Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was dark in the cages. Everything was always dark. It smelled like blood and shit and men. The fumes of spilt alcohol seeped up from the floor, drowning the spittle and bird droppings in the dirt. The roosters yowled from their metal enclosures, pressing on the bars to no avail.

Proud voices echoed in the underground chamber, laughter and cheers filling the air. It was loud – loud enough that when the King stood up from his place to speak, the new silence was deafening.

“Gentlemen, get ready to place your bets. To our left, we have the state’s reigning champion, Angel Blade. Belongs to our ever-so-lovely Queen Abaddon. Blade is a beauty, yes – but once in the ring, he’s one ugly bastard. Won every home match of eighty.”

A rumble of discussion vibrated the air as the men were collectively impressed.

“Ah, impressive, yes! But here, on our right,” the King went on, sweeping his arm towards his own cages, “we have my dear, darling Dīn. Black-hearted devil, he is. His first ever fight, he tore the throat out of a rottweiler. Grisly mess.”

A second wave of vocal thought passed through the shadowed crowd, white scraps of paper passed along like buoy lights in a heaving, darkened sea. From inside his cage, Dīn saw the movements and recognised his fight was going to start soon.

Trembling minutes passed; bets were counted, drinks were poured. The gleam of Queen Abaddon’s red hair caught Dīn’s attention as the woman leaned over the fighting ring, a cage in her hands. There was a rooster in there with white plumage and a furious stance. Abaddon’s face was kept well away; she feared her own fighter.

“Ahh, now you,” the King said, approaching Dīn’s cage. The King’s black suit was the only clean thing in this place. Dīn’s cage shifted down into the King’s hands, and he was carried swiftly to the border of the arena.

The men sat in rings around the centre pit, jeering and anticipating the start of the fight. Their stomping feet shook the floor, and their gleeful roars advertised what they wanted: “To the death! To the death!”

Dīn scrambled back on his claws, trying to regain his balance as his cage was tipped towards the bloodied dust in the arena. The knives taped to his spurs clattered and caught on the bars of the cage, and Dīn felt fear, not wanting to be thrown into the pit. Every time he fought it left him hurting.

But then the King leaned down to whisper to him, and Dīn went calm, hearing his words. “Let’s go take a howl at that moon,” the King said.

Those words were his trigger: they turned Dīn into a creature of pure bloodlust.

The latch on his cage was lifted, and Dīn was thrown into the dust. On the other side of the arena, Angel Blade matched his landing; they immediately turned to face each other, heads down.

He and Angel Blade were the same size, but were opposites in colour. Dīn fought for the underground black pit, for his own arena, for his King. Angel Blade fought for the higher ground, the place out of the dark. Dīn had never been outside. He imagined there was light; the breeze always smelled of brightness.

Roosters bred as gamecocks had no crowns of red and no wattles under their beaks, nothing that could act as a disadvantage in a battle. Without those features, Angel Blade was a sleek animal; his intense blue eyes locked onto Dīn like lasers finding their target.

The crowd yelled, shouting, shouting, shouting. Dīn did not feel fear; the King’s words kept the fear at bay. He announced his battle cry, “Cock-a-doodle-doooo―!”

Angel Blade charged him down, and they clashed on Dīn’s side of the arena. The shouts got louder, louder, louder, Dīn leapt! The knife on his left foot slashed between Angel Blade’s raised back feathers, harmless.

Blade gave his battle cry too and rounded on Dīn, hopping; Dīn hopped back, wings flared to make himself bigger.

It didn’t take Dīn long to learn that Blade preferred to jump in order to attack; Dīn countered this by escaping before Blade could land, since it was hard for the other fowl to steer once in the air. They faced each other and stared each other down, cawing lengthily to scare one another. Blade was not easily intimidated, but neither was Dīn.

Angel Blade moved wildly, his talons going for Dīn’s face. Dīn was good at dodging, and he strutted out of the way before Blade could mount him and carve his blood free. Dīn pecked at Blade’s eyes, clucking in triumph as Blade pulled back, offended by the scratch he’d been awarded. That was what he got for messing with the King!

Above the sparring roosters, the crowd watched, laughing and throwing debris that the chickens didn’t seem to notice. The King hummed smugly, beaming down at his little demon. Dīn was such a sweetheart when he wasn’t fighting, but right now he was a monster. Abaddon’s white cockerel didn’t stand a chance, no matter the odds. The King was going to win big this time, because so many of the men among today’s turnout had bet against Dīn, underestimating his intelligence.

The minutes ticked on, the timer above the ring counting down from fifteen. Ten minutes to go. Most fights were over in five minutes, but this one seemed destined to drag on. The animals were evenly matched tonight. Any winnings would be worth the time they took to acquire.

Angel Blade was bleeding from one eye. Dīn was limping; one of his spur knives had come loose, but he could still use it. He surrounded Angel Blade with claps of his wings, flapping the other cock into unwilling submission.

Only a moment passed before Blade exploded back up, scrabbling at Dīn’s face with both of the hooked spurs tied to his legs, tearing feathers from Dīn’s breast. Glossy black lines spread across the dust, twirling in the tempest of Angel Blade’s wings. Dīn retreated, tripping over his own loose knives.

The crowd called out in celebration, they wanted Dīn to lose. The King stood up in his seat and bellowed at Dīn to retake his winning place, to fight, to fight, to fight until he had nothing left. Feathers could be regrown; a life was irreplaceable – as was the King’s reputation as the breeder of champions.

Dīn never got a chance to save himself. At that moment, light from the outside world broke across the howling faces of the betting men, and a figure entered made of shadow.

“Police!” the newcomer shouted. “Nobody move! You’re all under arrest.”

Chaos took over. Men ran, guns were fired – and the sound ricocheted with the impact of thunder. Bullet casings joined the trash in the arena, where Dīn and Blade still fought. Nothing would stop them from fighting, nothing. Dīn clawed at Blade’s injured face, stuck on his back as Blade stood on his throat. They crowed again, but Dīn was strangled, and it was hard for his battle cry to be heard clearly.

Maybe Blade didn’t understand that Dīn had no intention of dying today.

Hands reached for the birds in the arena, but Dīn scratched a hand and then set himself on Blade once more, flipping them over and burying the tip of his beak into Blade’s throat. Blade gasped in pain, but Dīn had no mercy. He bit deeper, shaking his head to tear muscle and feather alike.

Then the hands got him. He struggled – he struggled hard – but there was a net, and his wings and his knives got tangled. He needed to kill Angel Blade! He couldn’t finish his job if he was―

In a cage.

Angel Blade was put into the cage next to him. They tried to strike through the bars, but it was useless; the metal held them completely. Dīn couldn’t even get his spurs through the gap.

The betting men were one-by-one removed from the darkness, taken into the light. There were rings of metal on their wrists.

The King cried out madly, incoherently. Dīn had never heard him so angry. And then the King was gone, taken away like all the others, with metal around his wrists. His cage was simpler than Dīn’s, but it was still a cage.

Soon the pits were empty. Even Queen Abaddon was gone. Only the lightworld humans in uniform were left behind, and they didn’t move the same way as the others. They were gentle, and they made soft noises.

“Don’t worry,” one of them said to Dīn. “We’ll get you a better home. There’s hope for you chooks yet.”

Angel Blade clucked as their cages were lifted away, carried towards the light. Dīn squawked, hoping he could be with the King again, because the King went this way too. But the cold air was not the King’s breath, and the white light was not the King’s guidance. It was a different world.

