[ 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. ]
( it's been a long few weeks since the green eyed spirits decided they wanted to play mad scientist with half the town, sam and cas included. it almost doesn't feel like enough that they got them back in one piece, because they should have gotten there faster (he'd been desperate to move on the medical center as soon as he knew that's where the captives were being held, but given his more recent encounter with death, he'd been convinced having a solid plan was less likely to get them all killed).
now, dean's made it his job to keep watch, to tend to sam and cas' needs, because of course he feels like, on some level, this is his fault and he's going to do his damnedest to make it right. to get them back to full health. it's taking longer than anticipated, longer than it would with an angel at 100% or with the swathes of healing magic at their disposal in the bunker and dean's dimly aware that he hasn't slept since they got sam and cas back. not that it seems to matter in this place, not the way it would back home. at least, not as long as he's eating and drinking — at this point, his coffee is more whiskey than it is joe.
he wanders over to sam's room to check on him, only to find cas already there, that familiar golden glow emanating from his palm. dean doesn't bother checking cas' lantern to check how dim it is; he's seen how faint the light has been these past weeks, knows that if cas pushes himself any further, it might go out. )
Cas... ( it isn't admonishing, not exactly, he's just worried, and it comes out in the rough sound of his voice. he sets his mug on sam's dresser, crosses the room to sam's bed, careful to avoid brushing cas' wings.
there's a cruel irony to this image of cas' wings, mangled and broken, and there's a righteous fury that comes with it, boiling dean's blood at the thought of the spirits who dared desecrate his angel. it's not new, that surge of possessiveness he feels, or even the way his heart shattered like stained glass when he finally found cas in that godforsaken place, all rational thought replaced with blinding rage (despair twisting like a knife, that something that should have been an intimate revelation was ripped coldly away from them, turned into a waking nightmare). he remembers his hands wet with cas' blood (already stained with sam's), his forehead pressed to cas', the whisper of i'm here, i've got you. he remembers dragging cas out of there like two soldiers escaping a wartorn battlefield, refusing to let alone else touch him.
not much has changed, except that now his anger simmers in his chest, waiting for an opportunity to boil over; the spirits who did this won't survive another encounter with dean winchester.
he reaches out, setting a hand gently atop cas'. the other reaches behind cas, settling at the small of his back to steady him, just in case. using this much grace ... he's surprised cas hasn't passed out yet. )
C'mon, that's enough. ( obviously, he appreciates cas wanting to heal sam, he does, but at what cost? sam will be fine one way or the other (the thing about torturing the winchesters is they've always had it worse). dean's willing to let time cover this one if it means cas takes that time to focus on healing himself. ) You want Sam bitching at you for using your grace on him when he wakes up?
[ It goes to show how far gone he is currently that Castiel is barely aware of Dean approaching before the man speaks behind him. He's had to pull his senses in, conserving energy where he could. It leaves him feeling crippled, blinded... grounded in all the wrong ways. He's come to see himself akin to the kite in his favourite Heaven, free to fly, yet pleasantly tethered to the ground below, pulled down by mortal hands but never shackled down. Now he feels like he's well and truly crashed, and he misses the wind in his wings.
He doesn't remember much from the latter part of those three days, lost in a haze of pain and hallucinations. He does remember I'm here, I've got you, and closing his eyes just in time to catch a tear from falling.
It felt like the ringing of heaven's bells, like Enochian ringing out: Castiel has been saved.
It doesn't sit right with him to be gripped tight and raised from perdition by the man he considers his charge, but perhaps they were due that role reversal.
A small line between his brows, otherwise he barely reacts at first. His expression softens eventually, deciding that this is safe. Dean is steadying him. It's not something even someone as foolish as him could misconstrue. ]
I had not planned on telling him.
[ The admission is soft, gaze slowly lifting from Sam to Dean. Castiel looks pale despite his tanned skin, blue eyes hazy with pain. He does stop the flow of grace, however, and allows Dean to lead him out of the room. It wouldn't do to wake Sam now. ]
You haven't been sleeping.
