Title: Sunday
Author: silverspar
Disclaimer: everything belongs to God or warner brothers
Rating: Rish
Genre/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, implied Sam/Dean
Warnings: darkfic is my thing


It always rains on Sundays. I don't think it was always like this, but my memory is hazy now, much like my sense of self: a foggy imprint or an echo of the monster that once was.

I know they did something to me. I know I used to be wrathful and now I'm not. I have been saved; I have been spared. My kind were too judgmental, we could not continue in our ways. I now exist to serve him, to love him. I ache for the weight and brutality of him and I am deeply satisfied when he is with me.

But as he pounds into me and the rain beats against the windows, something inside me trembles and shakes loose. I want what this day was named for.

Like something out of a dream, the rain stops. I cannot see the sun itself, but I can feel its heat upon me, burning away the mess he's made of my skin.

Dean rolls away from me and the sunshine as if they hurt him ... as if he can't stand the judgment of light. I stretch and revel in it, letting it coat me with its warmth.

The blinds come down and I sigh. A tear rolls down my face, mourning the brightness and everything else he's stolen from me. Wrath has returned, but my fragile flesh cannot sustain it. Futility follows.

"Kill me," I whisper with some still small voice that was almost silenced.

Dean strokes his fingers through my hair in a mockery of tenderness. I'm bleeding out, but he'll treat it before I'm gone. Getting me close to death turns him on.

"No. You belong to me," he says softly ... but I know suddenly that that is impossible. I belong to someone else. I do not know how I could have forgotten for so long.

In the artificial darkness, I meet his eyes. They widen, shocked at my audacity. He squints and digs his claws in around my neck, threatened by me now. I see the dragon in the slits of his pupils, the demon, the devil himself.

Horror and terror shorts out my will to resist until something somewhere beyond him catches my eye. One blind has snagged, miraculously. It is a line filled with light. And I remember what Dean used to look like before that last great sin - his brother's seed corrupting him from within.

With effort I lift my arms and rest them on the smooth, pale skin of Dean's back. He gasps. It's been an age since I last reached for him of my own freewill.

"Where have you been? I have missed you," I croak before pressing a kiss to his forehead. My wings unfurl around us and scald the shadows of my feathers into his bones. I hold him tighter; I hold him together. There's not much left of the man he used to be. My remembering will be the death of what remains.

"Castiel-" he breathes. The demon hides from his eyes and Dean weeps into my shoulder.

"Have mercy," his lips beg against my throat.

I do not.

But perhaps my Father does.