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“Well, look at you,” Dean says, an undercurrent of a poisonous purr in his voice as his eyes, flashing black, travel up and down Castiel.
Castiel clenches his jaw.
Dean cocks his head to the side, says, “I can see your real face, Cas. I can see your singed little wings – you’re nothing but dying embers, aren’t you?”
Looking at Dean like this – his face and his soul bloodied and smoking with Hell-scent, twisted and dark – it was driving him mad. He needed his Dean back, he needed back the righteous man whose tattered little soul glowed golden and pure.
He needed this thing gone.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean snarls, reading Castiel’s surface thoughts. “You’re stuck with me.”
Cas resists the urge to physically recoil. He wants to step forward and spread his wings, to intimidate and bow Dean to him – but Dean was right. Castiel’s wings were hardly anything more than ash.
Castiel’s eyes flick over Dean’s shoulders at the wings all Knights have – with feathers so black they simply absorb light; the wings themselves were rotting, covered in bleeding sores that never heal. Because nothing from Hell is ever whole – it’s always broken and shredded and angry. And the Knights were the embodiment of that.
“We’ll see,” Castiel says, his eyes looking back to Dean’s face.
“C’mon, Cas,” Dean says, drawing Cas’s name out as he flares out his wings. “Don’t you want to go a few rounds when I can actually keep up with you? Or are you afraid I’ll beat you?”
Castiel ignores his instinct to flare out his own wings in response to Dean’s challenge. Instead, he clenches his fist and turns away.
“See you soon, lover,” Dean coos after him.
Castiel slams the door to the dungeon closed.
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End.