Chapter Text
Dean had wanted a supernatural pet for as long as he could remember. He still remembered the first time he saw a phoenix hatching from its ashes on tv. Growing up, he'd begged and pleaded for something cool, but his dad had always shut him down with some gruff excuse like ‘we don’t need another mouth to feed’ . Apartments he'd rented later had always frowned upon magical companions, citing insurance liabilities or noise complaints. But now, finally, he had his own place - a small but sturdy house with a large backyard and enough room inside, and he'd waited until he was settled in good and proper. Today was the day he'd been anticipating since he signed the papers and the keys were dropped in his palm.
The Supernatural Creature Emporium was exactly what he'd expected it would be, packed to the rafters with exotic sounds and scents. Incense mingled with the earthy aroma of straw and spiced food pellets, undercut by something vaguely floral, like magic itself had a scent. Soft chirps, rustling wings, and occasional squawks punctuated the quiet hum that kept the place running smoothly.
His boots squeaked slightly on the warped linoleum as Dean wandered from one enclosure to the next with his heart racing like a kid at a carnival. He paused to admire a young gryphon fluffing its feathers and preening itself with an air of regality, its beak clicking curiously. He could see it now, walking proudly alongside him during morning walks, turning neighbours' heads. Hell, that alone would be worth it just for the reaction on Sam’s face next time he visited.
Next, he crouched to observe a trio of fire-lizards - miniature dragons no larger than cats, their scales shimmering with iridescent colours. One bumped affectionately against the glass toward him, its tiny claws scrabbling eagerly. They'd make cheerful company, curled up by the fireplace on cold nights.
His fingers grazed across the glass front of an enclosure holding a small white fox with two tails that flicked in opposite directions, its fur sparkling like frost. It blinked sleepy silver eyes at him, stretching languidly before settling back into a nap. Beautiful, but probably high maintenance.
Each creature promised a different future - a companion to fill the lonely spaces, a spark of something special to light up ordinary days. Dean hadn’t felt how much he really needed that until now. He felt a buoyant swell of happiness as he explored, convinced he’d find the perfect match somewhere amid these supernatural wonders.
Dean was just leaning down to read a plaque for some furball with antlers when he heard the soft clack of shoes approaching. A moment later, a man slid in beside him, with a low, polished voice that was trying way too hard to sound casual.
“Well, well,” the man said, “Now you look like someone with an eye for the extraordinary.”
Dean straightened, his eyebrows lifting as he turned to face the speaker. The guy was maybe in his late forties, though his hair was dyed too dark to tell for sure, and his smile looked like it had been practised in the mirror until it lacked any sincerity. He wore a deep burgundy waistcoat that had probably once been expensive and now just looked tired. His teeth gleamed too white, and his hands were too clean for someone who ran a creature emporium.
Dean didn’t like him. Couldn’t have said why, exactly, just that there was something in the slick way he looked at you, like he already had your wallet and was just deciding how much change you’d get back.
“Name’s Del,” the man said, sticking out a hand. “Owner, curator, caretaker. You’re in good hands here.”
Dean shook it reluctantly. “ ‘m just browsing.”
“Of course, of course,” Del said smoothly, as if that were the best thing he could’ve possibly heard. “That’s how all the best choices start. You’ve got a good eye - I can tell. Let me show you a few of our premium companions. Rare stock.. And trainable too. Absolutely showstopping.”
Before Dean could protest, the guy was already moving, gesturing toward a long display row of cages that shimmered faintly. Inside were creatures that looked expensive. A silver-scaled basilisk curled around itself like a crown. An almiraj with a horn that shifted colours like oil on water. Some kind of hybrid bird-cat with glowing eyes that followed every movement with eerie precision.
“These are our top-of-the-line creatures,” said Del in a slick, syrupy voice. “Imported under special licenses. Highly sought after and perfect for someone who knows how to handle something a little.. special.”
Dean bit back a laugh. The guy was laying it on thicker than peanut butter on toast.
“They’re.. cool,” Dean offered, noncommittally.