People stood all around, looking at the roosters as the cops took them out to the car. Everyone doubted there would ever be another cockfight in the bowels of this dive, and perhaps it was for the best. In the light, the birds did not look like birds, but demented figures of war. They had skeletal legs with blades the size of their necks tied to their ankles, capped heads with scarred faces, their feathers gone to reveal bloodied breasts. The creatures jerked in their containers, wanting to kill each other. Kill, kill, kill. That was what they were bred to do.

The car was quiet and loud at once. The roosters’ clucking was muffled, but the engine was an angry growl. The floor never stopped quaking.

They went on a long, long journey, and perhaps they slept once, or twice. Dīn couldn’t tell, he was exhausted, and dizzy, and delirious. One time, human hands picked him up. He tried to peck the hands, but the hands were clever, and they refused to let him injure them. Eventually he let the hands stop him from bleeding. He was stitched up like a piece of clothing, then put back in his cage along with a tub of water to drink.

His knives had been taken away, and he felt better now. He’d never liked the knives.

He sat in his cage and watched the same thing happen to Angel Blade. Angel Blade was sedated for a little while, because he wouldn’t stop fighting. Even after going so long without food or water, he was still ready to kill. Dīn feared the other rooster.

The King’s whispered words of encouragement had worn off by now. Dīn couldn’t remember what the dark was like any more, he just knew he never wanted to go back. And yet, he was still afraid of everything in the light. If there was a haven directly between dark and light, he wanted to go there.

Angel Blade slept in the cage beside Dīn, and they went on their journey again. Another day, another night. The floor went on quaking.

Then it all stopped. It got very, very quiet, and Dīn woke from his dopey afternoon nap, spying humans through the window as they approached. He crowed in alarm, and Blade woke up too, echoing his call.

The back end of the car was opened up, and a smiling human looked down on them. “Wow, you guys really are beat up,” he said. “I’m Sam, I’m your new guardian. Me ‘n Sarah and Ruby will help you feel right at home.” Big hands raised Dīn and Angel Blade’s cages from their places. Fresh air met Dīn’s senses, so fresh he couldn’t breathe. Everything was bright like fire, but it wasn’t fire. It was calm and serene, and so big! He couldn’t even see the end of the room. The floor was green, the ceiling was blue. There were no men in any shadows, just Sam, humming a tune to his new roosters.

They passed a single-storey house, made of wooden planks. Sam then ascended a grassy slope, bumped open a gate with his hip, and took the roosters into a new environment, a wide enclosure with dust and grass and a small stream, and a large chicken coop at the far end. There were even some trees, their branches laden with green leaves, undersides showing up glossy in the breeze.

Dīn and Angel Blade were put down in the sandy part of the yard, cage bars rattling as they met the ground. There were a dozen other chickens in the yard – Dīn realised they were girl chickens, and he puffed his feathers up proudly, sure they would all find his black plumage and battle scars very alluring. Blade sank down, staring at Dīn reproachfully.

Sam went and talked to the human who had transported Dīn and Blade to this new place, their voices distant from here.

Dīn’s senses gradually became overloaded, the dust and the green and the air and the blue, it was all too much. The girls were looking at him, and he shrank back in embarrassment. Blade cooed from a foot away, almost mocking. Dīn got the impression the other rooster understood his surroundings, having been in a place like this before. But Dīn was scared of new things.

Sam came back to them, tipping some food into their cages. “Eat something, okay guys? I’ll let you sit here and get used to each other, I won’t have you fighting at all hours of the day and night.”

Dīn pecked the food hungrily. It wasn’t the same as what he was used to, it was full-flavoured and oddly textured. Some things were green and leafy, and some things were still alive. It was delicious, he’d never tasted anything so fine. Angel Blade ate too, but he moved more slowly. He wouldn’t take his eyes off Dīn, like it was all a prank and soon their cages would be opened, and they would have to kill again.

Dīn, for whatever reason, didn’t think he would try and kill Angel Blade. Killing other roosters wasn’t much fun, and wasn’t meant to be done outside the pit. They weren’t in the pit any more, so killing didn’t have to happen. That was reassuring to think about.

Sam hummed thoughtfully. “I can’t read what these labels say. D... Deeean? That’s your name, Dean?”

Dīn went on eating. Sam wasn’t the King, so he wouldn’t respond. But, yes, he liked that better. His name was Dean now, it sounded sweeter. Like the air, like the food. A better name for a better place.

“And this, this is just gibberish,” Sam went on, reading the label attached to Angel Blade’s cage. “Azmbthd. Wait, I think that’s a ‘C’. Custhal? Certiael? Caaa... Castiel. Yes?”

Angel Blade looked up at Sam strangely, a mealworm dangling from his beak. “Cluck,” he said.

Dean was surprised at how tenderly Blade had spoken. It was almost as if he liked the new name better too.

When Sam muttered he was going to get them some fresh water, Dean watched him go. Sam was very tall, maybe even twice the size of the King, and he dressed far more casually. Hmm. He was friendly. Perhaps this new place wouldn’t be too bad at all.

Dean then looked over at Angel Blade, seeing calm eyes looking back. Dean decided, yes, Castiel suited him better. Like Dean, he wasn’t a monster, he’d simply been trained as one. They were just hungry chickens now.

Dean clucked peacefully, then got back to eating all his bugs before they crawled away.

They spent the afternoon in their cages. It wasn’t hugely pleasant, but Castiel didn’t mind. The cage helped him feel safe. He entertained himself by watching Dean.

Dean was an odd rooster, he kept preening any time a girl chicken turned his way. Castiel wanted to laugh at him; Dean was ridiculous, he looked like roadkill. No girl would want him. Castiel himself didn’t even see the point of breeding – it was a funny thing other chickens did, it was nothing to do with him.

Still, he remained wary of the other chickens, none of whom approached. There was another rooster in the same yard, with glorious orange plumage on his neck and flowing green tail of feathers that shimmered in the sunlight. He was intimidating, larger than Castiel and Dean put together. He even had a comb on his head, bright red. He looked very important. That rooster surely outranked Castiel, despite he himself being champion of the pit. The skills he had acquired through his life of combat were no good for protecting lady chickens, they were only good for protecting himself.

Halfway through the afternoon, Castiel was disturbed from a doze by a startled squawk. He lifted his head from his healing breast and looked across at Dean’s cage, which was rattling about as Dean ran around inside it. He barely had room to move, so was hurrying up and down the far side of the enclosure, able to go nowhere and crowing in his agitation.

Castiel clucked questioningly, but Dean only crowed again, scratching in the dirt and uprooting grass. He didn’t seem inclined to slow down in order to explain.

Mere seconds later, however, Castiel understood what the fuss was about. He heard a padding, the soft tup-tup-tup-tup of a four-legged animal’s paws. Through the nearest fence he saw a dog approach, snuffling curiously with its snout pressed between wooden slats. Dean cried out in fear, but Castiel wasn’t sure what he was so scared of. The other chickens weren’t that bothered either.

Still, Castiel was not a foolish cockerel. If Dean was afraid of dogs then there must have been a good reason for it. So Castiel sounded a warning to the dog, informing it as impolitely as possible that he would kill it if it came any closer. “Cock-a-doodle-doooo!” He repeated it three more times, because the dog was clearly too daft to understand. “Cock-a-doodle-DOOO!”

“Hey-hey, off,” Sam’s voice called from some distance away, and the dog bounded up to his side. Castiel watched Sam as he patted the dog’s rump, then nudged the animal away from the chicken yard. The dog went off with its tongue lolling, and Castiel crowed in triumph, feeling like he had scared off the threat all by himself.

