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Born on Wings of Steel	By : LotusMoon Category: Supernatural > Slash - Male/Male Views: 4687 -:- Recommendations : 3 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor do I profit from it.

Chapter List
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The blare of a horn sounded as another barge slowly glided under the raised bridge and moved alongside an open slot on the dock. Port of Galveston’s Pier 10 terminal was loud with the organized chaos of vessels docking and departing and huge cranes unloading cargo overhead into train cars. The ever-present flocks of seagulls wheeled and dipped as they hunted for food, their sharp cries punctuating the scraping rumble of machinery and low shouts of men against the backdrop of slapping waves.

No one noticed the man in khaki pants and shirt watching from the shadows of one of the covered storage areas. When a crewman unloaded a large crate down the ship’s ramp in front of him with a hand truck, the man stepped out into the unrelenting Texas sun. The patch on the front of his shirt read “Anahuac National Wildlife Refuge”. With quick, long strides, the man intercepted the crewman.

“I’ll take it from here,” he murmured, pressing a folded wad of bills into the other man’s hand.

With a nod, the crewman relinquished the hand truck and hurried back to the ship. Carefully, the man in khaki tilted back the hand cart and started pushing the crate forward. He had barely made it two yards when a flash of blue surged forward out of the crowd towards him.

“Hey. You there. Stop!”

Panic flitted briefly over the man’s face before he set the hand truck upright again, resting the crate on the ground. He turned to face the port police officer. The officer frowned at him, eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

“You can’t just take a crate straight off the ship like that.” The officer had one hand resting on his walkie talkie as he spoke.

“I have paperwork.” The man pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his back pocket, freezing when the crate shifted on its own.

“What the-” The officer’s frown deepened, and he bent over to look closer at the crate. “Is that an animal?”

“A bird, actually,” the man said. He gestured at the patch on his jacket. “We received a call that the ship found an injured bird at sea, and I was taking it to the refuge’s vet.”

“You’re going to have to come with me to the Security Command Center,” the officer said. “Any animal coming through a port of entry has to follow customs protocol.”

The crate shifted again, and even amid the port noise, both men clearly heard the raspy moan. The officer’s reaction was immediate. His hand dropped to his holstered gun, and his entire body pulled up into tense readiness.

“Sir, step away from the crate,” he ordered.

“You don’t understand-” the man started to protest, then complied as the officer unsnapped the holster.

The officer pushed a button on his walkie. “This is Officer Rodriguez, requesting back up on Pier 10 for a code 10-26.”

Circling around to the front of the crate, the officer reached for the latch on the top.

“No!” The man held out his hand to stop him.

The officer let the hinged top fall open against the side of the crate and leaned forward to look down inside. Before he could even draw his gun, there was a screech, and a flash of movement in the sunlight that whipped his head around, sending his sunglasses flying. With a strangled cry, the officer fell to his knees, three parallel bloody gashes opening his face and his left eye dangling from the socket.

“Mm, baby, I’m gonna eat you up,” Dean crooned, licking his lips.

Brrring! Brrring!

“Dammit.”

Setting down his fork, Dean gave the fat slice of cherry pie a longing look as he pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. He glanced at the caller ID before flipping it open.

“Yo.”

“I need you to make a pit stop to check something out on your way back.” Bobby’s familiar voice rolled around his ear like worn gravel.

“What’s up?”

To distract himself from the cherry pie, Dean watched the cute waitress bend over as she wiped down tables.

“Half a dozen animal attacks in Texas. Victims are shredded up and partially eaten.”

Man, he loved a woman in uniform. Waitresses, nurses, librarians. Well, librarians didn’t really have uniforms, but the glasses and hair up in a bun thing, and tight buttoned-up shirts...

“Did you get that, idgit?” Bobby demanded.

Dean’s attention snapped back to the phone call. “Texas. When animals attack. Why is this one of ours?”

The barely suppressed sigh informed Dean that he had zoned out on some piece of information that would have answered that question.

“Because it’s supposed to be a big bird,” Bobby said.

“I never did trust that freaky yellow guy. Or his hairy elephant friend. What was his name? Snuffles?”