“But maybe not you , huh?” Del’s eyes narrowed just a touch, then flicked up and down Dean’s body like he was recalibrating. “You look like someone who wants a companion. Not just a showpiece.”
Dean folded his arms, wary now. “Like I said, I’m just looking.”
“Of course.” The smile didn’t drop, but the interest cooled a notch. “Take your time.”
Del stepped back with a small bow, disappearing behind a stack of tanks like a magician who couldn’t quite pull the vanishing act properly. Dean watched him go, his jaw tightening just a little. There was something in the way the guy had said ‘ special’ that didn’t sit right. Something in the way he looked at his own creatures like they were price tags wearing skin.
Dean turned back to the furball with antlers, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. He drifted away from the premium cases, the glitter and bright plumage leaving a faint sour taste in his mouth now. Del's sales pitch had taken some of the shine off the place.
He wandered toward the back of the store, half-hearted now, hands shoved in his jacket pockets as he passed lesser cages with half-lidded eyes peering out. A few growled or chittered low when he passed, but Dean barely glanced at them.
His eyes caught on a larger cage, tucked away behind a few empty units. This one didn’t have the soft lighting or padded edges. The bars were thick and slightly rusted, and there was dust along the base. A hand-scrawled placard hung crookedly from one corner with smudged, but legible letters:
“Warning: Not Friendly.”
No returns. Previously owned.
Dean stared for a moment as curiosity tugged at him like a slow, nagging thing, and he stepped closer. Inside was what looked like a crude nest (if you could call it that). It was more just a scatter of worn-out blankets, straw and old newspapers, and the occasional loose feather. It smelled faintly of old iron and something scorched.
Curled in the centre of it was-
“Holy shit,” Dean breathed, before he even realised he’d spoken.
-an angel.
Even hunched the way he was, the wings gave it away - large and folded tight around his body, greyed and greasy with disuse. The feathers were dulled and dirty, some bent or missing entirely, like something had torn them out. His dark hair stuck up in messy tufts in some areas, other patches were matted down. The angel lay on his side, facing away from the bars, his back rising and falling slow and shallow. His clothes were thin and clinging to him, too light for the cold air back here. The outline of his ribs and hips was painfully clear, like his body had forgotten softness. What little of his face Dean could see was still. The creature wasn’t sleeping, but he seemed distant, with a blank expression and hollow-eyes. There was no glow about him. No light or hum of power.. He seemed quiet, and the kind of tired that folded inward and never came back out.
Dean stood there, frozen, every instinct he had going tight and strange in his chest. The excitement from earlier was gone, blown out like a candle, and in its place something heavier had settled.
“You wouldn’t want that one.”
Dean jerked slightly as Del’s voice materialised behind him again just a hair too close. The man appeared like a bad smell, hands clasped behind his back, smile already set in place.
“Not your type,” Del added with a tone like he knew Dean personally. “Trust me.”
Dean didn’t answer him as he turned his gaze back to the cage. Del stepped forward with a sigh and nudged the cage hard with the toe of his boot causing it to rattle sharply. The figure inside didn’t flinch, only giving the slight twitch of one wing, like a man brushing off a fly and not bothering to look up.
“He’s difficult,” Del said. “Had him for a while now. Came in after a.. shall we say, disciplinary rehoming.” He chuckled like that was funny. “Passed around a few owners. Nobody could get it to behave.”
Dean frowned, crouching down slowly, his eyes still fixed on the creature in the nest.
Del kept talking, his voice full of smug dismissal. “Doesn't sing, doesn't do tricks - barely eats. Good thing too cause I'da tossed him if he were costin' me. Thing just sulks in the corner like some moody brat. Not very angelic, huh?”
Dean wasn’t listening anymore. He shifted lower, the smell of filth and feathers was stronger down here, and he rested his arms on his knees as he peered through the bars. There was a streak of dried blood near one of the corners, long having since browned with age, and Dean noticed a band of iron tight around the angel’s throat.. From what he could see, the angel’s features were still sharp, and he had a strong frame beneath the grime. He hadn’t moved, but Dean leaned in anyway, his voice going soft.
“Hey,” he said. “Hey, lil’ buddy.”