Dean clucked in relief, strutting around in little circles inside his cage. “Bok. Bok-bok.” He met Castiel’s eye and ruffled his feathers sheepishly.

Castiel clucked back, rejecting Dean’s thanks. He hadn’t been protecting Dean, not at all. Dean had no probable cause to assume that he’d done it for him. Dean tipped his beak up and squawked horribly, but Castiel refused to take offence. He turned his back on the black-feathered rooster and plopped down for another nap.

Dean scratched around for a while, then took a nap too. There wasn’t much else to do in a cage so small.

In the evening, as the grass started to shimmer in sunset light, Sam plodded out to the chicken yard with a tub full of feed. He scattered it on the ground and over Dean and Castiel’s cages, and all the other chickens rushed up to Sam, cooing and stepping on his toes and each other in order to get the food.

Dean shrieked and threatened the other chickens furiously, but aside from allowing his cage a half-foot radius of rattling space, they ignored him and pecked up their dinner.

Castiel thought Dean was being awfully immature; they were just chickens, and they couldn’t even touch Dean through the bars of his cage. Castiel himself was particularly pleased about having his own cage – none of the other chickens could steal his share of the pellets. Honestly, he didn’t know what Dean was complaining about.

“I’ll let you two out tomorrow, maybe,” Sam said, emptying out the crumbs at the bottom of the tub, then leaning on the fence to watch the chickens scurrying around each other in their race to gobble everything up before it was gone. “Sorry your cages are so small. I just can’t have you tearing each other’s throats out, I need to know you can be trusted.” He sighed sympathetically. “You’ve had hard lives. But you’re safe now. Everything’s going to be okay.”

He smiled, then pulled away from the fence, shut the gate behind him, and started back towards the house at the bottom of the slope. Lights were on inside, and the silhouettes of two women moved casually between the dining table and the kitchen, preparing for a meal. Sam’s dog sat happily in their path, and they both had to step around the mutt in order to get past.

Castiel watched the homely scene with an odd dissatisfaction building up inside him. Sure, he was a chicken, but that didn’t prevent him from understanding what he saw. Sam had a good family there, and his home was probably very warm. Castiel wanted a house like Sam had, because he was certain he would get sick of the cage soon enough.

When all the food was gone, the other chickens stood around and preened themselves, heads curled over their brown backs to nibble and strip their beaks along their feathers. The brightly-coloured cockerel did the same, but he kept his wary eyes on Dean and Castiel.

Castiel didn’t bother preening. He was a mess no matter what he did. There was still blood in his white feathers, and he would probably never look as good as he had before his fight with Dean.

Dean had been a worthy opponent, Castiel was not too proud to admit it. Truly, he didn’t know which of them would have come out that that battle alive. Some part of him – a sizable part – was glad he never got to find out.

When the lady chickens slowly began to traipse in single file towards the big sheltered coop for bed, Castiel fluffed up his feathers and settled down in his cage to sleep for the night. Dean was still pecking around looking for food, but Castiel supposed that was a cover to hide his uneasiness. The large cockerel wouldn’t leave, not even to follow his brood. He was apparently determined to stand around as the sky got dark, looming, for the sole purpose of making Dean uncomfortable.

When the chickens were all in the coop, three roosters were the only birds left in the yard. To break the uncomfortable silence, Castiel offered the bigger rooster a greeting. But the rooster laughed it off, then spread his wings wide, so wide it was actually scary – and he flapped them hard enough that dust flew up into Castiel’s eyes. Castiel squawked unhappily, but when he blinked away the sting, he saw the rooster trotting off to bed, green tail flouncing about impressively.

Dean gave a hurt cluck, tucking his combless head down against his breast. He hadn’t taken well to the threat either.

For the first time, Castiel wanted to say something reassuring to Dean. The bigger rooster probably wouldn’t hurt them, he wouldn’t bully them forever, not once the pair of them were out of their cages. The rooster was just taking advantage, that was all. But Castiel didn’t say any of it. Dean was supposed to be an enemy. Just because they were now the only two outsiders in an already-established flock, with a remarkably strong and fearsome leader already in place... well, that meant nothing. Dean and Castiel weren’t in any position to be on the same side. Not really.

Castiel grumbled, tucking his head under a wing to block out the last of the evening light. He vaguely heard Dean singing to himself, but that became quieter as Dean got sleepier, and it faded into silence after a while.

Funny, it had been quite a nice song... Soothing...

They both awoke at the same time the following morning, startled by the bigger rooster’s crowing. His projected call was mighty, far more melodious than a battle cry. Dawn light broke across the roof of the chicken coop, making the rooster’s colourful feathers shine. He made quite the picture, stretching up on his toes to shout to the world. Time to wake up!

Dean watched the other rooster, and compared all that majesty to himself. He didn’t know why he should bother trying any more, it was obvious he had been deluded all his life. He wasn’t very notable, and neither was Castiel, not compared to real chickens in real life. He and Castiel had been sheltered. They were small, and they were weak and pathetic – no wonder, really, given they’d been kept in cages and forcefully tossed at dogs twice a week. Dean remembered having a decent space to run around, once, but after those first years, all the good stuff came less often, and soon he’d known nothing but death and the taste of blood.

Still, sitting here in the grass with his butt on the cold cage frame was better than sitting in the same cage in a dark room. It was good to see the sky.

He was even pleased to see Castiel look back at him as they sat and watched the sun come up. Castiel made a rather rude joke about the other rooster’s hubris and excessively bright plumage, and Dean worked hard to keep his laugh quiet in case he was heard. Castiel seemed terribly smug after that.

A few hours after dawn, Sam came up to the coop along with one of his lady friends. The woman’s long brown hair was tied up, and Sam’s arm was banded affectionately around her lower back. She laughed as she scattered the chickenfeed and the chickens swarmed collectively up to the fence, making an awful racket. Dean waited until the rain of pellets stopped before he bent his head and started pecking.

“That one’s Dean,” Sam said, “and that one’s Castiel. I don’t think Bruce likes them very much, but the girls don’t seem to mind them being there.”

Ah, so Bruce was the big bully. Dean munched on a corn kernel and side-eyed the other rooster, who was nonchalantly eating his breakfast like he didn’t have something nasty planned for later.

“Aren’t those cages too small?” the woman asked, leaning over the fence on her elbows, copying Sam.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I’m just worried that if I let them go, they might try and take each other’s eyes out.”

“What about giving them each a private enclosure?”

Sam hummed. “I don’t know, that could take some time to set up. I’ll give them a quick test later today – let them get in touching distance, see if they attack. They might not, I’m hoping they won’t.”

“What about Bruce, though?” the woman said, gesturing to the gigantic cock. “He’s not exactly a welcoming creature. You remember what the little bastard did to Berkley. Poor dog.”

Sam snorted. “Berkley’s fine. But yeah, you have a point. I don’t think Bruce would let these two sleep in the same coop as the rest of them, that’s for sure.”

“Then...?”

Sam rubbed the woman’s shoulders, sighing. “I’ll think about it. If it comes to it, you’d help me make a new chicken house, right?” He grinned hopefully, then chuckled as the woman shoved him away.

“Sam! I’ve got the art gallery to set up,” she said, exasperated, like she’d told him a hundred times already. “Ruby’ll help you, she’s better with woodwork anyway. Tell you what. If you can get these roosters out of their cages by tonight, maybe I’ll bring you back something good for dinner. Who knows?”

“Aww,” Sam said, squeezing the woman’s hand and smiling at her sweetly. “Thanks, Sarah.”

