeah, the wound must have looked bad.

Tracy tore the gag from her mouth, her breaths coming fast and unsteady. "I-I'm so sorry, Mistress," she stammered, her eyes darting down in a clear sign of submission. "It's not my fault! My brother—"

A sharp hand wave from the angel made Tracy shut her mouth instantly.

Dean froze. 'Mistress'. He didn't recognize her before, but only one angel was called that by witches. The one who taught humans the forbidden arts of sorcery and witchcraft.

Samyaza.

His stomach dropped.

Oh, they were so screwed.

Samyaza had once been a High Seraph. Now, she had only one set of wings left; the second must have rotted away over time, but a fallen Seraph was just bad news, regardless of how weakened they were.

And she was staring right at them again, a cruel smile stretching across her face. "Just do what I told you to do," she commanded, her voice smooth as silk and yet cutting like a razor. With a slow, deliberate gesture, she pointed directly at Dean. "Use that thing's dirty blood for the ritual."

Tracy dipped her head in a reverent bow. "Yes, Mistress."

Sam jumped to his feet, stepping in front of Dean without hesitation. Bullets might not have worked on the angel, but they sure as hell would work on the witch. He swung his gun up and fired.

The shot rang out, echoing in the basement. Tracy flinched at the noise, but before the bullet could reach her, Samyaza lifted her hand and swatted it away like it was nothing more than an annoying fly. Then, with a flick of her wrist, Sam's gun was ripped from his grip and thrown across the room. Before he could even react, she was in front of him. Her cold fingers wrapped around his throat, and, without effort, she slammed him into the wall.

Sam gasped as the air was knocked from his lungs.

"Just do your job properly this time," Samyaza ordered the witch, words ringing with quiet contempt.

"Yes, Mistress," Tracy responded immediately with another bow.

Panic surged through Sam as he saw the witch dropping to one knee to retrieve the ritual knife from Don's lifeless grasp. He clawed at the iron grip around his throat, struggling against the inhuman strength holding him in place. "Dean!" he shouted desperately, but his struggles were all in vain—the angel didn't even budge.

Samyaza leaned closer to him and took a slow, deep breath, as though drinking in his very presence. "You…" she murmured, her lips barely moving. "You smell so nostalgic." And then, just as suddenly, her expression twisted into a sneer. "…And so revolting."

Sam felt ice crawl down his spine. He turned his head away as far from her as possible.

"I can't believe that fool Azazel actually put something like that inside you," Samyaza mused, tilting her head as she studied him. "Though I must admit, he did a spectacular job in the end."

She flipped her sword in a reverse grip and then brushed the back of her fingers against Sam's forehead, carefully threading them through his hair. The gentleness of it felt more like a mockery of affection when he was still pinned down by her other hand tightening around his throat, nails biting into his skin.

"At this rate, you'll be ready to welcome him in time," she continued, sounding wistful now. Her lips pulled into a nostalgic smile, but her eyes burned with an eager, almost manic anticipation.

Sam's breath hitched. "Welcome who?" he pressed out. "What did the Yellow-eyed demon put in me?"

"A demon?" The angel furrowed her brow in confusion before dark amusement flickered across her face. "Ha! Azazel truly was a fool. To fall so low to allow vermin to call him a dem—"

A loud crash rang behind her. Samyaza's head instantly snapped in that direction.

Tracy was on the ground, struggling to push herself up from a pile of broken junk she somehow ended up in.

Dean was still on his knees, his hand quickly moving across the concrete floor, smearing his own blood around with precise, deliberate strokes.

"You pathetic—" Samyaza's insult died on the tip of her tongue when the realization hit her that all those strokes came together to form a specific symbol. Her previous angry expression dropped to make way for alarm. "No! Stop!" Throwing Sam aside, she lunged toward Dean with inhuman speed—

But Dean was faster. He looked up with a sharp, defiant grin, just as his bloodied palm slammed down onto the drawing. "Sayonara, bitch!"

A blinding flash erupted from the symbol. Samyaza screamed in sheer outrage as the searing white light engulfed her. And then, she vanished.

Her sword clattered on the floor, the only sound in the heavy silence that followed.

