Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The darkness of the warehouse clung to the walls like smoke, thick and curling, swallowing every whisper of light as Castiel crept forward, each step calculated but wary. The air was still, too still—charged with a tension that raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck. He had insisted on handling this lead alone, letting Sam and Dean pursue the parallel trail of missing magical artifacts. But this one—this disappearance—felt personal.

A missing angel blade. A detail too small to mean much to most, but for Castiel, it rang like a warning bell. Now, his own blade was gripped tight in his hand as he moved deeper into the shadows.

A sudden whoosh echoed around him—then flame.

Holy fire erupted in a wide ring, crackling to life with a sound like bones snapping in the heat. Castiel froze, his stomach dropping as the flames cut off every path of retreat. A figure stood just beyond the flickering curtain, outlined in amber light, her silhouette calm, confident.

"Ah, you angels," the woman drawled in a crisp British accent, amusement dripping from every syllable. "Always walking into traps like you’re invincible. And always so terribly predictable."

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?” he growled, angling his blade defensively.

The woman—brunette, deceptively elegant in heels and a tailored coat—cocked her head with a smile. “We’ll get to that, angel. First, I want to see the merchandise.”

She extended her hand—and Castiel was crushed to his knees by an unseen force, his breath caught mid-lung. Demonic power surged around him, dark and buzzing with something wrong, something ancient. It wasn’t the kind of magic he was used to—this was deeper, older, more violent.

His body trembled under the strain. Then, without his permission, his wings burst into visibility, yanked from their unseen plane. They unfurled behind him in a snap of light and shadow, spanning the holy fire circle—imposing, black as spilled ink, shimmering faintly like oil in water.

“There they are,” the demon said, circling him with greedy delight. “Hmph. Not the prettiest I’ve seen—rather grotesque compared to your siblings—but they’ll fetch a price all the same.”

Castiel glared up at her, chest heaving, wings twitching as they strained against the invisible bonds. Dozens of eyes blinked open across the thick, iridescent feathers—some human, others not—scanning the room, the flames, and the demon. A grotesque kaleidoscope of awareness, all watching.

“My wings?” he asked, voice low with disbelief.

“Of course,” she replied lightly. “Not intact, obviously. The feathers alone will go for thousands, even in that... unfortunate color. But an eye?” Her voice dipped with hunger. “Now that’s a collector’s item.”

An angel blade slipped from her sleeve like a secret, catching the light.

“Let’s begin, shall we?”

The ceiling groaned above him. Metal shrieked. Meat hooks dropped with a vicious snap, embedding deep into the meat of his wings. Castiel screamed as they yanked upward, hoisting him just off the ground— toes grazing the floor with no strength to hold himself steady. Another hook shot up from beneath, embedding themselves into his forearms and anchoring him in place.

He choked on a sob. “Who are you?”

The woman smiled, stepping inside the circle as though nothing dangerous surrounded them. “Oh, apologies. Where are my manners?” She tilted her head. “Name’s Bela. Your precious hunters know me well—let’s call this... repayment. For what they cost me.”

She stepped closer, brushing her fingers along his quivering feathers.

“I don’t think you’ll be needing these anymore,” she murmured—and without hesitation, drove the blade into one of the blinking eyes.

Castiel’s scream tore through the warehouse, raw and primal. Grace, molten and silvery, spilled like blood down the length of his wing, dripping onto the concrete below. He thrashed against the hooks, sobbing, breath catching in his throat as the pain became too much to process.

“Shh,” Bela cooed mockingly. “We’re just getting started.”

Time dissolved.

By the time the battle broke out—Sam’s gunshots ringing out in the distance, Dean’s hoarse voice shouting his name—Castiel no longer fought the chains. His wings hung in tatters, trembling, covered in streaks of grace and blood. Sobs wracked his body silently, the only signs of life left in him.

He didn’t flinch when Bela fell.

He barely registered Dean driving a blade into her back, didn’t move as the demon screamed and turned to ash.

Dean was in front of him now—muddy boots crunching through puddles of grace on the floor.

“Cas—hey. Cas.” Dean’s voice was low, urgent.

Castiel didn’t respond.

He just stared at the floor, eyes vacant, grace pooling at his feet like a reflection of everything he’d just lost.

The last of Bela’s ashes drifted to the ground, the warehouse falling eerily silent in her absence. Smoke still curled from the burned-out circle of holy fire, its remnants hissing against the concrete like dying serpents.