Dean stopped when he realized Bobby had hung up without saying goodbye. With a shrug, Dean slipped the phone back into his pocket and picked up his fork. He shoved a huge mouthful of heaven into his mouth then waved at the waitress.

“Honey, check please.”

"Early in the morning sunlight

Soaring on the wings of dawn

Here I'll live and die with my wings in the sky

And I won't come down no more"

Thumbs tapping out the beat to the Kansas song on the steering wheel, Dean pulled the Impala into a parking spot he hoped would be relatively safe from the seagull crap that seemed to cover everything. Turning off the radio, he popped open the glove box and pushed aside the emergency bag of Doritos to grab the stack of fake ID's. As he sorted through the plastic rectangles, he chucked the unwanted ones back into the glove box.
Sam's face caught his eye, and he stopped. It was the California driver's license Dean had made. A smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. He had typed an F in the gender section, and Sam hadn't noticed until it was too late. Sam must have accidentally left the driver's license behind when he left.
Holding the driver's license between his first and middle fingers, Dean cocked his wrist to flick it out of the open window, then hesitated. He tossed it back into the glove box instead. Finally finding the ID he wanted, Dean shut the glove box and glanced in the rearview mirror to check his tie.
"Show time."
Dean slid out of the Impala and shut the door, giving the roof a pat.
"Be right back, Baby."
Straightening his shoulders beneath the slightly wrinkled dress shirt, Dean strode confidently into the building marked: Security Command Center. He automatically noted the positions of the exterior security cameras in case he was going to need to make an after-hours visit.

The air in the building was nominally cooler than outside, but at least it was clean of seagull dookie. Front desk security was a young guy.
"Good," Dean thought. "Easy to intimidate."
"Can I help you, sir?" the guard asked as he looked up over the raised counter.
Dean flashed his fake ID and slipped it back into his pocket, ignoring the guard's outstretched hand. Never let them get a close look.
"Dr. James Hetfield from the US Department of Agriculture, APHIS." Dean put a note of tired annoyance in his voice, like it was a pain in the ass to even be here. "I need to see someone about this alleged giant bird."
Grabbing the pen chained to the counter, Dean signed the visitor's log with his best unintelligible doctor's scrawl.
"Now would be good," Dean added when the guard continued to watch him.
"Uh, yes sir."
Less than five minutes later, Dean was escorted into a room banked with monitors and a row of computers being manned by uniformed staff wearing miked headsets. A wide, heavy-set, tanned man with a crew cut who looked like he belonged more on a tractor than in a room full of technical equipment, stepped forward.
"Chief Mitchell," the man drawled.
Dean's hand was enveloped in a firm, calloused grip, and the brown eyes that met his were sharp. He definitely was not dealing with a hick here.
"Dr. Hetfield," Dean said. "Thank you for seeing me, Chief. The police believe these local deaths might be from an animal illegally brought in through this port."
Several heads turned slightly in their direction. Deputy Mitchell gestured for Dean to follow him, and turned around. They walked to a small office at the end of the narrow room.
"Have a seat." Deputy Mitchell pointed to a well-worn chair as he settled behind the desk.
"One of my own men was killed," Deputy Mitchell said as he typed on the keyboard.
He turned the monitor towards Dean. The screen showed a frozen image of a port security officer standing next to a man with a large crate on a hand truck. It had the familiar, grainy, black and white quality of security camera footage. Deputy Mitchell clicked the mouse, and the video started playing. There wasn't any sound, but it was obvious the officer was questioning the man. The other man's face was hidden beneath the shade of a cap. He had a patch on the breast pocket of his shirt, but it was impossible to see what it was.
Suddenly, the guard's entire attitude changed, and his hand dropped to his gun as he circled around to the front of the crate. Dean frowned. The other man hadn't made any sudden moves. Maybe the officer heard something unexpected? Dean leaned forward. The other man's body language shifted from nervousness to fear as the officer started to open the crate.
The officer leaned over, and jerked back almost instantly, sunglasses flying off his face. As he fell to his knees, there was a second movement from the crate, then he was clutching at his throat. A flash of light hit the camera, then the man closed the crate and navigated the hand truck around the officer's prone body.
Deputy Mitchell clicked the mouse again, and the image froze.
"What was that flash?" Dean asked.
Deputy Mitchell shrugged. "Lens flare? It was a sunny day."
"Why do you think it was a bird?"
The two swipes from the crate had been fast, and from the camera angle, it was impossible to see inside.
"'Giant bird' were the last words my officer spoke before he died," Deputy Mitchell said grimly.

