( 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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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. ]