Author's Notes: Any folks out there with a Winged!Dean and Protective!Sam kink? This is ninety five percent complete. Meant to post it earlier, but I forgot. Let me know what you think.

It's an AU all right: Gordon and the Jesus Guy are alive in this one. Be warned: there's cursing, het sex, violence, rough language, weirdness in this thing. Song lyrics – Amazing Grace; dialogue paraphrased from episode summary of "Bad Day at Bad Rock" from Jensen Ross Ackles Fans, courtesy of Aurelia.

Summary: "You be good now," she whispers, and if Dean had been in his right mind he would've laughed like hell at the irony of that.

In The Eye of the Beholder: Unaware

By silver ruffian

Part One


The first time, God drowns the world and him with it.

Floating face down in midnight black water, shimmering moonlight playing on the surface of the water at his back. Water fills his lungs, and the sound of the ocean roars and echoes in his ears. No shouting, no screaming. It's not so bad. Kind of restful, considering what went on before.

He'd survived the war, and now this. The others were blind. They couldn't see what Gabriel and Raphael were doing, and he couldn't understand why they didn't see what was going on. No one listened to each other, and it all got very ugly very quickly, and they ended up doing Heaven's work for them. They cut each other to ribbons, and all the others had to do was just stand back and watch.

It would be funny if it weren't so damned pathetic.


The second time he drowns in his own blood.

It's warm down there in the basement. Dean stands there, his pistol in his right hand, listening to the faint sizzle as the silver rounds eat their way into the flesh between the fugly's eyes.

He presses his hand against his belly, and his hand comes away slick and bloody, like a kindergartner's handprint in bright red paint. He can see his lifeline. Too short. Cut off. Fuck.

His fingers shake and the rest of his body follows.

Dean takes a deep hitching breath, and he gasps and coughs up blood. He takes an awkward step backward as his legs give out on him. Dean sits straight down, curiously graceful. His ass thumps against the concrete floor and he's suddenly so tired.

Won't hurt to rest. Just for a moment. Fugly's dead. It's all good.

Dean shivers again, despite his heavy leather jacket. He's cold, and the pearl handle of the Colt is too heavy to hold onto. He watches it slip from his fingers and it doesn't matter. None of this does. He leans one shoulder against the rough brick of the basement wall, and listens to his heart beat in his chest.

Slow, then slower.

Cold…it's so damn cold. He presses his lips together to keep his teeth from chattering but that doesn't work too well. He can't feel his arms and legs anymore and he's mouth-breathing heavily like he's just run a sprint.

He smells sulfur. Dogs barking in the distance, and the sound makes him shiver. Something dark hovers in the air in front of him, and he slowly raises his head. So tired…all he can do is blink.

" 'bout time…you showed…up…bitch…" Dean says out loud. A part of him recognizes the fact that he sounds dazed, that he's slurring his words. Dude, that's not good.

She's a shadow flitting around him, a slight displacement of air down in that musty stale basement. She smiles, and the smile doesn't reach her eyes.

He doesn't flinch, doesn't react as she caresses the side of his face with her fingers. He barely feels it.

Hullo, sweetness. I've been waiting for you.

She leans in and kisses him and when she draws back he tastes blood on his lips.


She told him to stand there, so he stands there in that one spot. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back slightly as the warm fetid breeze flows over his naked skin.

Red sky overhead, backlit with flames and dark clouds, high-pitched screaming and shrieking that rises and falls with the wind currents, and it looks like the ground on the rocky red valley floor far below him is moving.

If he cared enough, if he squinted, he could see all those thousands upon thousands of bodies stretching all the way to the horizon jammed together, standing there, waiting, staring directly at him. He could see that if he cared enough to make the effort.

He doesn't. He stares at the multitude, uncaring, unimpressed. He's gotten used to the sulfur smell in the air, and he doesn't know if that's a good thing or not.


lead us, child, lead us…

He catches whispers on the wind, words spoken not in English, but he can still somehow understand the meaning. The voices screech and rumble, unearthly sounds coming from throats that were once human.

other generations, old yellow eyes said…

Some of them actually reach out towards him, grasping with their arms, tentacles, whatever, and Dean just stands there, his eyes slightly unfocused, staring at the far horizon.

Her mouth and skin tasted sweet and bitter, fresh strawberries mixed with dry brittle ashes. They fucked for what seemed like days at the crossroads, rocking into each other slowly, and he screamed out when she bit into his bare chest. Something pulled at the space between his shoulder blades and left him feeling breathless.

Her eyes turned blood red as she drew back and he wondered why she suddenly got this startled look on her face when she looked at him again.

