Chapter Text
Dean Winchester is afraid.
It’s not like he’s never been scared before. He spends his days and nights ganking evil sons of bitches, which means he finds himself in a battle for his life on a pretty regular basis. He’s come close to death scores of time, even died more than once. Fear is pretty much his constant companion, just as it is for every hunter.
But in all his battle-scarred life, nothing has ever frightened him quite as much as Castiel, angel of the Lord.
Cas is his best friend, and recently became his lover. He and Cas have been working together, looking for the angel tablet that might be able to lock up Heaven's doors for good. But when they found it in a dark, dank crypt, Cas had seemed to decide it was his, and his alone, and when Dean had tried to keep Cas from fluttering away with it, Cas had—
Well, he’d gone darkside.
Now he’s beating the shit out of Dean in the shadowed crypt, and despite Dean’s sobs of pain and muttered pleas, he doesn’t seem inclined to stop. He’s no longer Cas, Dean's friend and lover, but Castiel, angel of the Lord.
And it’s fucking terrifying.
Dean has a quick flashback to the night when he decided to agree to become Michael’s vessel. That night, Cas lost patience with him and beat the crap out of him in an alley. But that was a long time ago, and they’ve come a long way since then. Their relationship is a lot more equal now. Anyway, Cas had only been angry then—mad enough to hurt Dean, but certainly not mad enough to kill him.
But now Cas is more than merely angry. He's murderous. Dean sees the angel’s blade drop into his hand, sees the stone-cold look of righteous anger on Cas’ face, and ice runs through his veins.
This isn’t Cas, he thinks desperately. It’s not. He’d trust the angel with his life, and he knows, he knows, that Cas would never pull a blade on him with deadly intent.
Except somewhere, very deep down, he’s not quite as sure of that as he wants to be.
“Cas,” he says urgently, backing away. “Cas, I don't know what the hell is wrong with you, but if you're in there and you can hear me, you don't have to do this.”
Cas hits him with the fist holding the blade, and Dean does his best to block it with the tablet. Even so, the blow sends him reeling backward, into a wall.
“Cas, fight this!” he yells. “This is not you! Fight it!”
Cas strikes him again, and he slams into the stone wall again. The tablet takes some of the blow, but it’s not big enough to make an effective shield, and Cas is so much stronger than he is, a Heaven-forged weapon of God. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, echoing the thunder outside.
And then Cas turns from him, grabbing at his head, and shouts, “What have you done to me, Naomi?”
“Naomi?” Dean stares blankly, because no one else is here with them. It’s just him and Cas. “Who’s Naomi?”
For just a minute, he’s looking at Cas, his friend and lover, and he’s worried about him, because Cas is clutching frantically at his head, his eyes wide and wild, looking like he’s in major distress. But then Cas’ hands drop away from his head, and he turns to look at Dean. There’s ice in his blue gaze, the emotionless expression of a seraph about to smite the unworthy, and Dean knows this isn’t Cas. It’s Castiel, angel of the Lord, and Dean is in very deep shit.
And then Cas’ wings manifest.
Dean can hear the ripping sound of fabric as they burst through Cas’ layers of clothing. They unfurl, flaring wide, far too impossibly massive for the human vessel that supports them. It’s so dark that Dean can’t see them properly, can’t see the beauty of them, the deep blue feathers striated with black and tipped with silver. All he can see is the power and the strength and the otherworldly glory of them.
Last time he’d seen them, he’d touched them, played with them, until Cas whimpered beneath him, and then he’d made love to Cas while the great wings wrapped around him, holding him in an angelic embrace. He’d told Cas over and over how beautiful they were, caressed them endlessly, teased Cas by tugging on them and licking at them and stroking them until the angel writhed beneath him, helpless with ecstasy.
Lost in the passion of that night, he’d almost forgotten how fucking scary they were.
He falls to his knees at the sight of those wings, unable to stop himself from groveling. He’s suddenly aware of how small and fragile and human he is, how utterly worthless. He is nothing, nothing but a speck of dust eddying in the winds of the cosmos, cringing before something much greater and vaster than himself.