The angel stirred. A slow shift of feathers and limbs, a stretch of creaking silence, and then he turned his head just enough for Dean to see his face properly. And fuck.. Even filthy, even starved and bruised by whatever had happened to him before this, he really was beautiful . His cheekbones looked like they could cut. His mouth was unsmiling, the corners turned down with natural disdain, but it was the eyes that held Dean in place. Blue.. deep and vivid, even through the grime, like storms in the distance. There was something in them that hadn’t been snuffed out, even if everything else had. A glimmer of heat, buried under all the ash.
The angel met Dean’s gaze with an expression that was flat, unimpressed, and vaguely hostile. Then he spoke, his voice low and rough, dry as unused parchment.
“I bite.”
Dean startled, taken off guard. The voice didn’t match the look. He had expected something eerie or otherworldly, but it was.. human. Raw and worn thin.. filled with a kind of bone-deep ‘don’t-give-a-shit’ that made Dean’s chest tighten a little. He huffed a quiet breath through his nose, a half-smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth despite himself.
“Yeah?” he murmured. “You and me both.”
It was insane probably. Dean wasn’t qualified to deal with something like this - whatever the hell this was. A filthy, half-starved angel who looked more like a prisoner than a pet. Nothing about this was cute, or easy, or safe. But still.. he couldn’t walk away. Not after seeing those eyes. Something had flickered in them, buried deep under the dirt and the detachment, under whatever Del and the others had done to him, there was still something alive in there. Something burning. Dean felt it settle in his gut.
He glanced once more at the nest, the ragged wings, the narrow shoulders hunched beneath them, and thought someone needs to help him. He could do this. He’d just.. take it slow. Clean him up and give him a safe space. How hard could it be?
As if on cue, Del gave a sharp, wet-sounding little laugh from behind him.
“You serious.” It wasn’t quite a question, more like disbelieving delight. “I should warn you - no refunds. Especially not for that creature.”
Dean’s jaw ticked slightly. He didn’t say anything, but the air around him shifted and sharpened. Del paused, then shrugged like it was nothing.
“Well. If you’re really set on this disaster..” He gestured toward the front of the store. “Come on. Let’s get you settled up.”
Dean stood, his gaze lingering one last time on the angel in the cage. The angel still hadn’t moved. His gaze had drifted away again, fixed on nothing. Dean followed Del without another word as he led the way to an old cluttered counter where the register sat. He ducked behind it with a grunt and pulled out a battered leather folder stuffed with yellowing forms.
“Right,” he muttered, flipping pages. “Standard ownership transfer. No refunds, no liability for damages, behaviour, or trauma. Not responsible for any.. spiritual inconsistencies that might manifest. Blah blah blah.”
Dean watched him, a pit forming low in his stomach. Del slid a paper forward and dropped a cracked plastic pen on top. “Sign there.”
Dean glanced down at the form. It was handwritten and barely legible in places. The angel’s species was scrawled in red ink - Celestial (M) - followed by a vague identification code and a note that read ‘Multiple Prior Owners’.
Then his eyes caught the price. It was high. Way higher than any of the other creatures he’d looked at, making him pause. Slowly, he looked up at Del. The man was grinning, wide and greasy, like he’d just won a bet no one else knew was happening.
“I thought you were trying to get rid of him,” Dean said flatly.
Del shrugged, completely unbothered. “I am. But you’re the sucker who wants to buy him.”
Dean’s nostrils flared slightly, but he said nothing. He could technically afford it.. barely. Might be he’d have to pick up a few extra shifts once his vacation was up but hey, it wasn’t exactly what you’d expect to pay for an angel.. He grabbed the pen and signed. Dean paid as Del gathered everything up haphazardly, then shoved the papers into a thin manilla envelope and dropped it onto the counter like trash.
“Congratulations,” he said in a dry tone. “You’re now the proud owner of a damaged, underperforming celestial asset.”
Then he reached under the counter again and pulled out some sleek metal device, no bigger than a remote, with two buttons and a dull red light at its centre. Dean took it slowly, turning it over in his hand. It felt heavier than it looked.
