[ Castiel opens his mouth as if to explain that it's not quite like that, that broken angel wings and skinned knees hardly compare. But it seems he catches something in Dean's eyes that gives him pause, that makes him wonder if Dean understands, and just as usual fails to express that understanding.
Even when Dean pulls away, Castiel feels the warmth linger at the small of his back like a brand.
Castiel pulls one of the chairs from the table over to the center of the room, and straddles it in a manner he has seen Dean often do. The position feels weird for him, strangely casual in ways he would usually not choose to do, but it will allow Dean access.
And he wants to back out. Wants to say this isn't a bad idea, wants to tell Dean not to touch his wings lest either of them mistakes that for invitation, wants to deal with the constant pain now rather than the agony that will be someone setting his wings for him.
But he needs them back. He needs to heal. And that won't happen unless he lets Dean... put hands on him.
Castiel swallows thickly. There's tension throughout his body, lean muscles of his vessel straining. ]
I know.
[ Castiel grips the backrest of the chair. It creaks under the strength of his grip, even weakened as he is now.
and then he leans his head further forwards in quiet submission to the necessity of what Dean will do, and carefully folds his wings out, allowing them to spread to nearly their full span - filling the cabin's living room near entirely in width, and putting Castiel very much on vulnerable display in front of Dean.
And the sight is not half as beautiful as it should be. ]
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Even when Dean pulls away, Castiel feels the warmth linger at the small of his back like a brand.
Castiel pulls one of the chairs from the table over to the center of the room, and straddles it in a manner he has seen Dean often do. The position feels weird for him, strangely casual in ways he would usually not choose to do, but it will allow Dean access.
And he wants to back out. Wants to say this isn't a bad idea, wants to tell Dean not to touch his wings lest either of them mistakes that for invitation, wants to deal with the constant pain now rather than the agony that will be someone setting his wings for him.
But he needs them back. He needs to heal. And that won't happen unless he lets Dean... put hands on him.
Castiel swallows thickly. There's tension throughout his body, lean muscles of his vessel straining. ]
I know.
[ Castiel grips the backrest of the chair. It creaks under the strength of his grip, even weakened as he is now.
and then he leans his head further forwards in quiet submission to the necessity of what Dean will do, and carefully folds his wings out, allowing them to spread to nearly their full span - filling the cabin's living room near entirely in width, and putting Castiel very much on vulnerable display in front of Dean.
And the sight is not half as beautiful as it should be. ]
Be... gentle. Please.