Dean exhaled, tension melting from his body. Good thing he was still too human to be affected by the banishing sigil and Samyaza wasn't demonic enough to avoid it. With the biggest threat gone, only one little witch was left.

"What…" Tracy gawked at the empty space where her mistress had stood a moment ago until her expression twisted into rage. "What did you do to my Mistress?!" she shrieked and charged at Dean with the knife poised for a strike. "You damn bastard!"

Dean barely had time to react. He got lucky the first time; the witch didn't expect him to suddenly lash out, but now his human body was running on fumes, muscles sluggish with fatigue and blood loss. His mind raced, scrambling for a way to dodge, to block, to do something—

Tracy gasped, stopping only a foot away from Dean. Her eyes widened, her mouth parted in shock.

A blade poked through her chest.

For a moment, she just stared at it. Eventually, blood trickled down from her mouth, and she collapsed to the ground.

Sam let the sword's handle slide from his white-knuckled grip as Tracy's falling body dragged it down. He stood there, chest heaving from the sudden burst of action, his gaze not leaving the witch. A groan jolted him out of his stupor, and he rushed to Dean's side.

"Dean!"

Dean blinked slowly, exhaustion weighing down on his eyelids like lead. "'M fine, S'mmy," he mumbled, not even sure if his words came out alright.

But Sam was here. And he was safe. Everything was fine now.

His body swayed, and he let himself tip forward, his weight settling into his brother's steady arms with a content sigh.

Free to do its bidding now that the angel wasn't around anymore, Dean's grace stirred beneath his skin, pouring over the wound and beginning to knit the worst of it back together.

Dean had to inform Sam about it; the kid must be worried, "'S not th't deep." He couldn't heal it completely, not without giving himself away, but he saw no need to wallow in unnecessary pain.

Sam shook his head with an exasperated huff, but couldn't fight the relieved smile growing on his face. "Uh-huh," he said dryly. He glanced at the symbol on the floor, eyes narrowing in curiosity. "How the hell did you pull that off?"

Dean shifted slightly. With the pain slowly being washed away, he started to gradually regain his full lucidity. "Banishing sigil," he muttered. The usual excuse came next: "Cas taught me. Just in case."

Sam looked skeptical, but he didn't push for more explanation. Instead, he gathered himself, straightened up, and tapped Dean's shoulder. "Alright, c'mon," he urged softly. "You need a hospital."

Dean groaned at the mere mention of that place. "…No hospital," he objected weakly, even though he knew too well that he had already lost this fight. "Hate hospitals."

"No objections this time," Sam said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You're about to bleed out, so suck it up." He wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders and hauled him to his feet.

Dean winced, leaning heavily on Sam as they took their first steps toward the exit. Suddenly, he stopped mid-move. "The sword," he said urgently. "Grab the sword."

Sam gave him an incredulous look. "Why?"

"Dude!" Dean matched his incredulity. "The angel used it. It's probably special." He smirked. "Besides, swords are cool."

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. He made sure Dean could stand on his own before stepping away to pick up the weapon.

And with their spoils of war, the victorious Winchesters left the witch's basement.

The infinite night sky stretched above, a vast canvas of deep, inky blue, dotted by scattered stars, barely visible through the hazy, yellow glow of the town below. The crisp autumn air carried the faint scent of asphalt and damp earth, laced with the lingering sweetness of pumpkins crowding the doorsteps of many houses. Sleepy silence settled down at this late hour, broken only by the occasional rumble of a car in the distance.

Castiel descended onto the hospital's rooftop, but made no move to fold his wings just yet. Instead, he stretched them out as wide as he could, savoring the relaxing feeling of the cool wind threading through his feathers.

The burning pain subsided some time ago, and he already shed many tainted feathers, but corruption remained as a stain on his grace. Even so, he had no regrets. As the captain of the garrison that had plunged into the depths of Hell to retrieve the Righteous Man, he had willingly paid the price for this crucial role.

His siblings, however, didn't fully accept it. They stopped meeting his gaze and spoke in hushed voices behind his back, their eyes darting to his wings only to quickly turn away. They understood, of course, why his grace had been scarred, but understanding didn't quell their unease. Too many of their brethren succumbed to the taint after Lucifer's rebellion for them to acknowledge that this wasn't permanent.

