[ He feels light headed, near delirious. Castiel stands over Sam's bed, eyes on the sleeping, slowly healing form.
Castiel's lantern is dim these days. Near everything he has to spare in terms of grace goes into trying to fix the mangled horror he carries on his back. The spirits had delighted in cutting into something that was more than flesh and bone, alternating hallucinations that made him feel back in Naomi's chair with sessions under their blades.
Things went... very bad very fast when they'd managed to pull his wings into corporeal form.
He barely remembers Dean and Jo finding him, wings pinned and hooked, broken and cut, displayed like a horrific mocker of a butterfly.
They're taking a long time to heal. He can't reach properly to fix the torn, singed and ripped parts. Some of the bones aren't set properly. The black feathers should be silken and lustruous, yet now are dull, wings a mere ruin of what they should be. He holds them close to his body at all times, trying to hide them from view and from potential contact with anything and anyone. He's still knocked a few things over. His wings usually move nearly on their own without conscious thought from him needed, but that's when not every single twitch of them hurts on a non-physical level.
It doesn't matter, though. He can't help himself a lot. But... he can do other things.
So he stands there, in the quiet dark of the cabin and the barely there light of his lantern, and puts a hand on Sam's forehead, letting some of his grace seep through to help heal the younger Winchester faster. ]
Action | Post Kidnapping, Pre-Night Market
Castiel's lantern is dim these days. Near everything he has to spare in terms of grace goes into trying to fix the mangled horror he carries on his back. The spirits had delighted in cutting into something that was more than flesh and bone, alternating hallucinations that made him feel back in Naomi's chair with sessions under their blades.
Things went... very bad very fast when they'd managed to pull his wings into corporeal form.
He barely remembers Dean and Jo finding him, wings pinned and hooked, broken and cut, displayed like a horrific mocker of a butterfly.
They're taking a long time to heal. He can't reach properly to fix the torn, singed and ripped parts. Some of the bones aren't set properly. The black feathers should be silken and lustruous, yet now are dull, wings a mere ruin of what they should be. He holds them close to his body at all times, trying to hide them from view and from potential contact with anything and anyone. He's still knocked a few things over. His wings usually move nearly on their own without conscious thought from him needed, but that's when not every single twitch of them hurts on a non-physical level.
It doesn't matter, though. He can't help himself a lot. But... he can do other things.
So he stands there, in the quiet dark of the cabin and the barely there light of his lantern, and puts a hand on Sam's forehead, letting some of his grace seep through to help heal the younger Winchester faster. ]