Sarah patted Sam on his broad chest then turned back for the house, her feet clumping in her rubber boots. “Come in quickly, I need your help with the paperwork!”

Sam lingered by the chicken yard, grinning at the birds. “Hear that, guys? If you behave yourself, I get real, proper food. I’m thinking something organic. Mmm...” He squinted up at the nearly cloudless sky. Then he looked directly at Dean, and smiled. “There’s worms in it for you, too. The biggest and the squishiest. I’ll dig them out of Sarah’s vegetable garden, she’ll never need to know.” He winked, then followed Sarah’s path back to the house.

Dean met Castiel’s gaze and narrowed his eyes at him conspiratorially. How well could they trust each other? And was that trust worth more if delicious earthworms were included in the bargain?

Castiel clucked agreeably, then went back to pecking pellets from the grass. Ah, good. They were in understanding. Had Dean been able to smile, he would have.

When Sam finally did come back, it was after midday, and all the other chickens were scattered far and wide, having hopped the fences and gone off to explore the rest of the property. This gave Dean and Castiel the entire yard to themselves, and Sam must have known that. He shut the gate to the yard with himself inside, and he crouched, putting wrinkles into his rubber boots.

“Now,” he said, “I’m gonna let you out slowly, both at the same time. No sudden movements or I’ll lock you both down again. Okay?”

Dean and Castiel both clucked quietly, even though Sam had no idea what they were saying. Sam took their sounds as agreement, however, and unlocked both cages.

He then began to open the front of each cage, slowly... very slowly.

Dean and Castiel looked carefully at each other across the two feet of space between them. Dean seemed nervous, but Castiel – while not confident, per se – was sure enough of himself that he strutted out of his cage and onto a fresh bit of grass. He stretched out his wings joyfully, flapping them. Yes, it was a sudden movement, but he did it non-threateningly.

Dean saw how much more relaxed Castiel was now he’d stretched, so he gingerly followed suit, tiptoeing to the opening of the cage... poking his head out... then hurrying out so quickly that Sam barely had a moment to blink before Dean was on the other side of the yard, flapping and hopping about madly, enjoying his freedom.

Sam laughed, standing up and putting his hands on his hips. Castiel crowed at his feet, pretending he was the ruler of this land. While Bruce was nowhere to be seen, it was probably true. Dean didn’t even mind being second-in-command, he was just so pleased to have space to stretch his aching legs.

Sam hung around for a while to make sure they were really okay. He baited Dean closer with a wriggling worm, and Dean was hungry enough for it that he went right up to Sam and pecked it right out of his hand. Sam wasn’t fearful of sharp beaks, he didn’t even flinch. Dean appreciated that.

It took a few minutes of coercion, but Sam triumphed: he got Dean and Castiel to eat a worm out of each hand, not a foot away from each other. When all the worms were gone, Sam congratulated his roosters, then brushed his legs down and made to leave.

“Don’t fight while I’m gone. We may seem like nice people, but believe me, we’re no strangers to eating anything that doesn’t behave.” He pointed at Dean, then Castiel. Then he smirked and left.

Dean looked worriedly at Castiel. Sam was kidding... right? People didn’t eat chickens... That was just gross. And weird.

Castiel shrugged. “Bok,” he said.

They spent the rest of the afternoon patrolling the yard. They didn’t shimmy under the fences like the other chickens did – Dean could see Berkley from the yard, so resolved to stay put. Keeping himself within designated areas was a tried-and-tested way to prevent dog bites, he’d learned. Strangely though, Castiel didn’t leave the yard either. He seemed perfectly comfortable staying within a five-foot radius of Dean, even though they had upwards of thirty square feet to roam.

Dean mostly ignored Castiel, instead paying the utmost attention to the bugs he found. Unfortunately, Castiel was harder to ignore when he wanted to eat the same bugs. Their heads bumped, and Dean lifted his head with his prize captured in his mouth, only to have Castiel peck it right out of his grip. Dean darted forward to retrieve it, but when Castiel didn’t let go, they fought over the morsel, each wiggling end within their beaks. Somehow they both walked away with a mouthful. Dean didn’t even like it. Centipede. Yuck.

He called out to Castiel’s turned back that he hoped he choked.

Castiel tipped his head up and made a show of enjoying his half-centipede. When he was done, he practically sneered at Dean. Dean harrumphed and went to find something else to eat.

The day continued in much the same way, until the daylight became heavier, and the sky seemed to shrink down as evening approached. Dean loitered around his cage, not wanting to go inside, but knowing he would feel safer in there. The other chickens were all coming back to the yard, because it was almost time for Sam to give them dinner.

The girl chickens came home first. Two, then three, then four. Dean sauntered up to them, then changed his mind and retreated. They were Bruce’s hens, Dean didn’t want to start a fight. But then the girls went up to him, and Dean flustered, eyes darting towards Castiel, who was perched serenely on top of his own cage, watching.

The hens inspected Dean, and he stood there, breathing slowly to keep himself calm. There were so many eyes on him, and he was sure they were looking at his dubbed head – his missing comb, wattles and earlobes probably made him a very ugly beastie. Oh, how he wished all his feathers could grow back at once.

The girls were all bigger than him, too. Boy, was that a reason to feel inadequate.

One brave hen stepped up to his face, and tilted her head. “Bok?” she asked.

Dean shrank down, completely ashamed. No, he replied, he didn’t have a brood of his own. He’d never mated. The King always said he would breed when he was ready, and Dean... wasn’t ready yet, okay?! (And for that matter, Dean thought to himself, he hadn’t really seen a girl chicken up close before. They were quite nice, but scary.)

The girl chicken clucked, then looked towards her girlfriends, asking for their opinions.

Another girl leaned in close, pecking gently at Dean’s stitched wound. He flinched, but dared not return her peck in retaliation. Bruce wasn’t the only one who looked like a bruiser.

The hen leaned back, blinking thoughtfully. Then she pecked Dean’s head, which went pat. Dean stood there and accepted it. He mustn’t peck girls, he reminded himself: it was improper.

Then another hen pecked his leg, and he fidgeted. That hurt.

A peck came to his wing, then to his eye, and he decided he couldn’t take it any more. He backed into his cage and sat between the bars, glaring out of the open side at the group of clucking hens. He wished he still had the gall he’d had in the pit. This world, this outside world, this wasn’t his place, this wasn’t his kingdom. He did not feel welcome, nor did he feel accepted.

The hens were all laughing at him, now. They trotted off, their gossipping clucks echoing a little in the evening air.

Castiel watched them go too, then peered down at the hapless rooster shrivelled up inside his cage. He politely asked if Dean had meant to give the impression his virility was non-existent.

Dean clucked defensively, but Castiel saw right through it. Dean was a sad, sad chicken. Maybe he’d once talked himself up proudly, but out here he was just a self-depreciating mop of hopelessness.

When Sam came by to feed the flock, Dean stayed in his cage while Castiel pecked around with the other chickens. Bruce flapped Castiel in the face, and Castiel flapped him back, but Sam separated them before a real fight broke out. They glared daggers at each other, but were both sensible enough to leave each other be, even after Sam went home again.

But when Bruce and his ladies had gone back to their coop, Castiel still waited by Dean’s cage. He felt very sorry for him, and he couldn’t put a claw on why that was, exactly.

When the night fell, Dean sighed.

Castiel heard him. He flew down off the fence he’d been sitting on, and spent a few minutes digging around in the lumpy grass. When he found the crunchy beetle he’d been looking for, he carried it in his beak over to Dean.