Dean stood frozen for a second, hand still clutching the hilt of the blade he'd driven into her spine. The rush of adrenaline was already souring in his veins, and his eyes were locked on the trembling figure strung up in front of him.

"Cas," he said again, voice hoarse. "Hey. Look at me."

No response. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Just the quiet, ragged sound of breath and the faint clink of chains straining against the angel's weight.

Dean turned sharply. “Sam!”

Sam sprinted in seconds later, breathing heavy, blood splattered across his shirt and a gash running down one arm. He stopped dead when he saw Castiel—suspended in the air like a mutilated saint, wings shredded, feathers littering the floor around him like fallen ash.

“Oh my God,” Sam whispered.

“We need to get him down,” Dean said, already moving toward the base of the chains, yanking at the pulleys and rigging mechanisms embedded in the ceiling beams.

Sam jumped in beside him, working through the snarl of demon-made locks and spellwork with fast hands and gritted teeth. “These hooks… they’re laced with something. Enochian maybe. Strong enough to hold him.”

Dean didn’t care. Together, they managed to unhook the first pair of meat hooks from Castiel’s wings. The sound that followed—wet, raw tearing—sent a cold jolt down both brothers' spines.

Castiel didn't scream.

He just slumped forward, breath catching in a weak wheeze, body twitching with what little strength he had left.

As the final hook fell away, Dean caught him around the chest, lowering him slowly to the ground. Castiel’s body was a mess of blood and iridescent streaks of leaking grace. His wings dragged behind him like broken banners, too torn to fold properly, the few remaining eyes closed or dimmed.

Dean knelt beside him. “Cas. Hey, stay with me, alright? You're gonna be okay.”

For a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t going to respond. Then his head tilted weakly toward Dean, eyes barely open, voice a dry rasp.

“Dean…”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. We’ve got you.”

Castiel’s bloodied fingers fumbled for Dean’s sleeve. “I… I can’t heal this. Not now.”

Dean swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “Don’t worry about that. Just hang on.”

“Need to get you out. Safe.”

“Cas, no—”

But it was too late.

With a final flicker of light, his Grace shimmered around him, pulsing like a dying star. He turned his head toward Sam, gaze unfocused but still resolute.

“Burn it,” he croaked. “Everything she took… feathers… eyes… don’t let anyone use it. Burn it all.”

Sam nodded grimly, already moving to sweep up the scattered remains in a scrap of canvas. “I’ve got it.”

Dean barely had time to get a hand on Castiel’s shoulder before the angel's Grace flared again—blinding white-blue light erupting in a flash.

The warehouse vanished.

They reappeared with a jolt, the sudden change in air pressure and temperature telling Dean they were back in the bunker’s war room. Books on the table rustled from the wind of their arrival.

Dean barely had time to get his bearings before Castiel collapsed in his arms, completely limp.

“Cas!”

He lowered him gently to the floor, checking for breath, for signs of life. The angel was still conscious—barely—but his eyes were glazed, lips parted in silent pain. His wings flickered out of sight as though his Grace couldn’t maintain the projection anymore.

“I got you, man,” Dean muttered, pressing a hand to the wound on Castiel’s side, though there was nothing he could do to stop the bleeding—not with Grace pouring out like water through a sieve.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” Dean said, voice cracking. “Why didn’t you wait for us?”

Castiel didn’t answer.

He was already slipping under, consciousness fading as the pain caught up to him and the last of his Grace extinguished like a candle in the wind.

Chapter Text

Bunker — War Room

Dean dragged a heavy breath into his lungs, wiping his sleeve across his face as he knelt beside Castiel’s unconscious body. The angel was unnaturally still—too still. His skin was a sickly pale, slick with a mixture of blood and grace, and Dean could see the damage carved into him in layers. Human injuries mixed with celestial ones, bone-deep and searing.

“Hang on, Cas,” he muttered, more to himself than anything. “You just had to play the martyr, didn’t you?”

Dean hoisted Castiel up under the arms and half-carried, half-dragged him through the halls of the bunker. The trek to the infirmary felt longer than usual, every second marked by the dull slap of footsteps and the slow drip of blood trailing behind them.

The angel didn’t wake. His breaths came ragged and shallow, as though every one cost more than he had left.