Castiel learned to keep his wings pressed tightly against his back, hidden from their judging eyes. For their comfort at the cost of his own.

Humans had a word for this, he was sure. They had words for everything.

No one had accompanied him here, so he took advantage of the rare solitude to stretch his wings—something he sorely needed.

Well… perhaps not complete solitude.

Castiel's gaze drifted toward the edge of the rooftop, where a lone figure sat, silhouetted against the light of the town. At least, he didn't mind the company of this person, nor could this person see his wings.

Dean Winchester. The Righteous Man. The human with the most extraordinary soul Castiel had ever encountered.

"You plan to join me, or are you gonna keep standing there all night?"

Castiel stiffened. He cloaked himself from human eyes before coming here. It didn't seem broken or wearing off. And yet Dean turned his head, shooting him a knowing grin over his shoulder. How?

Dean chuckled as he patted the ledge beside him. "C'mon, take a load off."

Castiel tilted his head, studying the human in front of him. How could Dean smile so easily after everything? After dying, after Hell, after enduring tortures beyond human comprehension? How did he exude such strength, such certainty, and such courage that even an angel like himself would find it enviable?

Dean Winchester was a mystery.

Castiel moved forward to stand next to the man. From this vantage point, the entire town lay spread out before them, a tapestry of glowing streetlamps and empty roads.

"How did you know I was here?" he inquired, glancing down. Dean perched precariously on the edge with an ease that almost looked careless. Castiel could only hope he wouldn't fall.

Dean shrugged. He didn't even appear to be surprised by that question, a small, peculiar smile playing on his lips. "You've got your secrets, I've got mine." He tapped the ledge again as an invitation.

Human expressions were hard to understand, and Castiel never felt more disappointed than now to be so lacking in that knowledge. He sat down, extending his wings to continue letting the wind susurrate through his feathers.

There was no wind in Heaven.

With a passing breeze, the faintest scent of human blood reached his nose. Castiel turned sharply toward Dean, eyebrows furrowed as his gaze quickly assessed his outer appearance. At the same time, his grace gently wrapped around the human, sweeping over his body.

So focused on his task, he missed the way Dean's expression shifted, how his eyes softened with fondness.

Castiel felt it right away. The wound, the damage, the lingering trace of corrupted grace that clung to it. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but unmistakably there.

A Fallen attacked him.

The thought alarmed Castiel. Heaven suspected that the Fallen lurked in this town, but when Samhain's summoning had been prevented and no news of their appearance came, they had deemed the intelligence faulty.

They had been wrong.

In a hurry, Castiel reached out and pressed two fingers against Dean's forehead, releasing a pulse of grace that swept through his body, burning away the taint and mending torn flesh.

Dean blinked and then patted his chest. "Did you just mojo my injury away?"

"Yes," Castiel replied, assuming they were talking about healing. He wasn't under any orders not to interfere, but maybe it somehow made Dean uncomfortable. Humans had some weird customs and boundaries he couldn't quite understand. "Did you not want me to?"

Dean snorted, shaking his head. "Who the hell would say no to free healing?" He smiled, bright and happy and warm. "Thanks, Cas."

Castiel decided, at that moment, that he liked seeing Dean smile. Liked seeing him content and peaceful, not writhing in agony and desperate for the slightest reprieve.

The conversation fizzled out into a comfortable silence. A few minutes passed by while neither needed nor felt like breaking it. They simply sat there together, overlooking the town that should have been nothing more than the scorched crater if not for Dean and his brother.

"You stopped it," Castiel murmured, the words slipping out without thought. "This town still stands because of you."

Dean huffed, "Damn right it does."

There was pride in his voice, and rightly so. He went against the odds, even against Heaven's expectations, and succeeded.

"Our orders were not to stop the summoning of Samhain," Castiel admitted. "They were to do whatever you told us to do."

Dean looked stunned for a second, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Bet your buddy Uriel loved that."