“For the suppressor,” Del said, already disinterested. “It’s implanted at the base of his right wing. Dulls the grace, keeps whatever power he’s got from sparking. And if he tries to fly?” He made a flicking motion. “Pain. Nausea. Full shutdown. Can kill him if you need it to.”
Dean’s stomach twisted. He stared at the device a moment longer, then slipped it into his jacket pocket with a quiet nod.
“I won’t need it,” he said.
Del didn’t even look up. “Sure.”
Once Dean had packed the paperwork away under his arm, Del led the way back through the aisles with his usual swagger, whistling something tuneless under his breath. Dean followed, heart thudding a little too fast, his palms already clammy. The angel hadn’t moved since their last exchange. He was still curled in that ragged nest, cloaked in dust and resignation.
“Alright, featherbag,” Del said, stopping in front of the bars. “Up.” He yanked the cage door open with a metallic screech and barked, “On your feet. You’re outta here. You’ve got a new owner.”
The angel didn’t so much as twitch. Del let out a sharp breath through his nose and stepped forward, boot striking into the angel’s ribs with a dull thud. Dean moved before he could think, fury spiking up his spine, hand halfway to Del’s shoulder like he might rip him off his feet.
“Hey!” he snapped. “Watch it!”
Del glanced back, unfazed. “Relax. I’m not gonna scuff your new toy. He can take it.”
Dean’s stomach turned. The angel stirred at last, slowly, like stiff limbs protesting movement. He pushed unsteadily to his feet, wings hanging heavy and lopsided at his back, one dragging slightly on the floor. He didn’t make eye contact, barely looking at Dean at all. He stepped out of the cage when prompted, head low, movements precise and automatic, like he’d done this a hundred times and learned exactly how to do it without getting struck again.
After removing the metal collar from his neck, Del stepped back, dusting his hands off on his vest, and smirked. “I better not see you again,” he said over his shoulder as Dean turned to go, the angel shuffling soundlessly behind him. Dean didn’t reply.
Outside, the sunlight hit like a slap. It was too bright and warm, feeling far too normal for the cold thing now shadowing his heels. He glanced back just to make sure the angel was still there, and he was. Dean, unsure what else to do, cleared his throat and muttered, “We’ll.. we’ll get you cleaned up. You’ll have food. Warm place to sleep. I’m not gonna yell or hurt you or anything.”
The angel offered no response.
Dean swallowed and tried again. “Hey, man. You don’t have to worry - I’ll give you a good home.”
And he meant it - every word - but in his mind, it was still a pet he was bringing home. Something fragile and in need of fixing. Something quiet he could heal with kindness and time. He didn’t yet know the difference between broken and caged, or rescue and possession.
Didn’t yet know what it meant to belong to something that once had wings made for the stars..
They walked in silence. The angel trailed behind Dean by a few paces, head down, bare feet soundless on the cracked sidewalk like he’d trained himself not to exist too loudly.
Dean didn’t know what he expected. Gratitude? A thank you? Some moment where the angel realised he’d been saved? There was none. He unlocked the car and opened the passenger door with an awkward gesture, like that alone could prove he wasn’t like the others, and the angel climbed in without a word, wings folding in on themselves, cramming into the confined space like he was used to making himself small.
Dean sat behind the wheel, started the engine, and let the silence settle like dust. He glanced sideways just once, and saw the angel staring out the window with unfocused eyes and an unreadable expression. His shoulders were still drawn inward, wings pressed tight like they didn’t know how to rest anymore. Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter than he meant to.
I’ll give him a good home, he told himself again. Food, safety, and patience.. those had to count for something - didn’t they? And yet.. beneath all his well-meaning promises, a doubt had begun to stir, quiet and insistent.
He didn’t even know this creature’s name. Didn’t know what had been done to him, what was still being carried in those too-quiet silences. He didn’t know if kindness alone could undo all that cruelty, or if he was enough for the job.
Beside him, the angel said nothing. He simply sat there, skin pale against the seatbelt, wing feathers twitching in reflex. A passenger with no destination, and seemingly no hope, only the road ahead, and a man who had purchased him.
Can something so broken ever truly heal?
*