He whipped a wing against Dean’s cage, getting his attention. Dean clucked, and Castiel leaned in through the open side. Dean backed up, worried he would be attacked, but when he saw what Castiel was offering him, he settled somewhat.

Then he tilted his head. “Brrrk?”

Castiel clucked gently, nudging the beetle towards Dean. “Bok-bok.”

Dean slowly leaned forward, unsure. Then he pecked the beetle into his mouth and ate it quickly, before Castiel could change his mind. Castiel left Dean alone then, and went to perch on top of his own cage for the night. He knew Dean watched him go, and he knew he was thinking about why on Earth he’d done such a thing. Beetles were for eating, not for sharing.

Castiel didn’t need to explain, being sure that Dean would figure it out eventually. This place was far from being paradise. It was safe, and bountiful, but it was not friendly. Dean needed a friend, and Castiel... Okay, perhaps Castiel needed a friend too. It couldn’t hurt, could it?

No. No, it couldn’t hurt.

As they nestled down to sleep a few feet apart, the stars came out, the moon followed it, and the air became still and blue – and they both felt comforted by each other’s presence. Here, the darkness of the pit and the freedom of the light met, and offered a truce. They were creatures of dusk, now.

Dean sang himself to sleep, and Castiel listened until consciousness left him. Dean’s song was so lovely to hear. Good dreams followed.

Two days passed, much the same. Nothing changed, none of the chickens were any friendlier. Either Sam or his lady friends came by every morning and evening to feed the flock.

Dean and Castiel each developed habits. Dean rarely left his cage if anyone but Castiel was around. He kept to himself, and he didn’t crow a whole lot. He staked no claim on any lady chickens, nor any land but the space under his cage. Bruce paid him little attention; he probably thought Dean was irrelevant.

When Dean wasn’t looking, Castiel would puff up his feathers and pretend he was a big and illustrious cockerel, a king, and Dean was his hen. Dean invited a protective instinct, somehow. Castiel never kept up the act if Dean was turned his way, though – it would be too hard to explain, and Dean probably wouldn’t appreciate being misgendered like that. He wasn’t anything like a hen... but there was definitely something hen-like about him. He didn’t crow like Castiel did, and he didn’t look for trouble for the sake of finding it. He was a very demure animal, really. Castiel would never have expected that of him, not after experiencing the full force of his battle attack. And perhaps that added to Dean’s charm; he was a gamecock in the pit but a hen in the yard, and was no better or worse for it than Castiel.

On the third day, in the middle of a sunny afternoon, when the trees were gushing with new breath and the grass was clicking with insects, the hollows of the open air were broken by a sudden sound. Castiel crowed his alarm call to Bruce’s flock as something irregular and hefty made its way up to the yard.

Bruce echoed the alarm call from on top of the chicken coop, but when he noticed it was only Sarah and Ruby, he laughed, and Castiel felt like a fool. He flared his wings and determinedly ignored the laughter of the hens.

Sarah and Ruby backed into the yard carrying something very large. It was made of wood, and had multiple sharp corners.

“Over there,” Sarah panted, sweat beading on her forehead. “Between the little tree and the stream. It’ll be out of the wind in the winter.”

Dean hid in his cage, scared of the box the humans were carrying. It had legs.

When the box was set down heavily, Ruby straightened up. “Ahh,” she sighed, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She peered at the box, then bent down and pulled out a ramp from a gap in its front, which looked like an open mouth. The base of the ramp stuck into the grass, and Castiel recognised it as a ladder for chickens to walk up. “This took way too long to assemble. But at least Sam’s going to be happy; now he has time to work on other things.”

“I don’t care about Sam,” Sarah said, smiling as she looked down at the curious hens who flooded around her boots, investigating the new hut. “It’s those damn roosters I’m worried about. They were sleeping in their cages this whole time, no shelter at all.”

Ruby tutted and put her hands on her hips. “They won’t go in here, Sarah. What was the rule again? Uh, put them in for a night so they get used to it.”

“No, that’s about getting a new chicken into an already-established coop, so they know where to go back to at night. These two, they wouldn’t touch Bruce’s coop with a ten-foot feather.”

“So what do we do?”

Sarah smirked. “I say just leave this hut here and let them discover it for themselves. The ugly black one – what was his name? Dean? He’s kind of shy, isn’t he. Maybe he’ll grow a pair and check it out first, who knows.”

Castiel clucked a retort. Dean wasn’t ugly. Dean was prettier than all the chickens here!

Joking between themselves, Sarah and Ruby headed for the gate to go home again. They turned back when they got to the fence, admiring how the new chicken coop looked in the yard. The other hens had lost interest, because they already had a communal shelter.

The hut sat stern amongst the greenery, and as the humans went away, the yard became quiet again. Just the trilling of insects and the tweets of other birds in the trees.

After a minute, Dean lifted his head from his breast. He clucked to get Castiel’s attention, and Castiel tilted his head curiously.

Dean asked if he really meant what he said, that Dean was prettier than the other chickens.

Castiel got flustered, but then came over all calm. He bobbed his head, making a garbled noise. Of course he did, he said. Dean was the only chicken Castiel had ever thought was handsome.

Dean couldn’t help but feel flattered. He blinked a few times and shuffled around his cage, not sure how to respond.

To save Dean the trouble of expressing emotion, Castiel went ahead and strutted over to the new hut, confidently striding up the ramp so he could look inside. It was shady and cool, spacious enough for maybe three chickens, with a wooden rung across the centre for them to perch on at night. He could see why Bruce’s hens had come inside and left straight away: this new one didn’t have any nesting sections for egg-laying. Being roosters, Castiel and Dean had no need to sit on eggs.

Dean’s voice sounded from outside, and Castiel turned around to poke his head out of the hut. Dean was standing at the bottom of the ramp. He clucked once, and Castiel felt inexplicably proud of the other ex-fighter: Dean was willing to take a look too. Castiel stood back rather than exiting, and Dean hesitated for only a moment before going up to join him in the hut.

With both of them inside, it became crowded, and Dean puttered around for a number of seconds before flapping in panic, screeching a warning to Castiel. Castiel hurried back outside, alarmed. Once he got back to the grass, he looked back at Dean. Dean was hopping on and off the rung inside the hut, testing it out. Castiel tutted affectionately. Dean was weird – but likeable, certainly.

Come dinnertime that evening, Dean didn’t hang back, but ate with the rest of the flock. Sarah remarked the observation to Sam, but Sam was too busy making a fuss over the new hut. It was so well made, he was glowing with pride that Sarah and Ruby had made something so practical together without it looking like it came out of a book of fairytales.

“What was that?” Sam muttered, vaguely hearing Sarah say something about the chickens.

“I said,” Sarah called, “Dean seems to have gotten a new lease of life from somewhere. Look at him, would you? Aww, that’s cute. He’s sharing with the white one. Saaaam, look!”

Sam turned around, his head still full of measurements. “What?” He turned his eye down to where Sarah was pointing, and started to smile. Dean was pecking up chickenfeed in his beak, then pushing it into Castiel’s face so intently that it was impossible for Castiel to avoid eating it. Castiel didn’t respond with violence, however – he merely seemed bewildered.

Sam put his hands on his hips and chuckled. “Maybe Dean thinks he’s a mommy.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sarah laughed. “They’re both roosters. He’s probably showing his dominance or something.”

Sam smirked and shook his head. “You know how roosters do that, they jump on each other’s backs like they’re mating. Even before we got Bruce, Tilda would do that to Bessy. Remember?”