Castiel remained silent. Uriel didn't love it. He felt it was beneath him to follow a mere human's lead. It hurt his dignity, and he wanted to smite the entire town to prevent Samhain's rise, certain that Dean would fail. Castiel prayed that he wouldn't.

"What about you?" Dean asked. "You really buy into all this? Just following orders, doing what you're told, no matter what it costs?"

Castiel found the man's piercing gaze unnerving, as if it cut through his vessel, past the flesh and bone, seeing deeper, seeing his true self. It unsettled him. Without realizing it, he drew his wings in tighter. A fleeting thought crossed his mind, a thought of what Dean would say if he truly saw his true form, if he knew that Castiel bore the same taint as the Fallen that harmed him earlier.

"I was created to follow Heaven's will," he answered, paused, then opened his mouth to add something, but instead, closed it.

"I can hear 'but' coming."

Encouraged by Dean's gentle prompting, Castiel continued, "But… I find that I have questions. I have doubts." His words flowed out with weary hesitance. He would have never confessed it to any of his siblings, because he had heard horror stories about Heaven's punishment for any signs of rebellious thoughts. And yet, for some reason, he trusted Dean to keep it a secret.

One of his wings twitched, a twinge of pain running through it. Castiel brought it forward, noticing a loose black feather stuck halfway, broken and bent. He reached for it and yanked it out with force. It was sticky and unpleasant, leaving black marks on his fingers. He let the feather go and watched it dissolve into dark particles before dispersing with the gust of wind.

"I get it," Dean spoke finally. "I really do. You spend so long following orders, thinking someone else knows better than you, that it becomes your belief, your shield, your everything. But listen, Cas." He fixed Castiel with those piercing green eyes that appeared almost golden against the glowing town backdrop. "Faith isn't blind obedience. Doubts don't mean you're wrong, and questions aren't sinful. It means you care. And sometimes, they lead you to the real truth."

In an instant, indignation ignited inside Castiel, rising like a tidal wave, rebuke on the tip of his tongue. 'Heaven's will is absolute' was a dogma his entire existence was built around. And yet, he couldn't voice it now, couldn't put it into words. If Heaven's will was absolute, why did he pray that Dean would choose to save this place? Why was he so relieved when he did?

"If you ignore your doubts, they'll just grow stronger. And one day…" Dean trailed off, staring somewhere into the distance. His mouth cracked open in a wry smile, so full of sadness and regret, shame and guilt, it looked absolutely out of place.

Castiel wondered what kind of bad memories haunted him and if it was possible to chase them away.

Soon, Dean cleared his throat, visibly pulling himself out of the moment. "And one day, you'll look back and regret everything," he finished, but a touch of sadness still lingered, written in the lines of his features. "Trust me. I've been there."

Castiel believed him.

And that belief settled in his mind like a stone dropping into still water, stirring thoughts he wasn't yet ready to face. Thoughts that would be met with condemnation if spoken to the other angels. But Dean offered neither judgment nor scorn, only understanding and acceptance, and Castiel's admiration towards the man only deepened.

The wind was picking up. Castiel's wings rustled, restless, yearning for flight.

He startled when Dean put his hand on his shoulder, its weight grounding but not constricting. Physical touches were a novelty, just like wind, but this didn't feel bad either.

"If you ever feel like talking again, you know where to find me," Dean said with a grin, giving him a clap over his shoulder before letting it go.

A ghost of a smile flitted across Castiel's lips. He offered a small nod and spread his wings. "Goodnight, Dean." And then he was gone, lost to the night sky.

A/N

So, we started with barely any changes in canon, but now we're cooking with gas! xD This chapter introduces a big divergence that I was hinting at from early on—the Fallen. The moment I saw the scene (4x16) where Castiel finds the dead angel in the middle of a wreckage with cars flipped and tossed all over, I got excited to see a battle between angels. Sadly, those battles were very underwhelming in the show, but because this is a fic, I don't have a limitation of the budget or reality, I can power up the angels and get some epic fights going hehe. So here we go, some fun times on the horizon :) Maybe once Dean gets his mojo back. Like, come on, Dean, hurry up, wouldya? People are waiting (says the author who planned all of it x) )!

And as always, thanks for reading and commenting!