[ That is something he wouldn't miss, ever, no matter how far fallen or how hurt. Dean's well-being comes second to none. But just as he says it, voice pitched soft so as not to disturb Sam or Ellever in the other room, Castiel winces, hand curling around Dean's arm and gripping tight as he has to shift his wings through the doorway, putting strain on breaks and fractures that can hardly take more of that. ]
( dean witnessed the fall, remember the host of heaven dropping from the sky like meteors, but he never truly understood the gravity of an angel without wings until now. cas' wings may still be intact, but their condition has grounded him in all the ways he hasn't really had to think about for quite a handful of years. it became the new normal, cas having to learn to drive, bound by the same laws of travel as anyone else on earth. he doesn't want to think about the possibility of this cas returning home after all of this (if that's even still an option), just to lose his wings all over again and for good this time. they'd never had a discussion about it, anyway, not properly, because at the time cas had lost more than just his wings — he'd lost his grace, become fully human, and most of heaven wanted to see him run through with an angel blade, so they never really had time to sit down and chat about feelings.
it's almost funny how much time this place has given them to just ... talk. (at least, when dean isn't pretending like they don't have anything to talk about.)
he shakes his head at cas' comment, the arch of his brow saying something like yeah, except sam's not an idiot. but it's a moot point, so he lets it go, ushering cas away from sam once the glow fades from cas' hand. he tries not to think about the warm patch of skin beneath his own hand or the exposed nature of cas' chest. it's purely out of necessity, dean knows this, but he still isn't used to seeing cas without all his layers, even after weeks of this. he almost feels like a teenager again, trying to keep his wandering eyes from looking too closely, too noticeably. by now he's surely memorized the line of cas' collarbone, the curve of his shoulders, every slope and edge, all in stolen glances. only now has he let himself this close, skin to skin. it ignites a different flame in his chest, something stronger, perhaps, than the embers of his anger. )
Someone's gotta keep watch while you two — hey — ( he sturdies himself as cas grips his arm, trying his best to help ease him through the doorway. ) Easy now. ( he leads them to the living room, careful to avoid anything that might disturb cas' wings further. ) You know, I don't know much about wings, but I do know a thing or two about broken bones, and I can tell you these ain't healing right. ( he thought, maybe, with time, they'd set themselves, that cas wouldn't need his help, but he's starting to think that isn't the case. he glances over, holding cas' gaze, and there's something almost pleading about the way he says, ) Let me help, Cas. Save some of that grace, huh?
[ Castiel looks at Dean. They're close, closer than he knows Dean to usually be comfortable with. But these are not usual circumstances. Castiel is hardly in his usual shape. They've always been good at communicating with few words and many open glances. Castiel's eyes, behind the glassy pain, are... conflicted.
His faith in Dean is unshakable, yet there is hesitation there, not because he doesn't trust Dean, per se, it's just...
It's just that...
Much has has happened in their shared time here. Castiel can still feel that prayer pressed against his lips, can still feel that kiss all the way to the depth of his true form, where his grace trembles at the precipe of a feeling so much grander than he could have anticipated.
He remembers sinking into a swamp of despair with Dean, accepting death, feeling hopeless and hapless, like nothing mattered, yet taking solace in the fact that at least they were going to go down together this time, if either of them had to die.
He remembers the walls they'd both tried to erect, trying to protect the ruins that moment in the church had left them with.
He remembers immeasurable pain until a forehead leaned against his, and fingers slick with blood released his bonds and delievered him unto safety.
Castiel still has faith in Dean. But he's no longer sure he ever truly knew what to do with that faith himself. His error in judgment has brought them here, where everything is strained and strange.
So his eyes are conflicted. Vulnerable, but there's a certain level of pained, reluctant distrust there. ]
It's... not usually like this. They're part of my true form, but... they can be physical. And because the damage inflicted is physical...
[ Castiel gestures, vaguely. Rolls a shoulder in obvious discomfort. ]
I can't reach, and they're not fixing themselves as they should.
[ It almost sounds like pleading. Like he's trying to offer up more excuses for why Dean's help is... required.
It's not that he doesn't trust Dean with his health and safety, it's just...
It's...
He doesn't know how to put it in words, but perhaps it's obvious in the mix of shame and embarrassment, that to allow this much isn't exactly casual.
