Kind people are lost angels on Earth. They carry their heavy, white wings around, on their backs, all the time. They suffer so much along the way and end up being so sad and feeling so miserable, in the end. When they're alone, feathers fall slowly from their wings, as if they are fall leaves. They drown in loneliness. That loneliness is just like the most expensive whisky at the bar downtown. The angels take a sip from it, at first. And, unfortunately for some, they keep coming back to that harsh drink because they can't find anything better.
And this is how angels become the fallen.
Their whiteness fades. Their softness drops and blurs out in the background. Their facial expressions turn darker over time and harsh, yet beautiful lines crease over their most valuable features. And then... their wings fall. They just fall, lost in a dark maze of emotionless people.
Castiel was playing the harp in his little white cottage, built from light feathers, and was softly humming along the melodic line. That until a loud thump banged on his door and Castiel stopped playing.
He put the harp aside, making sure no noise was to be made. He ruffled his curls that were even more yellow than the sun itself, and carefully stepped to the door and put every hand of his on every side of the wooden entrance.
When he was about to glue his right side of his head to the door to listen to any left noise, the door itself exploded, deafening everything around. Castiel collapsed to the ground until his wings rose to life and easily lifted the angel up as if the blonde boy, in the shape of an angel, weighed nothing.
Then, the force came over his angelic body and slammed him against the wall until he felt his guts being torn from the inside, and was striving for fresh air. Just as he started to lose focus, he was thrown out of his destroyed cottage and carried like a dead body on its final road to eternity.
Until his body slammed against something warm and soft, and his body came back to life. Castiel opened his eyes and realized he wasn't in his feather bed no more. He was in a bed, his left hand hugging a woman's body. The soft features and moles on the back of the woman made him gulp. She was naked and fragile. Death could have picked her right then. But Castiel knew He wouldn't. She was just too pure and she yet had to live so much. Like 54 years or so. But still, a lot. He put his lips on her left shoulder and planted a soft kiss that would mark the woman as another Chosen of Angels and God.
Then he noticed his grey wings, and another teardrop of loneliness fell down his harsh, unshaved cheek, and traced down his jawline, melting on his neck, on his growing pulse.
Castiel was alone. Again. Lonely and alone. He had a good heart deep down, yet no one seemed to take notice. No one seemed to love him the way he was supposed to.
Because no one, absolutely no one loves kind souls the way they are supposed to.
Unless you are a kind soul yourself. Otherwise, just forget about it.
T