The Empty House (A Supernatural Story)

The Empty House

The void spanned on perpetually in every direction, an expanse of nothingness painted across unseen horizons and non-existent stars. The Empty was created merely to harbour non-existence, and it fulfilled this, for the world held nothing but nothingness itself, and the remains of the dead, all locked in an eternal sleep.

And yet, a forlorn figure lay awake in its midst, a solitary piece of awareness. The being was colourful, made of tans and blues and whites that the realm was without. The being's heart thrummed an agitated beat as he woke from his dreamless slumber with a sharp breath, disturbing the world's only possession: silence. The realm's desolation had shattered as soon as he awoke in its clutches, disrupting its slumber. The Empty watched with bitter, yet calculating eyes as the being awoke, waiting patiently for the annoying piece of existence to return to his rest.

~~~~

Castiel stared out, trying to discern anything in the veil of black that surrounded him. He had woke to his name being called, of that he was certain, but he could not see the owner of the quiet voice. He pushed himself off the strange, indistinct ground, giving it and its complementary surroundings an appraising and confused look. Strange. He'd never seen a realm like this. He stood up at full height, and called out into the tenebrous world.

"Hello?!"

Not even an echo answered him. He wandered forwards, his footsteps obscured in silence as he looked to and fro.

"Hello? Is there anyone here?!" he shouted, tilted his head up to see if anything hung above in what he deemed to be this realm's sky.

All that greeted him was more of the same nothing. He flicked his eyes back down and glanced around, allowing his confusion to overwhelm him. He couldn't recall how he'd got here. All he could remember was the feeling of burning, of a fire eating away at his wings.

...That could not be right. He could feel them, sitting tight across his back. He shifted them from their position and brought them forward to analyse whatever damage had occurred to them. What he saw, however, was completely unexpected.

His wings, having been frail and tattered in the years following the Fall, were in perfect condition. The feathers were pristine, a perfect black not tarnished even by the inescapable taint of Hell that had coated them since Dean's resurrection. They glowed with an pale ethereal blue, allowing the dark appendages to shimmer beautifully in contrast to the lifeless black of his surroundings. He flicked his wings forward, and he felt the gentle woosh of air they made, proving that they were not an illusion.

Castiel stared at his renewed wings with an uncertain frown. That shouldn't be possible. His wings had been damaged beyond even what his grace could repair. He'd accepted that, and he had grown use to the frail wings that had become a part of him, tending, more often than not, to ignore them. But now, they were restored, complete and as perfect as they had been when he was first created. He knew he should be delighted, but all he felt was apprehension. What could have done this? More importantly, why? If not God, then something immensely powerful. He needed to remember.

He scrunched his eyes tight, looking inwards, tracing back through his memories, attempting to dissect them to determine what had happened.

The Alternate Universe flashed into his mind, and he sorted through the fuzzy images of that dreary gray dystopia winged with red lightning and ultimate devastation. He remembered meeting the alternative Bobby, and seeing Earth as it would have been if the Winchesters had never been born. He remembered them planning on trapping Lucifer there, and then him racing towards the Devil, angel blade held firm in his hand as he prepped it for a futile attack. He remembered passing through the tear after leaving his blade embedded in Lucifer's stomach, seeing Sam and Dean smile gratefully that he'd returned unharmed.