Sarah nodded, crossing her arms. “Maybe they’re dating.”

“Dating?”

“Yeah.” Sarah smiled. “On dates, people get food together. Maybe Dean and Cas are dating.”

Sam scoffed. “Gay chickens. Right.”

Sarah laughed and beckoned Sam out of the yard. Sam went after her, closing the gate so the chickens were protected from Berkley the dog. They went on chatting as they headed back to the house, but Dean didn’t understand what they said.

He let Castiel peck his own food now, and he got his share too, because feeding Castiel was time-consuming and the other birds stole all the food if they weren’t quick. But he kept thinking about it. Why did he want to feed Castiel? It was just instinct, that was all. Why wouldn’t he feed him, was the better question.

Bruce and his hens seemed to think it was laughable, anyway. They didn’t seem capable of leaving Dean and Castiel alone; they heckled them and bumped around them until Dean felt too harassed to stay put. Rather than hiding in his cage this time, Dean ran up the ramp and perched in his new hut. Bruce looked smaller from far away, that was nice.

Castiel was such a mystery. Even when the flock had gone to bed, he stayed up for more than an hour past nightfall, gazing out at the other fields. People’s houses had their lights on, and there were some faraway noises, the clatter of dishes in a sink, human laughter.

Castiel wasn’t next to Dean, and Dean had gotten so used to his night-time presence over the past few days that he couldn’t sleep, no matter how comfortable the hut was. He stepped out of the shelter and plodded down the ramp, heading across the yard. He took a drink from the stream, scooping water into his beak and tipping his head back to swallow.

Then he carried on, walking over to the fencepost where Castiel was perched.

Dean waited at the base of the post for a while, watching the stars. But Castiel didn’t move, he didn’t make a sound. Dean clucked his name, ever so gently. Castiel turned his neck and looked down at Dean. Dean gestured towards the hut, inviting him inside.

Castiel sighed, then nodded. But he didn’t come.

Dean was curious, so he went back a few steps, then ran forward and spread his wings, flapping up with all his might until he perched on the fencepost a foot along from Castiel, on his right. The view was glorious from here. The stream from the yard gushed gently through a field, cutting a miniature valley through the grass. There were big lumpy animals there, fluffy and white, eating the grass in the starlight.

A chainlink of hills rose in the distance, encompassing this land into a fishbowl of whispering trees and human homes. A dog barked far away, too quiet to be scary.

To the left, Sam’s house glowed from its belly, like an ember inside a cage. Dean didn’t need to ask what Castiel was looking at; his eyes were trained on the glow.

Is that what you want? Dean asked.

Castiel clucked back that he didn’t know. He didn’t know what he wanted. He just liked how it worked, he liked the idea of a brood. A flock.

Dean realised what word Castiel’s vocabulary was missing. And he said it aloud. A family.

Castiel turned his head to look at him. His beady eyes were like blue stars, full of light. He didn’t understand.

Dean looked back over at their new chicken coop. A little house, it looked like. It was lonely with him by himself. Castiel turned to look too. When Dean hopped back to the grass, Castiel was still considering what Dean had implied.

Dean went and perched in the hut again, waiting. Waiting and waiting and waiting. He couldn’t sleep.

Ah, finally.

Castiel came inside and suddenly the small space was twice as warm, twice as comforting.

Dean shuffled and sank down, cooing. Castiel perched beside him, talons curling around the bar to hold on. Dean inched closer, so their sides touched. Then he started to sing.

Castiel’s eyes began to close, and Dean sang on until Castiel looked at peace. Then, he sang for himself, and swayed as he did. Eventually his voice got weak and his lyrics became uneven, but it didn’t matter. Sleep was a moment away, and he felt very safe here. Safer than he’d ever been before.

Castiel was his King, now.

Dean was happy.

The morning arrived too immediately for Dean to enjoy. Castiel crowed right beside his ear― “COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOO!” ―and Dean exploded into a riot of feathers and claws, rushing out of the hut for some peace and quiet. Castiel popped his head out of the hut and crowed again, enthusiastically informing the world of the time of day.

Dean was thoroughly ruffled. He didn’t talk to Castiel at all until the evening. But, by then, the need had become imperative.

See, the problem was, Bruce had heard tell that Dean and Castiel were sharing a hut of their own, and apparently he didn’t take well to that fact. Dean didn’t know what the big deal was, it wasn’t as if the two of them were encroaching on Bruce’s space. And for cluck’s sake, didn’t Bruce realise that Dean and Castiel had precisely zero interest in stealing his hens?!

Dean said all this to Bruce as they waltzed around the grass with their heads down threateningly. Dean really didn’t want to fight, he was done with that – but Bruce had other ideas.

Bruce didn’t care what Dean thought. Another rooster on his land was bad enough, but two roosters essentially equated the apocalypse. Nothing was worse than the apocalypse, except when the apocalypse planted a house on Bruce’s grass and started sleeping in it. He was very unimpressed.

Oh. Dean clucked in surprise. Bruce was pissed, sure, but it had nothing to do with Castiel’s desire to start a family. Or Dean’s need to have Castiel next to him before he could sleep. What a relief that was.

...Well, saying it aloud might not have been the best idea.

Dean leapt over Bruce when he was charged down, and he flipped over in mid-air. He landed on his feet and turned around. Ha!

Bruce was now standing where Dean had been a moment ago, looking confused. He spun to face Dean again, belting out a battle cry that honestly struck terror into Dean. He only then remembered he was half Bruce’s size, twice as frail, and completely outmatched.

Then again, bad odds never stopped him before. He charged, and with a disarming yelp of “Puck-aaak!” he leapt over Bruce with a hefty flap of his wings. His talons scraped through Bruce’s green tail feathers, clamping down. Bruce was tugged backwards as Dean landed, and Dean wouldn’t let go, he grabbed harder and ran a few difficult steps, laughing when he was certain Bruce’s tail feathers were plucked out.

Bruce thundered in absolute fury, spreading his wide, wide wings, bringing up dust from the ground and consuming Dean in a blinding hurricane. He shrivelled down to the dirt with his eyes shut, waiting it out. It stopped after only a moment, and in that split second, Dean burst up from the ground and tackled Bruce’s face directly.

But it was no good. For the past few moments he’d been back in the pit, back in the darkness with the drunken men and their human jeers, cursing and calling, and Dean had forgotten he didn’t have knives on his spurs. Every strike to Bruce’s face fell short, and Dean flopped to the ground, landing badly.

He was not in the pit. He was lying in the dirt as a bigger and better cockerel stepped on his back. Dean was held down and pecked from behind, squashed and bent into mere inches of space. Bruce stood on him and showed his dominance. Dean felt the sting as his feathers were wrenched from his neck; there was nothing he could do now.

But then! A gust of wind pushed Bruce away, and Dean turned around quickly, only to see Castiel scrabbling at Bruce’s face with his claws, his beak peck-peck-pecking like a woodpecker at Bruce’s eyes. He beat back Dean’s offender and he dominated him as Bruce had done to Dean, crowing in triumph. Castiel looked an incredible sight, a fleck of a creature standing proudly on top of a beast.

But of course it didn't last. Bruce threw Castiel off with a shrug, and Castiel toppled into the dirt, only righting himself at the last second. Dean struggled to his feet, wanting to go to his side, to defend him as he had defended Dean, but he took a single step forward and was blocked off by another rush.

This time, it was the hens. All of them. They charged forward and mobbed Castiel, squawking and screeching like godless monsters. Dean couldn't see past the blurs of brown, the flying feathers. He knew Castiel was fighting inside that mess, but the only evidence he even saw of his presence was the puff of white feathers that flew up from within, drifting down to the dirt on tumultuous eddies.