There's a reason angel feathers are very, very rare to come by for people. It's not quite... intimate in the way humans would consider. But there's a weight and importance related to allowing this. Castiel isn't sure how to explain it, but he hopes... that where he failed to understand, perhaps Dean might.
It's not a no - in fact, Castiel knows he cannot afford to say no to the offer.
But he doesn't want Dean to think that Castiel is getting it wrong and asking for an intimacy that Dean clearly has no wish for. ]
You... don't have to. They will be fine, eventually. But...
[ He lets the sentence dangle, but keeps his eyes on Dean.
( dean thinks he understands, the way cas looks at him without being able to express what he means in words. there's a reason cas never showed dean his wings before, not necessarily because he didn't want to, but more so because dean hadn't asked, thereby implying it isn't something that one would just reveal without a formal request. if dean were more modest, more ashamed of his imperfections, he might equate it to sharing scars: vulnerable and deeply personal, intimate on an emotional level rather than just the physical.
he means to say i want to, let me do this for you, but nothing he means to say ever quite comes out that way, it seems. )
I've been patching Sammy up since he was old enough to skin his knees. I got this, Cas.
( i'm here, i've got you.
his hands slip away from their contact on cas' skin as he circles around to cas' back, hands hovering tentatively above cas' wings. without even touching them, he can feel a low hum of energy just beneath his fingertips, and he wonders if this is what an angel's power feels like, dim as it may be now. he wonders if these hands, bloodstained as they are, are even worthy of touching something so wholly divine. )
You should probably sit, if you can. This is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.
[ 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. ]
( dean sucks in a breath and holds it tightly in his lungs for a moment, partly to steady himself and partly out of a sense of awe that seems inevitable, despite the circumstances that tarnish the feeling into something less inspiring than it should be. all the more reason to do what he can to help cas heal, so they can maybe try this again when the fractures have mended. (if dean hasn't ruined that opportunity completely. if he can fix this thing between them, is that invitation still on the table?)
his hands brush lightly over silky feathers, gliding through the waves of energy they emit, slowly moving toward the break. it's almost like a prayer, the way his hands work with such reverence, like an artist sculpting clay, not wanting to hurt cas more than he knows it already does, more than he can fathom it will. )
Try to focus on my voice. ( he's not sure if it will help distract cas like it has with sam in the past, but he begins to sing softly as his hands find the first fracture. he interjects the lyrics with, ) On three. One, two — ( and then he forces the bone back in place with a crack, his voice soothing as he continues the song.
it's almost like a hymn, like worship, his hands and his voice working in tandem to set the other breaks, lyrics intermixed with gentle offerings of that's it, almost there and you're doing fine, cas, breathe, mindful to give cas a moment of relief between each set.
he's set bones before, of course (sam always managed to break something when they were kids), but this feels almost like an out of body experience, like part of dean isn't really here, it's somewhere else, in some ethereal plane of existence, cas' energy humming in harmony with his own. he wants to extend his reach beyond cas' wings, wants to draw every part of him closer, to feel the mix of heat and energy, sweat and grace. he wants to reach inside cas and pull out all the pain, the suffering, the guilt, and replace it with the feeling his soul understands yet his mind finds too overwhelming to name.
that familiar yearning swells in his chest as he finishes his work, his hands lingering for a moment, brushing tenderly over cas' feathers one final time before they retreat.
and yet, somehow, even this doesn't feel like enough to mend what he broke. would any of this have happened if dean hadn't pushed cas away? is it too late to reel him back in? )
How's that feel? Any better?
Edited (im a fool and jensen's cover really sets the mood better) 2020-04-13 03:34 (UTC)
[ It's difficult to hurt an angel - really, truly hurt an angel where they are no longer their vessel's flesh and bone, but themselves. The wings are part of Castiel's true form, part of everything that is angel about him. Like Dean's arms or legs, perhaps, but also more.
It makes them sensitive, one of many reasons they're usually safely tucked away, kept immaterial. There, and able to cast shadows as soon as he pulls them forwards just a little. To have them be physical like this is to have them be vulnerable.
It's to be vulnerable.
And Castiel doesn't care for it.