Outside, Dean walked to where the incident had occurred, still cordoned off with police tape. Standing where the crate had been, Dean looked around until he spotted the security camera.
The flash of light on the tape might have been lens flare, but then it might not. Dean had learned not to dismiss even what might seem like a trivial, commonplace thing. People rationalized what they didn't expect to see. Dean started searching around the camera, beginning at ground level and working his way up the wall.
He spotted something lodged into the bricks about a foot over his head. Reaching up with his right hand, Dean grasped the thin metal sliver, and pulled.
"Damn!"
Hissing in pain, Dean jerked his arm down and examined his hand. Blood welled in cuts across the pads of his thumb, first and middle fingers. The edges of the object were razor sharp.
Clenching his injured hand into a tight fist in an attempt to slow the bleeding, Dean reached into his pants pocket with his left hand. Retrieving his Swiss Army knife, he pushed open the plier tool with his thumb. Reaching up again, Dean used the tiny pliers to grip the object and wiggled it back and forth a little to loosen it before tugging. It came free in a small shower of brick flakes.
Dean frowned as he examined it. The damned thing looked like a...

"Metal feather?" Bobby's voice repeated.
Dean cradled the cell phone between shoulder and ear as he sat at the table in the hotel room, binding up his fingers with surgical tape.
"Yeah, and you can't tell from the picture I sent, but it's sharp as hell. Sliced my fingers up like pickles."
"Hm." Bobby paused. "I'm going to have to do some research on this one."
In the background, Dean heard a rattle and crash. He stopped wrapping his fingers and started to ask Bobby if he was okay.
"Balls," Bobby muttered.
Dean realized Bobby had probably knocked into something with the wheelchair, and kept silent.
"Call me back, will ya?"
Dean closed the phone in his left hand. He took a swig from the long-necked beer bottle on the table, and ignoring his throbbing fingers, reached for the map. The other killings had taken place at the Anahuac National Wildlife Refuge. It was too late to head out there and talk to the ranger today, so he'd drive out in the morning. Dean glanced at the empty twin beds. It was still early enough for a little socializing. He toyed with the idea of hitting a local bar and seeing if maybe he could score a some action. Then again, with only one mouth to feed, he had some extra cash, and this was a good-sized town. He could cut straight to the chase.
"A den of iniquity." Dean said the words out loud as they popped into his head along with an image of Cas' terrified face.

He chuckled as he took another swig of beer. Dean had seen Cas stand toe-to-toe with archangels that could smash him into atoms without batting an eye, yet he acted like a scared kid when Dean took him to a harmless social club. Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much fun, and he didn't even get laid.
"Kinda wish you were here right now, Cas," Dean sighed.
Finishing off the beer, he stood up. Might as well just hit the sack.

"Higher than a bird I'm flying

Crimson skies of ice and fire

Borne on wings of steel I have so much to feel

And I won't come down no more"

"Cas."
Wind whipping the trenchcoat around his legs, Castiel stood on an out-cropping of rock on Mount Sodom, overlooking the Dead Sea. At the sound of his name, he tilted his head and listened, touching the borrowed pendant hanging around his neck.

It was Dean. Not a call, exactly, and he did not feel a sense of danger or urgency. Castiel looked out at the flat, grey-blue water. The last time he had been here, it had been called Vale of Siddim, and it had been a valley full of tar pits. Castiel squinted at the southeastern shoreline, where once had stood the cities of the plain; before his brothers had leveled them all at their father's command.
He had come here to visit a local prophet living in a cave who allegedly spoke to God, but the journey had been for naught. With each dead end, it was becoming increasingly difficult not to become discouraged.
Dean had told him to follow what was in his heart, and Castiel truly believed his father still existed, somewhere, but... The universe was vast, and his belief seemed more like a foolish hope every day. Yet, Castiel was a creature fashioned of faith, made to serve He who made him. Without that faith, what was he? Without a father to serve, what was his purpose?
Flattening his hand, Castiel pressed the pendant to his chest and disappeared.