Castiel strides toward him, an avenging angel bent on destruction, his wings spread out on either side of him. Flashes of lightning illuminate him as he approaches.
Dean is already on his knees, begging silently for mercy, but there is no mercy to be had. Cas strikes him across the face, harder than before. Dean can feel his flesh being torn and bruised by his best friend’s fist. It hurts, inside and out, and he whimpers pitifully. He tries to block the next blow, but Castiel catches his arm and breaks the bone casually, the way a human might snap a twig. Dean cries out in agony and drops the stone he's holding. The stone shatters as it strikes the floor, exposing the tablet within, but Dean hardly notices. His vision is hazy and red with pain.
Naomi. The name that Cas spoke flutters through his mind, and he holds onto that random sliver of thought desperately. He doesn’t know who Naomi is, but he is certain she’s compelling Cas to do this somehow. Because this isn’t Cas. It can’t be Cas. He assures himself of that, over and over, as Castiel beats him. This isn’t Cas. Can’t be Cas.
Cas doesn’t seem to remember the tablet's existence. He could just reach down and take the damn thing. It’s not like there’s anything Dean could do to stop him. But instead he’s beating Dean harder, almost mechanically, as if something else is controlling his blows.
Dean has no hope of defending himself against a warrior of Heaven, but he raises a pleading hand anyway. “Cas...” he rasps out. “This isn't you. This isn't you.”
Cas says nothing, just keeps whacking away at him. One of Dean's eyes is swollen shut now, and his vision in the other eye is blurred—probably a concussion, the professional, detached part of his brain informs him-- but he can still see Cas looming over him, the dark wings spread wide, a blue, unearthly glow in his eyes.
Dean hears himself whimpering Cas’ name over and over, a pitiful plea for mercy, but Cas doesn’t appear to hear it. He is entirely focused on his mission now, and his mission seems to be pounding Dean into a pulp. Dean forces out more words past split lips and broken teeth.
“I know you're in there,” he says, his voice hoarse with pain. Cas raises his angel blade, and Dean knows he’s about to die. He’s scared, but not just for himself. He’s scared of what this is going to do to Cas, once he comes out of whatever weird fugue state he’s in. He thinks of Cas's probable reaction to knowing he killed his best friend and his lover with his own weapon, the way he'll feel with the memory of Dean's bloodied face haunting him, and the thought gives him strength to keep talking through the pain.
“I know you can hear me. Cas…” His voice cracks, and he knows some of the moisture on his face isn’t blood, but tears. “It's me. It’s me, Cas. It’s Dean. And… I need you.”
Cas stands there for a long moment, the angel blade poised to strike, the awesome wings spread to their full span. There’s a distant expression on his face, like he’s listening to Dean, but maybe to something else as well. For a long moment, nothing happens except a flash of lightning and a low rumble of thunder.
And then suddenly the angel blade slips from Cas' hand and clatters to the stone floor. Dean falls back against the wall with a gasp.
Through his blurred vision, he can see Cas lean down to pick up the tablet. Golden light flares, and for an instant Dean can see the magnificent wings in their full glory, massive, terrifying. And then the light fades, and Cas reaches toward him.
Dean shies back, because the wings are still there, shadowed and ominous, and they scare him. Cas scares him.
“No,” he whimpers. “Cas… Cas…”
Cas’ hand extends toward him, and Dean tries feebly to protect himself, to block the next blow. But Cas’ hand touches the side of his head, very gently, and suddenly all the pain is gone. The bruises, the blood, the concussion, the broken arm, the shattered teeth, all washed away in an instant. Dean sags against the wall in profound relief.
There is a fluttering sound, and the wings are suddenly gone as well. Cas is himself again, a holy tax accountant in overlarge trench coat and crookedly knotted tie. Dean finds that he can rise. He gets slowly to his feet, still looking at Cas warily. Cas looks back at him, his eyes gentle and sane, and speaks in a low voice.
"I'm so sorry, Dean."