Dean set him down gently on one of the cots, grabbing a towel from the cabinet and pressing it to the worst of the wounds. The blood didn’t stop. The grace wouldn’t clot. It wasn’t like patching up a bullet wound or sewing flesh—this was cosmic, wrong, wrong.

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean growled, voice low and tight as he worked. “You don’t get to go out like this. Not now.”

He didn’t even know what he was doing anymore. Bandaging an angel. Wiping down mutilated wings he could barely see. He found himself murmuring apologies under his breath—half for the sting of the alcohol, half for not being fast enough.

At some point, Castiel stirred, a whisper of movement, lips parting faintly.

Dean leaned closer. “What?”

“…hurts,” Castiel rasped, barely audible.

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Yeah. No kidding.”

He kept working in silence, pushing back the panic that threatened to drown him.

He didn’t stop until Castiel was clean—at least mostly. Wings folded back into whatever invisible space they occupied. What little grace remained inside him pulsed faintly, still alive. Dean sat back on his heels, watching his chest rise and fall.

“Stupid, reckless bastard,” Dean muttered. But his voice cracked on the last word.

Warehouse — Sam

Smoke curled into the night sky, thick and bitter. Sam stood a few yards away, arms crossed, jaw tight. The flames flickered in the center of the warehouse floor, devouring what little remained of Bela’s twisted collection.

Feathers turned to ash in seconds. Eyes—too many, too unnatural—boiled away like oil on fire. The scent wasn’t human, wasn’t anything Sam could describe. It made his skin crawl.

He’d found one feather, black and glossy with that eerie shimmer, clutched in a crushed brass cage.

Bela had planned to sell them. To trade pieces of Castiel like he was nothing.

Sam threw the cage in without hesitation.

The flames roared.

He stood there until it was all gone. Until the fire had died down to embers, and the only sound left was the whisper of cooling metal and his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.

Then, with one last glance around the room—at the hooks still stained with blood and grace—he turned and left. 

Bunker — A Day Later

Dean sat in a chair beside the cot, arms crossed, exhaustion pulling at every muscle. Castiel still hadn’t woken. His breathing had stabilized, but it was shallow, slow. Whatever strength he had left was being used just to exist.

The door creaked open behind him.

Dean didn’t turn. “You get it done?”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly, stepping into the room. “All of it. Gone.”

“Good.”

Sam hesitated in the doorway. “How is he?”

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “Alive. Barely.”

They both stared at the still figure in silence.

Sam finally spoke again. “What the hell happened to him, Dean?”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t know. But someone planned that. Had gear, spells, traps. Like she was collecting him.”

“Like a trophy.”

“Yeah.”

Neither spoke for a long moment.

Eventually, Dean stood, stretched, and looked down at Castiel again. “He’ll make it.”

Sam nodded slowly. “Yeah. He will.”

But in his chest, Dean wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince his brother—or himself.

Bunker — Infirmary, the Next Day

The first sign Castiel was waking was the flicker of movement—barely a twitch of his fingers. Then a sharp, hoarse inhale, like surfacing from deep water.

Dean looked up instantly from where he’d been slouched in the corner, wide awake despite the bags under his eyes.

“Cas?”

The angel didn’t answer right away. His eyes fluttered open—bloodshot, unfocused, dimmer than usual. His lips parted, but no sound came. A second passed. Then another.

And then, suddenly, the lights in the room dimmed and flickered.

Feathers—long, torn, black as pitch—unfurled from Castiel’s back like the slow stretch of a dying storm. They sprawled across the cot, the floor, even folding into the airspace behind him. One wing trembled and dragged across the wall, trailing more iridescent feathers in its wake.

“Whoa—hey, hey!” Dean stood quickly, hands raised.

Castiel groaned softly, trying to shift, but the movement made his wings jolt like injured limbs. They didn’t disappear. They didn’t even try.

Sam stepped into the doorway just in time to see it. His eyes widened. “Dean…”

“Yeah, I see it,” Dean snapped. “Cas. You okay?”

Castiel opened his mouth again, this time managing words, though his voice was like gravel and smoke. “They… won’t go back.”

Dean stepped closer, cautiously. “Your wings?”

Castiel nodded once, barely.

“I can’t… hide them. I’ve tried. The damage is too deep. The veil between—what you see and what is—it's… gone for me now.”

