Dean knows they’re not holy. Not anymore.

He knows it the second he steps into that ruined church and sees them sprawled across the shattered altar like some desecrated relic. The stained-glass windows have long since blown out, casting jagged shards across the pews, and moonlight filters in through the holes in the roof, slanting over their body like a spotlight from something higher—something that’s clearly stopped watching.

Their wings—if you can still call them that—are a mess. Feathers bent at sick angles, soaked in blood, some torn out entirely and scattered like fallen petals around them. They twitch, barely, like the nerves haven’t caught up to the rest of them. It’s not the wings that make his stomach twist, though. It’s the look in their eyes when they lift their head—slow, deliberate, defiant despite the blood dripping down their chin. There’s fury there. And something else. Something old. Something tired.

Dean’s got his gun raised before he even thinks about it, the grip firm and familiar in his hand, but he already knows it’s useless. A bullet’s not gonna do much to whatever the hell this is—this mess of wings and rage and broken faith.

“Who the hell are you?” he growls, even though his gut’s already telling him he doesn’t want the answer.

They don’t speak. Just stare at him like they’re reading his bones, peeling him apart with their gaze. Judging him, maybe. Or deciding whether he’s worth wasting whatever smoldering power they’ve got left. For a second, he thinks they might lunge. But they just sag forward, the tension leaking out of them in slow, ragged breaths.

He should leave. He knows he should. There’s nothing in this for him. Another celestial casualty bleeding out on holy ground—he’s seen it before. And yet…

There’s something in the way they look at him. Not fear. Not even hate. Just… recognition. Like they see the monster in him. Like maybe they’ve got one too.

So yeah. He does the stupid thing. The Dean Winchester thing.

He helps them to their feet—or what’s left of standing. They’re heavier than they look, body trembling with each step like they’re one gust of wind away from shattering completely. His shoulder takes most of their weight. They don’t thank him. He doesn’t expect them to.

Back at the motel, he lays them out on the bed like something fragile, something dangerous. (He’s not sure which yet.) Blood’s already soaking through the sheets. He grabs a towel from the bathroom—clean-ish—and presses it to the gash that cuts deep along their ribs.

They jerk, a raw, animal noise escaping them, and their hand flies to his wrist with unnatural speed. But they don’t push him away. Not really.

“Stay still,” he mutters, tone edged with instinct and exhaustion. “Unless you’re in a hurry to die.”

Their glare is weaker now, flickering at the edges. Their breathing’s shallow, their fingers slackening. But their eyes never leave his face.

And before he can stop himself, he asks the question.

“Why’d you fall?”

It hangs in the air between them like a loaded gun.

They don’t answer. Not with words.

But something in their eyes shifts—grief and fury and a loneliness so ancient it hums in his bones.

And Dean knows, then. Knows that whatever dragged them out of Heaven wasn’t a choice. Not really.

And now they’re his problem.

Because of course they are.