He's tense when Dean begins his gruelling work, and what would be intense and too private to even suggest now becomes something horrid and endlessly painful. He's a soldier - so Castiel grits his teeth, and holds himself still, chocked off grunts of pain the only sounds he allows to undercut Dean's soft voice. And it's a saving grace, that. Like a prayer in itself, and it's foolish because that path of thinking has already led him wrong, has already ruined everything. Yet it's a balm, it's what makes this experience one of healing rather than an extension of the torture inflicted upon him.
Dean's hands cause him great comfort and great pain alike, but it's of the good kind. Of the kind that fixes and heals and soothes, despite everything. And when Dean is done, when the song has faded and Castiel can feel the timbre of Dean's voice having slide from that melody straight into the very fabric of his grace, Castiel doesn't move. He just sits there, hunched forwards, immense tension in his body, head hanging low.
His voice sounds like it's being dragged over gravel. ]
No. But it will.
[ It's not the most grateful thing to say, but Castiel knows Dean understands it. That sometimes it hurts to fix something and let it heal and get better. That sometimes things have to cut deep and deeper still before they improve.
There's a tremble in the wings right when Dean pulls his hand away, like an involuntary shiver at the loss of warmth and contact that these appendagers shouldn't have encountered. And if there is the softest hitch to Castiel's breath, no one needs to know.
And if he keeps his head down while a single tear tracks down his cheeck unbidden, no one needs to know either.
He doesn't cry. He doesn't weep.
But as always, Castiel feels, and too much of it at that. ]
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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. ]
no subject
now, dean's made it his job to keep watch, to tend to sam and cas' needs, because of course he feels like, on some level, this is his fault and he's going to do his damnedest to make it right. to get them back to full health. it's taking longer than anticipated, longer than it would with an angel at 100% or with the swathes of healing magic at their disposal in the bunker and dean's dimly aware that he hasn't slept since they got sam and cas back. not that it seems to matter in this place, not the way it would back home. at least, not as long as he's eating and drinking — at this point, his coffee is more whiskey than it is joe.
he wanders over to sam's room to check on him, only to find cas already there, that familiar golden glow emanating from his palm. dean doesn't bother checking cas' lantern to check how dim it is; he's seen how faint the light has been these past weeks, knows that if cas pushes himself any further, it might go out. )
Cas... ( it isn't admonishing, not exactly, he's just worried, and it comes out in the rough sound of his voice. he sets his mug on sam's dresser, crosses the room to sam's bed, careful to avoid brushing cas' wings.
there's a cruel irony to this image of cas' wings, mangled and broken, and there's a righteous fury that comes with it, boiling dean's blood at the thought of the spirits who dared desecrate his angel. it's not new, that surge of possessiveness he feels, or even the way his heart shattered like stained glass when he finally found cas in that godforsaken place, all rational thought replaced with blinding rage (despair twisting like a knife, that something that should have been an intimate revelation was ripped coldly away from them, turned into a waking nightmare). he remembers his hands wet with cas' blood (already stained with sam's), his forehead pressed to cas', the whisper of i'm here, i've got you. he remembers dragging cas out of there like two soldiers escaping a wartorn battlefield, refusing to let alone else touch him.
not much has changed, except that now his anger simmers in his chest, waiting for an opportunity to boil over; the spirits who did this won't survive another encounter with dean winchester.
he reaches out, setting a hand gently atop cas'. the other reaches behind cas, settling at the small of his back to steady him, just in case. using this much grace ... he's surprised cas hasn't passed out yet. )
C'mon, that's enough. ( obviously, he appreciates cas wanting to heal sam, he does, but at what cost? sam will be fine one way or the other (the thing about torturing the winchesters is they've always had it worse). dean's willing to let time cover this one if it means cas takes that time to focus on healing himself. ) You want Sam bitching at you for using your grace on him when he wakes up?
no subject
He doesn't remember much from the latter part of those three days, lost in a haze of pain and hallucinations. He does remember I'm here, I've got you, and closing his eyes just in time to catch a tear from falling.
It felt like the ringing of heaven's bells, like Enochian ringing out: Castiel has been saved.
It doesn't sit right with him to be gripped tight and raised from perdition by the man he considers his charge, but perhaps they were due that role reversal.