Dean looked over the spread of wings again. They were ragged, many feathers charred or missing, others slick with dried grace and blood. Some sections looked barely attached. One of them twitched violently, then went still.

Sam walked forward, eyes scanning the wreckage. “So what, they’re permanent now?”

“They’re not meant to be like this,” Castiel said, grimacing. “They were always meant to exist beyond sight—except in death or in battle. Not in plain view. Not like this.”

Dean sat down beside the cot, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “That demon… she meant to do this to you.”

Castiel didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

Sam spoke softly, but with weight. “She stripped pieces of you, Cas. The eyes, the feathers… Like they were currency.”

Castiel closed his eyes. “I remember.”

They let the silence sit for a while. The soft rustle of wings filled the space like a constant whisper.

Eventually, Dean broke it.

“We need to talk about what comes next.”

Castiel didn’t answer, and that told Dean enough. He pressed on anyway. “You can’t go out like this. People are gonna see you. You’re exposed. You can’t even fit through a damn doorway without taking out the trim.”

Sam crossed his arms. “There might be something in the lore, though. About celestial tethering or—what was it—‘binding space to Grace’? Something Enochian, maybe. We can look into it.”

Castiel finally opened his eyes again. “Even if you find something… this isn’t reversible. Not completely. What was done was ritualistic. Ancient. It tore holes in the fabric between my form and this one.”

Dean looked like he wanted to punch something. He stood up, pacing. “So what? You just walk around like this now? Wings dragging behind you like—”

“I will adapt,” Castiel interrupted.

“You shouldn’t have to!” Dean snapped.

“But I must.”

The silence returned—heavier, now. The kind that pressed on ribs.

Finally, Sam exhaled. “We’ll keep you out of sight for now. If anyone gets wind of what happened, they’ll come looking. Other demons. Collectors. Maybe even some of Heaven’s trash.”

Dean leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable. “Guess the bunker’s your cage now.”

“It’s my sanctuary,” Castiel corrected gently. “For now.”

Sam turned and walked toward the door. “I’ll check the lore. See what I can dig up. Maybe there’s something to help with the pain, if nothing else.”

Dean didn’t move, just stared down at the ruined feathers splayed across the floor. “We’ll figure it out.”

Castiel closed his eyes again. His wings, while limp and wounded, rustled faintly—more animal than divine now.

“I know you will,” he whispered.

Dean didn’t say anything.

He just pulled a chair closer.

And sat.

The bunker had gone silent in a way it hadn’t in years. Not empty—never that—but reverent. Like even its stone and steel knew what had happened to the angel now walking its halls.

They hadn't healed, Castiel's Wings.

He had tried. Dean had watched him willing his Grace into the damage. All it had done was exhaust him.

Now, even the hum of power that usually clung to Castiel like static felt thin. Faded.

---

Sam stood in the infirmary. “The lore’s a mess,” he muttered. “Angel wings aren’t supposed to exist here in a visible plane. Not like this. What she did... it tore a veil that isn’t meant to be torn.”

Dean didn’t look up from the glass of whiskey in his hand. “So we’re saying it’s permanent.”

Sam hesitated. “Maybe not... permanent. But we’re talking high-level Enochian rituals, stuff lost with the fall. Most of it requires either a full choir of angels or access to Heaven’s Vault.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah. Not exactly a road trip.”

Before Sam could respond, the lights flickered again.

Dean was on his feet in an instant. “That’s the third time today.”

Castiel perked up on his cot, wings curled behind him in a way that almost looked protective. One of the eye-markings on the upper right colvert blinked, swiveling as if searching the air.

“I felt something,” he said quietly.

Sam looked up. “Another surge?”

“Yes. From the east. And... something is watching. Not from here. From above.”

Dean swore. “You saying Heaven’s paying attention?”

“I’m saying they already know.”

---

Later that night, a sigil bloomed in the ceiling above the bunker. Not one carved by a blade, but branded into the metal itself.

Castiel lay beneath it, unmoving.

“It’s a marker,” he said flatly. “They’ve tagged the bunker.”

Dean looked up at the glowing Enochian. “For what?”

Castiel didn’t answer.

But Sam did. “For observation.”

The temperature dropped. Feathers rustled.

Dean turned to Castiel. “What does that mean?”

Cas turned, the weight of his wings nearly folding him over.

“It means they’re deciding whether to kill me or not.”