She comes slinking up now, wearing a different womanskin than she did when he first saw her. For a weird moment he has this image of a closet full of the damn things on hangers, just waiting for her to pick out one to wear.

Different skin this time, dark smooth caramel colored skin framed by long wavy black hair, but he'd recognize her anywhere. Her walk, her smell, the way her skin tasted. That bright malicious smile of hers, the vicious glint in her eyes.

She's not alone this time.

The other one is tall, huge, a roiling man shaped thundercloud with silvery blue eyes, flashes of lightning glimpsed at its core.

"The horde has spoken," the thundercloud thing rumbles, and she nods.

"Dean," she says, and it's just a word. She gently puts her fingers underneath his chin, turns his face towards her. He blinks, stares at her blankly.

"I sold your contract, dear. You belong to the Ursi Taku now." She leans forward and he shudders as her tongue swipes slowly at the shell of his ear. She smiles, bright and wicked sharp. "Pity. I did enjoy having you, but in these trying times, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."

She leans forward, brushes her lips against his slowly, cards his short dark blond hair with slim fingers. She sees something like re-awakened pain and shadows in those wide green eyes, and she laughs, a nasty, sly sound. She knows exactly what he's thinking.

Sooner or later everyone leaves him, and she's no different than the rest.

"You be good now," she whispers, and if he'd been in his right mind he would've laughed like hell at the irony of that.

She walks away then, and she doesn't look back, her hips moving smoothly underneath that tight black leather dress like a scale trying to find its balance.

The thundercloud moves forward and settles around him. Dean doesn't struggle as hands come out of the darkness and examine his body. He doesn't flinch from their touch against his well-muscled freckled skin, doesn't even care enough to draw away. It's too hard to hold onto things like his name, and he's too tired to even try, so he doesn't. The last thing he remembers is an image.

Shaggy dark hair. Soulful puppy dog eyes.

"Sammy," Dean murmurs softly, and that's the last thing he says aloud for quite some time.


The third time's the charm…

"I think you're gonna wanna see this," the lesser Ursi Taku says uneasily. It keeps a safe distance away, mindful of what happened to the last bearer of bad news.

"Now what?" the greater Ursi Taku rumbles. It stretches up on its legs, like a grizzly bear, lightning crawling all over its surface, faces glimpsed through the boiling dark clouds. "We told you we wanted wings on this one. If you can't do that one simple thing…"

The lesser backs away towards the pit of dark water where they'd put the green eyed human in.

What's within is revealed, the lesser one thinks to himself. Oh, shit…

"Oh, he's got wings, all right," the lesser one mumbles, and it stands aside, still far enough away, hopefully out of reach, and lets the thing speak for itself.

The human kneels in the center of the dark water pit, naked, shoulders slumped slightly. He looks up, dull-eyed, impassive, as they approach. His wings are impressive, even folded against his back. But…

They're feathers.

Not skin. Not a membrane.

Honest to Lucifer feathers.

Perfectly formed. A soft light blue.

"Nephilim…" the greater Ursi Taku rumbles. Its cloudskin ripples as it lashes out at the lesser, and the lesser one explodes into a hundred fragments, eyes bulging, mouths gaping in a silent scream. "Son of a misbegotten bitch…"

A week later…

Kubrick and Creddie get the call sometime past midnight. It's Ballard. Female hunter, crazy as a shithouse rat, but she does have some mad hunting skills.

"Hey, Kubrick," she drawls, all low and soft, "soon as you can, head on out my way, will 'ya? I'm at the farmhouse, the one right off the I-9? Caught one'a those freaks that got outta the devil's gate. You saved my ass on that hunt down in Tucson, so I figure I owe ya one. You can get your licks in with this one, do the honors. We'll save some for ya."

Several hours and half a state later, Kubrick smells blood as soon as he walks into the barn. Blood, and the scent of something else. It's a faint smell, almost like roses, but there aren't any roses inside the barn. Just Ballard and three other hunters, all grim and purposeful.

And Dean Winchester, chained to the far wall.

Kubrick hears Ballard laugh, a high-pitched sound, and that was one thing (the only thing? his mind asks dazedly) about the chick that always gave him the creeps. She must have been a hyena in another life.

Kubrick recognizes the kid right away. He's on his knees, barefoot, naked except for a pair of bloody, torn blue jeans. Thick heavy chain is wound around his neck, shoulders and arms. That heavy chain collar is the only thing keeping his head up. Winchester's green eyes are glazed over with pain, confusion, and something else that Kubrick can't identify. He's broken, so lost in his own world so that he doesn't seem to notice either newcomer.