A small line between his brows, otherwise he barely reacts at first. His expression softens eventually, deciding that this is safe. Dean is steadying him. It's not something even someone as foolish as him could misconstrue. ]
I had not planned on telling him.
[ The admission is soft, gaze slowly lifting from Sam to Dean. Castiel looks pale despite his tanned skin, blue eyes hazy with pain. He does stop the flow of grace, however, and allows Dean to lead him out of the room. It wouldn't do to wake Sam now. ]
You haven't been sleeping.
[ That is something he wouldn't miss, ever, no matter how far fallen or how hurt. Dean's well-being comes second to none. But just as he says it, voice pitched soft so as not to disturb Sam or Ellever in the other room, Castiel winces, hand curling around Dean's arm and gripping tight as he has to shift his wings through the doorway, putting strain on breaks and fractures that can hardly take more of that. ]
no subject
it's almost funny how much time this place has given them to just ... talk. (at least, when dean isn't pretending like they don't have anything to talk about.)
he shakes his head at cas' comment, the arch of his brow saying something like yeah, except sam's not an idiot. but it's a moot point, so he lets it go, ushering cas away from sam once the glow fades from cas' hand. he tries not to think about the warm patch of skin beneath his own hand or the exposed nature of cas' chest. it's purely out of necessity, dean knows this, but he still isn't used to seeing cas without all his layers, even after weeks of this. he almost feels like a teenager again, trying to keep his wandering eyes from looking too closely, too noticeably. by now he's surely memorized the line of cas' collarbone, the curve of his shoulders, every slope and edge, all in stolen glances. only now has he let himself this close, skin to skin. it ignites a different flame in his chest, something stronger, perhaps, than the embers of his anger. )
Someone's gotta keep watch while you two — hey — ( he sturdies himself as cas grips his arm, trying his best to help ease him through the doorway. ) Easy now. ( he leads them to the living room, careful to avoid anything that might disturb cas' wings further. ) You know, I don't know much about wings, but I do know a thing or two about broken bones, and I can tell you these ain't healing right. ( he thought, maybe, with time, they'd set themselves, that cas wouldn't need his help, but he's starting to think that isn't the case. he glances over, holding cas' gaze, and there's something almost pleading about the way he says, ) Let me help, Cas. Save some of that grace, huh?
no subject
His faith in Dean is unshakable, yet there is hesitation there, not because he doesn't trust Dean, per se, it's just...
It's just that...
Much has has happened in their shared time here. Castiel can still feel that prayer pressed against his lips, can still feel that kiss all the way to the depth of his true form, where his grace trembles at the precipe of a feeling so much grander than he could have anticipated.
He remembers sinking into a swamp of despair with Dean, accepting death, feeling hopeless and hapless, like nothing mattered, yet taking solace in the fact that at least they were going to go down together this time, if either of them had to die.
He remembers the walls they'd both tried to erect, trying to protect the ruins that moment in the church had left them with.
He remembers immeasurable pain until a forehead leaned against his, and fingers slick with blood released his bonds and delievered him unto safety.
Castiel still has faith in Dean. But he's no longer sure he ever truly knew what to do with that faith himself. His error in judgment has brought them here, where everything is strained and strange.
So his eyes are conflicted. Vulnerable, but there's a certain level of pained, reluctant distrust there. ]
It's... not usually like this. They're part of my true form, but... they can be physical. And because the damage inflicted is physical...
[ Castiel gestures, vaguely. Rolls a shoulder in obvious discomfort. ]
I can't reach, and they're not fixing themselves as they should.
[ It almost sounds like pleading. Like he's trying to offer up more excuses for why Dean's help is... required.
It's not that he doesn't trust Dean with his health and safety, it's just...
It's...
He doesn't know how to put it in words, but perhaps it's obvious in the mix of shame and embarrassment, that to allow this much isn't exactly casual.
There's a reason angel feathers are very, very rare to come by for people. It's not quite... intimate in the way humans would consider. But there's a weight and importance related to allowing this. Castiel isn't sure how to explain it, but he hopes... that where he failed to understand, perhaps Dean might.
It's not a no - in fact, Castiel knows he cannot afford to say no to the offer.