The inside of the hotel room was dark except for the slivers of light from the parking lot falling through the gaps in the flimsy window curtain. Castiel sat on the edge of the empty bed and observed the occupant of the other bed. Dean and Sam must still be "taking separate vacations" as Dean had phrased it.
Bare to the waist, Dean slept on his back, right arm bent over his head as if unconsciously defending himself even in repose. Castiel noted his fingertips were bandaged, the blood seeping through indicating fresh wounds. Dean's legs were tangled in the sheets; Castiel knew from previous nocturnal vigils he was a restless sleeper. Even as he watched, Dean moaned softly, frowning face turning towards him, bandaged hand clenching into a fist on the pillow.
Leaning forward, Castiel lightly touched two fingers against Dean's furrowed brow. Immediately, the frown lines smoothed away, and the fist opened. Dean sighed and his entire body visibly relaxed as he fell into a deeper, more restful slumber. Castiel lifted away his fingers, but remained leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
The first few times he had watched Dean sleep, his motivation had been curiosity. Castiel, after all, neither slept nor dreamed. Now, it was something else. He had searched within himself for a reason, but unable to understand why, Castiel had decided to simply accept it. Sitting quietly in the dark, guarding Dean's sleep, easing him into gentler slumbers, gave Castiel a sense of satisfaction, of peace, almost. And peace was rare enough during these turbulent times to be treasured even in the smallest amounts.
Castiel did not know why he was drawn to Dean in this fashion. During his long existence, he had fellowship with his brothers, comrades in arms, bound together by duty and love of their father. But, he had never experienced anything like the friendship he now shared with the mortal man sleeping before him.
Dean's independence, at first incomprehensible, had become a trait he admired, and along with his bravery and loyalty, strove to emulate. After witnessing Dean's confrontations with demons and angels alike, Castiel realized he had not known the true meaning of courage and loyalty. Dean's mortal body was extremely fragile compared to the beings he battled, yet he did not hesitate or shirk from his task. Even, when in a rare moment of vulnerability, he confessed to being overwhelmed, those doubts did not manifest into weakness. And Dean was loyal to his small family out of a love and passion so deeply rooted in his being, it was part of his identity. What Castiel had believed to be loyalty in his brothers, was now revealed to him as blind obedience.
Through Dean, Castiel believed he was beginning to understand why his father loved humanity. They were becoming precious to him as well, these men he called friends.
So Castiel sat quietly, the only sounds the hum of the straining air conditioning unit, the drip of a leaking faucet in the bathroom, and Dean's breathing. Eventually, the darkness faded to gray, and dawn began to creep into the room. Castiel waited, watching the light touch Dean's thick eyelashes, stretching lines across his cheek. Dean's hazel, green-brown eyes changed color; a fact which intrigued Castiel. He noted they were more green when Dean was relaxed, darkening to brown when he was distressed. Fingers of light pushed through the worn weave of the curtain, touching the tip of Dean's ear, his shoulder, collarbone, the edge of the tattoo on his chest.
The radio clock on the night stand starting playing.
"Sail on, sail on, I will rise each day to meet the dawn

So high, so high

I've climbed the mountains of the sky."

There was movement beneath the closed lids, a brief flutter of eyelashes, then Dean's eyes opened. The light-suffused irises were the color of unclouded, clear jade. Then, he blinked, focusing on the drab hotel room, and the brilliant color darkened as Dean remembered who he was.

Even though Castiel knew it happened every time, he still hoped for the dawn when the jade stayed bright. He was, after all, a creature of faith. Standing, invisible to his waking friend, Castiel vanished.

Note: The song lyrics are from "Icarus" and "Wheels" by Kansas.
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Born on Wings of Steel