Kubrick stands there, and he tries not to stare. It's been over eight months since he last laid eyes on Dean Winchester, and the only stupid thing that comes to Kubrick's mind is what a difference eight months makes.

The kid's hair has grown out, shoulder length, and it's lighter, sandy blonde almost. The other change in him is so huge that Kubrick's mind refuses to wrap itself around what he's looking at, but he can't deny it, and he feels all the spit in his mouth dry up as his throat closes up.

Dean Winchester's got wings.

Feathered wings.

They're massive, a soft light blue color splattered with streaks and globs of red paint.

Scratch that. Not paint.


The wings are pinned to the wall with four thick wooden stakes, and whoever did that wasn't too precise or delicate, either. It's the work of a butcher who obviously doesn't give a fuck. Kid won't be flying again any time soon, if ever.

There's a large wooden mallet lying on the floor nearby, slimed with blood and several broken blue feathers.

Dean's covered in blood, cuts, long and short gashes. Ballard and the other three have been busy, all right. Some halfwit carved the numbers 666 into the meat of the kid's right shoulder, a pentagram on his chest, and an inverted cross down on his left side, right over his hipbone. Creedie flinches as he realizes that big black purplish blue bruise on Dean's face is the heel print of a size twelve boot.

"We came out here so no one could hear us work. Got plenty of privacy out here. Nearest neighbor's miles away." Ballard shrugs. "Freak won't scream, I'll give 'em that."

She walks over and grabs a handful of that long sandy blond hair and viciously twists his head up and around. The kid stares at her dully. He's a beautiful, bloodied ruin just waiting for the final strokes that will put him down for good.

Kubrick stands there, and he's able to ignore that wide-eyed look on Creedie's face. He thinks about all that shit that happened months ago, and it all comes back to him with crystal clarity. Yep, it's a fucking epiphany, folks, and the lightbulb going off over his head is so blinding he's surprised no one else can see it.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me...

Sam Winchester was a klutz. An idiot. He'd knocked himself out in that motel room months ago, and it was so damn easy tying him up, they really should've known better.

I once was lost but now am found,

"Things like this don't just happen," he'd told Creedie then. "God led us here for one reason…to do his work. This is destiny…"

"But, you see," Dean snarked that day, "there's something about me that you don't know…"

No shit.

The things that kid had done that day, the way he stopped them…it was effortless, and it wasn't right. Wasn't natural. Sam wasn't the one. It was Dean. Had been all along.

And even then, I got it wrong, Kubrick thinks dazedly. Gordon had it wrong. Ass-backwards wrong.

Was blind, but now, I see.

Ballard nudges Kubrick in the arm and he's back in the barn again.

It won't talk. Won't, or can't. Either way it needs to be put down. Here," Ballard steps away, grins as she hands Kubrick the Taurus 9mm loaded with silver ammo. "You can do the honors."

"Okay," Kubrick says slowly. He stares down at the pistol. He's handled guns all his life, and the weight in his hand feels familiar and wrong at the same time.

Kubrick stands there for a long moment, still staring, before he raises the gun and pulls the trigger.

And what do you know, the neighbors are so far away they don't hear the gunshots, and they don't call the cops. Imagine that.


"Broke out just for you, Sammy boy," Gordon Walker drawls. "Just you and me, the way it should have been all along." He walks around the chair he's tied Sam up in, smirks a little as he sees Sam struggle against the ropes.

Sam can't talk because of the gag Gordon stuffed into his mouth, but the look on his face speaks volumes. Fuck you doesn't even begin to cover it.

Gordon sees the look and shakes his head reproachfully. "Now, that's no way to be. I didn't kill Bobby when I took you, did I? I'm not a monster, Sam, no matter what you might think. Singer's old. He's confused. He's dead wrong about you, but he's loyal, I'll give him that."

Sam pulls at his wrists. The ropes don't give, won't give. Like everything else Gordon does, the knots are tied just right. Gordon goes over to his duffel, rummages around inside looking for the appropriate tool to start the festivities off with. "Too bad about Dean, huh? He really was a good big brother to you, better than you deserved, freak. I heard all about that deal he made, just to get you back. And he went to hell for you anyway."

He pulls out a slender silver knife and smiles tightly as he holds it up to the light. "I'm a fair man, Sam. You'll be reunited with Dean pretty soon, 'cause I'm gonna send you straight to hell. After you tell me what those demons are planning to do."

Shit, Sam thinks to himself. It's gonna be a long night, because I don't have a clue.


The last two chapters of Dog Eat Dog will be posted by this weekend. Will update this bad boy then.