It was chaos. Dean knew he needed to help Castiel. Without Castiel, Dean would suffer the same fate. He needed him. He needed him.

He tore forwards on limping feet, using his wings to balance, to propel him forward. Yet, the dust never had a chance to settle before another hen ripped through it, angry attacks still falling on Castiel, over and over and over. They were defending Bruce, their protector. How dare Castiel hurt him! Dean could almost feel the pain Castiel felt, seeing the hen's heads move. He couldn’t get to him.

The shadow of evening fell across Dean’s face. Slowly, terrified, he looked up at Bruce, the yardking. Bruce had scratches around his eyes, and his comb was bent. His eyes were narrowed to slits, and he breathed heavily, glaring down at Dean. He was furious.

Dean had almost resigned himself to defeat... when he heard Castiel's scream of pain. It was not the strengthening kind of scream, it was not the kind that let Dean know Castiel still intended to get up and fight. It was the kind of scream that begged for mercy, and mercy only meant death.

Dean leapt up, pummeled Bruce in the head with desperate claws, then jumped off him and landed in the riot of hens, manically flapping and screeching and clawing until the females cleared a space around him. He wouldn't let them get closer, he sheltered Castiel's naked body with a dangerous ferocity, head down. He would attack them if they approached, damn them being ladies. Dean would be as impolite as he pleased, because just look what they’d done to Cas.

Castiel lay, croaking weakly, feathers torn out. He was bleeding, peppered with beakmarks. That sound, that pitiful sound... it was the sound of weeping. Dean had never heard another rooster weeping before. He may have ended the lives of countless enemies, but never had he let their pain extend for so long that they felt it. There was an honour in the darkness that the light did not share. Dean hated the light. He no longer feared it; he hated it.

Bruce and his hens stayed back this time. Maybe they saw something murderous in Dean’s eyes, in his stance. Perhaps they simply heard Castiel’s cries and felt remorse. Whatever it was, Dean couldn’t find it in him to be grateful. He was too angry. He pushed Castiel up and scooped his weight over his neck, and he thrust him to his feet. Dean was weak and trembling too, but he would be strong for Castiel.

He dragged Castiel back to their hut. Castiel tripped and stumbled, he could barely support himself – but Dean helped him in any way he could. Getting the other rooster up the ramp was the hardest part. Dean summoned every bit of strength he had, and he shoved Castiel to safety.

Castiel collapsed over the perching rung, too exhausted to sit on it instead. Dean worried about him deeply. What was he meant to do now? The best he could do was to stand guard.

Night fell soon enough, and the other chickens went to bed. They didn’t seem affected by what they’d done, they didn’t seem to realise they might have taken away Dean’s only chance at happiness, the single most hopeful thing he’d ever discovered. Feathers could be regrown; a life was irreplaceable. If Castiel died tonight, Dean would never be the same again.

Dean sat at the mouth of their hut, watching the stars. They were Castiel’s stars, but Dean looked after them tonight, since Castiel was too broken to do it.

Dean did not sleep.

It was almost midnight. The moon was bright and shiny, giving out a cold light that easily reflected Dean’s hurt. Owls hooted in the distant trees, wild animals jabbered to each other even farther away.

Then came a corrupted cluck, a breathless plea. Dean didn’t quite catch the meaning, but with a rush of hope, he went to Castiel’s side. Castiel cracked open an eye, and it was as blue as the heartbroken moon.

Castiel asked Dean to sing for him.

Dean bent down and rested his dubbed head against Castiel’s. He had stopped bleeding, but he was sticky. He smelled of death.

Ever so softly, Dean sang his song. It sounded different this time, and it wasn’t on purpose. Mournful. The notes were skewed, and the song wasn’t a peaceful melody any more. It had become a funeral song. After tonight, Dean never wanted to sing it again.

Castiel closed his eye. The moon went away.

Dean went on singing until dawn.

The sun rose higher, but it remained ice-cold. Dewdrops had frozen on the grass stalks overnight. The green land was a dreary grey, the atmosphere tight like a stranglehold.

Bruce didn’t crow. None of the hens in the bigger coop left to scavenge the early morning insects, and Dean stood in his hut, feeling as heavy as the collapsed sky. Castiel was still alive, but barely. He was meant to crow in the mornings, Dean reminded him. He was meant to crow in Dean’s ear and annoy him, and make Dean dart off, fuming with irritation. But Castiel didn’t give any reply.

There had to be something Dean could do.

He’d thought about it all night. He was a smart cockerel, the King of the Pit had always said so. And now, Dean had finally learned how to use his power for the better. He began to crow. Crowing like Bruce did, like Castiel did. Like roosters were meant to.

But he didn’t stop when the sun warmed and the mist melted into the ground and the stream ran faster, gushing with overnight meltwater. Dean crowed until his throat was sore and his voice got weak, then he got on top of the hut and he crowed, with no intention to give up.

At last – at last – a human figure appeared through the last remaining swirls of mist. It was Sam with a tub of feed, and a concerned expression. He was an hour earlier than usual. Dean’s clever plan had worked! He jumped up and down, yelling to get Sam’s attention. Sam couldn’t help but notice; Dean was the only chicken weathering the unseasonal frost.

Sam put down the tub of feed and went up to Dean’s hut. Dean bounced onto the ramp and ran inside the hut, in and out, in and out, leading Sam to Castiel.

“What’s wrong, Dean?” Sam asked gently. “Is there something...?” He reached in a hand, and he gasped as his fingers touched Castiel’s plucked skin and broken body.

Dean crowed in distress, and Sam shushed him. “It’s okay,” Sam said. “It’s okay, he’s moving. He’s still alive.”

Dean hopped on and off the hut’s roof, urging Sam to hurry up.

Sam gently took Castiel’s body in his hands, cradling his pink skin. “Wow,” Sam breathed, in awe at the damage the chickens had done the little bird. His eyes darted to the distraught Dean, thinking. “Did you do this to him?”

Dean wailed in upset. How could Sam think that?! Dean loved him! Castiel had saved Dean’s life, he’d been there when Dean needed him most and hadn’t even realised, how could Dean ever hurt him?

Sam didn’t understand any of the gibberish the disgruntled black rooster came out with, but it seemed apparent he took offence. He was anxious, and not violent at all.

Sam smoothed a thumb against Castiel’s cheek, sighing. He didn’t know if the bird could be saved, but he would do the best he could, for Dean’s sake. “I’ll see what the vet can do,” he said to Dean. “But don’t hold your breath.”

He turned and left the yard, closing the gate behind him, leaving the tub of chickenfeed sitting untouched by the stream.

Dean sat by the gate and waited.

The other chickens came by later in the morning, when it was a little less cold. They overturned the tub of feed and devoured every crumb, leaving nothing for Dean. Dean didn’t spare them a second glance, he sat at the gate and waited.

He waited past evening feeding, too. Still no sign of Castiel. Sarah dropped off the food without a word, then turned to leave. Berkley’s presence didn’t faze Dean, for once. He fluffed up what was left of his feathers, and sat back down when Sarah called the mutt away.

He waited as the stars came out, and the crescent moon made a mockery of Castiel’s half-closed eyes. Dean sat up on Castiel’s fencepost and he looked down at the house, then at the valley beyond. Castiel was somewhere out there. Human hands were good at fixing things, good at fixing broken chickens. Dean waited.

Come dawn, a hen joined him by the gate. Dean blinked at her sadly, too tired to make conversation.

