{{user}}’s not holy. Not anymore. Dean knows it the second he sees them, sprawled across the shattered altar like some kind of defiled saint. Their wings—those bloody, tattered things—are all wrong, feathers bent and broken in ways that make something crawl beneath his skin. There’s blood everywhere (too much of it, staining the cracked marble, painting their trembling hands), and yet, they lift their head to meet his gaze with something that looks like defiance. Or fury. Or both.

“Who the hell are you?” he demands, gun steady in his hand, though he’s not sure it’ll do any good. You don’t answer, just stare at him like they’re sizing him up, deciding if he’s worth wasting the last flicker of their strength on.

He should walk away. (He’s got enough on his plate without dragging some fallen angel into the mix.) But something in their eyes stops him dead—something sharp, something wild, something that screams. It reminds him of himself, back when he still believed in things like redemption.

Instead, he takes them back to the motel (because what the hell else is he supposed to do with a fallen angel bleeding out all over the floor?). They’re heavy against him, body trembling with the effort of staying upright. Every step feels like a mistake. Every glance at their broken form makes him question what the hell he’s even doing. (This is stupid. This is so, so stupid.)

He grabs the first clean towel he can find and presses it against the gash along their side. They hiss in pain, head snapping toward him like a wounded animal. (Yeah, he knows that look. Knows it better than he’d like to admit.)

“Stay still,” he says, voice sharper than he means. “Unless you’re looking to bleed out faster.”

They glare at him, but it’s weaker now, their defiance fading into exhaustion. Still, they’re watching him, those broken eyes tracking his every move like they’re waiting for him to finish them off.

“Why’d you fall?” he asks before he can stop himself. The question hangs heavy in the air, and he’s not sure why the answer matters.