Take These Broken Wings And Learn To Fly

Prologue

Hello, everyone!

One fix-it wasn't enough to heal my shattered soul, so here we go again. I'm super excited to start this after the idea has been rattling around in my head for months. We're in for some angsty angst with this one, so strap in and enjoy the ride.

Quick WARNING: I didn't tag Graphic Depiction of Violence since we don't see the moment it's committed, only the aftermath, but I'd still like to caution everyone again to read the tags, if something needs to be warned about in the future that hasn't been mentioned yet, I will make you aware in the beginning notes of the chapter it applies to.

Without further ado, hope you enjoy!

Title from "Blackbird" by The Beatles

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

Six months.

Crowley rolls around in bed with a groan, pulling the covers higher over his head.

His skull is pounding, a last goodbye sent by the copious and, plainly, unhealthy amounts of alcohol he had consumed last night.

He could miracle it away, but he won't. He barely ever does these days.

This pain is just that...pain.

It's a physical ache.

It's a distraction.

It's much better than the alternative.

Six months.

He's been doing this for six months.

He has no intention of stopping anytime soon.

He flops down on his back, legs tangled in the black silk sheets, rubs his tired eyes. Sleep doesn't feel like a relaxation anymore, not with the nightmares. But at least it gives him a reprieve from the nightmare that his life has become.

The room is dark and quiet, like the rest of his flat. There's no one there but him, there never is. Only withering plants in a deserted room, a withering demon in a cold bed.

No one to disturb him, no one to disrupt his sulking, no one to tell him to stop.

Who'd be there? The only being who knows where he lives and once cared enough to check on him is long gone. There's no one who cares now.

Crowley is almost glad for it. He's done caring, done hoping someone might care for him. It only gave him grief, left nothing but this empty flat, empty bottles around his bed, and an empty heart inside his chest.

And three words. Three little words that haunt his dreams now.

I forgive you.

Crowley grits his teeth, presses his forehead harder into the mattress, as if the incessant pounding in his head might force the words out. They burn in his ears, burned their way through to his brain, a permanent brand over the little part of his psyche that once hoped for words of friendship and affection.

It doesn't help. It never does.

Crowley sighs in resignation, lets his body go lax, exhausted despite the hours of sleep. His hand searches for the edge of the bed, groping around without lifting his head until his fingers close around the neck of a bottle. He doesn't know what it is he grabbed until the liquid hits his tongue, whiskey neat, stale and burning as it runs down his throat, drips onto the mattress where the careless swig escaped the corner of his mouth.

Everything burns these days. His tired eyes, his stale whiskey, his angel's words.

No, not his. Not anymore. Never was, really.