But he doesn't want Dean to think that Castiel is getting it wrong and asking for an intimacy that Dean clearly has no wish for. ]
You... don't have to. They will be fine, eventually. But...
[ He lets the sentence dangle, but keeps his eyes on Dean.
But I need you. ]
no subject
he means to say i want to, let me do this for you, but nothing he means to say ever quite comes out that way, it seems. )
I've been patching Sammy up since he was old enough to skin his knees. I got this, Cas.
( i'm here, i've got you.
his hands slip away from their contact on cas' skin as he circles around to cas' back, hands hovering tentatively above cas' wings. without even touching them, he can feel a low hum of energy just beneath his fingertips, and he wonders if this is what an angel's power feels like, dim as it may be now. he wonders if these hands, bloodstained as they are, are even worthy of touching something so wholly divine. )
You should probably sit, if you can. This is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.
no subject
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.
no subject
his hands brush lightly over silky feathers, gliding through the waves of energy they emit, slowly moving toward the break. it's almost like a prayer, the way his hands work with such reverence, like an artist sculpting clay, not wanting to hurt cas more than he knows it already does, more than he can fathom it will. )
Try to focus on my voice. ( he's not sure if it will help distract cas like it has with sam in the past, but he begins to sing softly as his hands find the first fracture. he interjects the lyrics with, ) On three. One, two — ( and then he forces the bone back in place with a crack, his voice soothing as he continues the song.
it's almost like a hymn, like worship, his hands and his voice working in tandem to set the other breaks, lyrics intermixed with gentle offerings of that's it, almost there and you're doing fine, cas, breathe, mindful to give cas a moment of relief between each set.
he's set bones before, of course (sam always managed to break something when they were kids), but this feels almost like an out of body experience, like part of dean isn't really here, it's somewhere else, in some ethereal plane of existence, cas' energy humming in harmony with his own. he wants to extend his reach beyond cas' wings, wants to draw every part of him closer, to feel the mix of heat and energy, sweat and grace. he wants to reach inside cas and pull out all the pain, the suffering, the guilt, and replace it with the feeling his soul understands yet his mind finds too overwhelming to name.
that familiar yearning swells in his chest as he finishes his work, his hands lingering for a moment, brushing tenderly over cas' feathers one final time before they retreat.
and yet, somehow, even this doesn't feel like enough to mend what he broke. would any of this have happened if dean hadn't pushed cas away? is it too late to reel him back in? )
How's that feel? Any better?
no subject
It makes them sensitive, one of many reasons they're usually safely tucked away, kept immaterial. There, and able to cast shadows as soon as he pulls them forwards just a little. To have them be physical like this is to have them be vulnerable.
It's to be vulnerable.
And Castiel doesn't care for it.
He's tense when Dean begins his gruelling work, and what would be intense and too private to even suggest now becomes something horrid and endlessly painful. He's a soldier - so Castiel grits his teeth, and holds himself still, chocked off grunts of pain the only sounds he allows to undercut Dean's soft voice. And it's a saving grace, that. Like a prayer in itself, and it's foolish because that path of thinking has already led him wrong, has already ruined everything. Yet it's a balm, it's what makes this experience one of healing rather than an extension of the torture inflicted upon him.
Dean's hands cause him great comfort and great pain alike, but it's of the good kind. Of the kind that fixes and heals and soothes, despite everything. And when Dean is done, when the song has faded and Castiel can feel the timbre of Dean's voice having slide from that melody straight into the very fabric of his grace, Castiel doesn't move. He just sits there, hunched forwards, immense tension in his body, head hanging low.
His voice sounds like it's being dragged over gravel. ]
No. But it will.
[ It's not the most grateful thing to say, but Castiel knows Dean understands it. That sometimes it hurts to fix something and let it heal and get better. That sometimes things have to cut deep and deeper still before they improve.
There's a tremble in the wings right when Dean pulls his hand away, like an involuntary shiver at the loss of warmth and contact that these appendagers shouldn't have encountered. And if there is the softest hitch to Castiel's breath, no one needs to know.
And if he keeps his head down while a single tear tracks down his cheeck unbidden, no one needs to know either.
He doesn't cry. He doesn't weep.
But as always, Castiel feels, and too much of it at that. ]