( 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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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?
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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. ]