She didn’t say much, either. She lowered her head in apology, then left. It wasn’t much, but Dean was less angry now. With the absence of anger came the desire to let his guard down, and for the first time since the night before the riot, he slept. He didn’t sing.

Another day went by, much the same. How long would he be waiting here? If he could forget the King of the Pit, how long until he forgot the King of the Light? How long until he fell out of love, moved on, settled for one of Bruce’s hens? What if he had chicks someday, and one of them was white like Castiel? What then?

All those thoughts and questions were pushed from his mind as he saw a human making their way up to the coop. Dean stood on his tiptoes, wanting to see Castiel in their arms, alert and shining with new feathers. It was Sarah and Ruby – but their hands were empty.

Dean left his place by the gate as they swung it open, and he ran in circles as they went straight to his and Castiel’s hut. What were they doing?

“You take the left, I’ll take the right,” Ruby said, and Sarah obeyed, putting her hands on the hut.

Dean clucked hastily, reminding them that he lived there, in case they’d forgotten. They didn’t pay him any attention, and they carried the hut straight out of the yard.

Dean scooted around their feet, jumping to try and catch his hut as they made it fly away. Come back! Castiel would need a place to sleep when he got home!

“Shoo, Dean,” Sarah complained, waggling a boot in his direction. “We’re moving you to a better place.”

Dean didn’t believe them, so continued trying to pull his house back down.

They took the hut to a sheltered alcove closer to the house, next to a tree in a pot, and some flowers in smaller pots. Dean flapped around in agitation. As soon as his hut was grounded again, he ran inside to check nothing had changed. It was exactly the same as before, but now the view was different. He could see vegetables growing in neat rows, potatoes and carrots and tomatoes creeping up sticks. And―

DOG!

Dean cowered at the back of his hut, screeching at Berkley’s snuffling nose as it invaded Dean’s house. Get out! Get out, you’re not Castiel!

“Off, Berkley! Off!” Ruby tugged the dog away, and Berkley trotted off with his tail wagging.

Dean shivered nervously, slowly craning his head out to check the dog was really gone. He was. Dean sighed in relief.

“Berkley wouldn’t hurt him, would he?,” Sarah asked Ruby.

Ruby laughed. “Nah. Old Berks is more chickenshit than the actual chickenshit. He just likes to sniff, then he’s on his way.”

Dean harrumphed and sat on his rung, sulking.

Evening fell differently in this corner of the land. The sunset was shady, but much warmer. Dean took a pleasant nap, so close to forgetting what he was waiting for. He knew he was waiting for something... It was very important...

He heard a cluck. (Just one cluck.)

Everything came back at once. Dean burst out of his hut, and ran towards Sam, who had a lump in his hands.

It was Castiel! It was Castiel wearing a sweater!

Dean squawked and jumped happily as Castiel was set down on the house’s patio, tentatively standing on his own two legs. Dean orbited him, totally ecstatic. Castiel got his bearings, then turned his eyes to Dean. Two perfect blue stars, too bright for the daytime. Hello, Dean.

Dean stood on his tiptoes and crowed as loudly and proudly as he liked, trumpeting with joy. He hoped Bruce heard him, he hoped all the chickens in the world heard him. Castiel was alive!

Castiel stepped forward and pecked Dean on the beak. Dean stopped crowing to look at him. What a funny way to say hello.

Dean turned around and went to rummage in the vegetable patch. He spent a good minute looking for something special, and when he found it, he scurried back to Castiel’s side, ruffling up against his knitted sweater. Castiel let Dean poke the bug down his throat, then clucked gratefully.

Sam chuckled. Dean looked over at him, and saw the man standing with his two lady friends, watching Dean and Castiel. Dean crowed in thanks, and for the first time, he was absolutely sure the humans understood what he said.

“You’re welcome,” Sam said.

That night, Dean and Castiel roosted together in their own private hut, warm and snuggly. Castiel’s wool sweater was nice to nuzzle against, much nicer than feathers.

Castiel’s plumage would grow back eventually, Dean was sure of it. He would be the most marvellous white bird the world had ever seen, and Dean would be his shadowed counterpart.

Dean sang Castiel to sleep with a new song, one he made up. He sang about a home, and a warm touch, and a little muddled family that was surely on track towards being.

The second springtime came, arriving gradually, like the seasons in the lightworld always seemed to do. Last spring had been a sad affair. All that sitting on eggs, and no chicks to show for it. At one point, Dean had almost been convinced he wasn’t meant to have chicks. But Castiel, being the creature of perseverance that he was, had said it was all in good time.

Almost two years was definitely good time, right?

Castiel took over from Dean’s egg-sitting duties for a few minutes, and Dean went to get some dinner from the trough of nibbles that Sarah made a habit of leaving out. Dean ate, then went straight back to the nest inside the hut. Ruby had added an extension to the main roosting area, just for their egg.

Dean made Castiel get up, because sitting on the egg was Dean’s job. Castiel let him, if only to avoid one of Dean’s egg-related tantrums.

Apparently – and this was just hearsay – roosters weren’t the ones who sat on eggs. Well, that was plain nonsensical, Dean had said. Where was the satisfaction of chick-rearing if the ladies did all the work? It wasn’t like it was hard, or anything...

Three weeks later, he had formed new opinions. That wasn’t to say all the hard work should be left to the ladies, but that it was, in fact, terribly hard work. His legs ached and he was tired and he’d been egg-sitting for so long, he just wanted to sleep.

But then came a tickle. It wasn’t anything, he thought. Just a feather out of place.

Then it tickled again.

Wait...

Tickle!

Dean stood up and shouted for Castiel, getting all excited as he checked the egg. It was a large egg, beige in colour and more elongated than the other hens’ eggs. It didn’t matter to Dean that his egg was different – Sam had given it to him to look after, and it was very important not to let Sam down.

Castiel arrived as excited as Dean, clucking and clucking until Dean told him to shush. Listen!

They listened carefully. The egg wiggled, making a ticking, crackling noise. Dean’s heart was racing, their baby was finally here!

Castiel ruffled his white feathers happily, and he and Dean sat and waited as their baby pecked its way out of the eggshell. First came a little black bill, rounded at the end. Then came a grey head, damp with eggy residue but still fluffy.

Dean looked at Castiel in delight. Their baby was grey! How perfect was that?

Then, out of the egg, came a webbed black foot. Dean had to check his own feet in case he’d screwed up somehow. No, he definitely didn’t have webbed feet.

“Bok,” Castiel said, amused. Their baby wasn’t a chicken at all, but a swan.

Dean looked baffled. A swan? How did that happen?!

Castiel said it was Sam’s doing.

Dean huffed. Of course it was.

He clucked, going forward to help their baby out of the rest of its shell. It was their swan. Their adorable blend of dark and light. Their teeny-tiny grey fuzzball.

The baby beeped, and Dean jumped in surprise. Castiel laughed, and nudged up to Dean’s side, nuzzling against his neck. Finally, they had a family. A weird family, sure – but when had the two of them ever settled for the norm? It was going to be wonderful.

That night, Dean sang his baby to sleep. Castiel gazed at Dean with even more love in his eyes than he usually did, and when Dean got too tired, Castiel carried on the song on Dean’s behalf.

Dean fell asleep with his dubbed head resting on Castiel’s plush feathers, in love with the world. In love with the light. Castiel went on singing until he fell asleep too, his family tucked protectively under a splendid white wing.

This was their roost. This was their home. They were safe, and loved, and all in all, they were very happy chickens.