Fanfic: Pygmalion Amongst the Wheat (Dean/Castiel; R)
Title: Pygmalion Amongst the Wheat
Author: bellajayd
Rating: R
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Blanket spoilers for all aired episodes.
Warnings: Romance
Word Count: 4,000
Prompt/Notes: Wing porn in a wheat field during a rainstorm. Ahem. Also, many thanks to
aisling_door for the beta! Written for
goth_clark.
Summary: So, how do you apologize to an angel after you stepped on his wings while he was having sex with your brother in a wheat field behind a crappy motel in a rainstorm, in the middle of some God forsaken corner of Iowa?
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Act I: Then, in the Garden
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It took the forces of Heaven thirty-two years to reach the soul buried deep within the Pit.
Thirty-two years of unending war against the damned that began the moment the man was dragged into Hell and Heaven first became aware of the demons’ intent. Then, a single angel broke through a terrible wall, built from the gristle and bone of Lucifer’s rotting wings, and found him.
The Hunter.
The Conqueror.
The Righteous Man.
Perdition had thirty-two years to deconstruct him, to unmake the Glory of God into a debased creature. To pervert the soul into something other. But the angel did not falter, did not doubt that this was indeed the man that his brethren had died in an attempt to find - the man the Celestial Spheres had sung their prophecy about - for even in the dank and doom of Hell the soul still sparked with the purity God first bestowed upon Adam.
The angel moved closer to the soul and unfurled its wings, expecting him to fight its hold, but instead the soul swayed forward to meet the Celestial being and curled soft tendrils through the small seams and fissures of its feathers. Soon the two were so tightly enmeshed it was impossible to tell where angel began and human soul ended.
With a swift pulse of light, both creatures vanished from within the borders of Perdition.
The angel searched far and wide through all of the planes of existence for a place in which they could repose as it rebuilt the human shell which must contain the soul. Finally, its wings brought them to a ripening wheat field that was cosseted on all sides by mountains that sloped gently upwards into oblivion. Amidst the waves of gold stood a wizened apple tree and it was here, beneath the shade of its gravid boughs, that the angel brought them to rest.
Here, thought the angel, here we shall find Sanctuary.
And so, a year passed as the angel’s grace, much tarnished and dimmed from the decades of Holy War, regained its resplendent glow and the soul it held nested within its wings struggled to grow whole again. It was a slow process and at times the angel would help the soul along by nourishing him with bits of its divine light.
Eventually though, the soul felt safe enough to send questing sparks of thought to the angel.
Where am I?
A safe place.
What are we doing here?
Resting. The angel expanded its wings in a languid stretch.
Immediately the soul began to explore the new crests and quills exposed by the angel’s movement. Why are we resting here?
We are weary. We have both been fighting for a long, long time.
What were we fighting for? The soul paused to soothe a crooked flight shaft back into place.
For you.
For me?
The angel hummed in pleasure as the soul preened its wings. Yes.
Who am I?
The Righteous Man.
What does that mean?
I do not know. And the angel felt a low quiver, the first stirrings of fear, echo through the soul. But we shall discover it together.
Together?
Yes.
And . . . what does that mean?
That you will never be alone.
A warm bloom spread across the soul, and with a nudge the sensation moved into the startled angel. That’s happiness that you’re feeling.
Is it?
Yes.
A playful breeze dallied with the branches above them before drifting out to dance amongst the sea of grain. Eager to play with the wind, a bold apple dropped from the tree to roll merrily through the thrushes.
The angel contemplated the fallen fruit.
It is time.
Time for what?
I must make you a vessel.
The soul extended a curious wisp to explore amongst the feathers. How will you do that?
I shall bend the young branches of the yew bush and they will become your bones. The strong sinews of the palm tree and the creeping ivy will be the muscles and veins that bind you.
And my blood? Blood is important angel, it is.
The melting snow from the mountain tops will be the blood that washes through you and the softest shade-dappled peaches shall become your skin. Then I will weave the golden wheat into the finest threads of the softest silk and this shall become your hair.
But how will I see?
I will hunt the rocks for the finest of gems and those will become your eyes.
And my mind, angel? My thoughts can’t be allowed to scatter to the four corners of space.
That apple there, so eager to visit the earth, will contain your knowledge.
Oh! Teeth, a tongue, and lips . . . angel . . . I need those to eat!
And so, seven more years were spent thusly beneath the apple tree as the diligent angel labored over a vessel worthy of containing the ever questioning soul. By the time it had finished its task the soul had grown bold enough to move away from the comforting pinions of the angel’s wings until he had woven himself through all parts of the angelic being. This posed a problem when it came time for the soul to move into its new body.
No.
You must.
The soul recoiled back into his winged haven. No!
Are you not pleased with the body I have made for you?
I’ll be alone in there.
Never alone.
Do you promise?
The angel curled its wings protectively around the soul. I do.
The soul trusted the angel, who had been his devoted and patient companion through the years that passed as they stayed in the wheat field, and so he unwound himself from the thousands upon thousands of feathers and gathered in the angel’s palm. Even then, he’d left warm traces of himself within the other being.
Hovering there, over the recumbent vessel, the angel clenched its wings tightly against its back. It paused for a moment because the soul had never shared this feeling with it before. What are you feeling?
That’s not me, angel.
No?
It’s you. You’re unhappy.
The wind hushed through the dandelions and stirred up a gentle puff of dirt. I am worried.
Why?
It will not be easy to protect you once we depart from here.
But we’ll be together, right?
Yes.
Then don’t worry about it. We’ll be alright.
Do you promise?
Yeah.
With a decisive snap of its flight feathers, the angel pushed the soul into the vessel it had painstakingly created to be as beautiful as the consciousness it would contain. Its hand lingered for a moment on the man’s shoulder until it was sure the soul was firmly rooted within the body. The man let out a groan and the angel called down a cold spring rain to wash the mud from him and awaken his senses.
Eyes made from the most precious of emeralds opened and Dean Winchester smiled at the angel. “Hey, you look different from this angle!”
The angel felt joy as it heard Dean’s voice, made for him from the raspy winter chill, for the first time. Do I?
“Oh yeah!” He paused and stretched in a delicate arch from the points of his fingers to the tips of his toes. “I mean, you’re shorter than I thought.”
Perhaps I have made you too tall.
Dean squinted his eyes in concentration. “Well, there’s only one way to find out. Here,” he extended an arm towards the angel, “help me stand up.”
Once he was on his feet Dean swayed dramatically for a moment, prompting the angel to tighten his grip on the man’s hand, before taking a stumbling step forward.
Then another.
And another.
Soon angel and man had left the shady protection of the apple tree and were tripping forward into the wheat field, hand in hand.
Where are we going?
“To the lake angel! I want to see what I look like . . . for all I know you’ve given me three eyes!”
No. I gave you four proper eyes.
“What?!” A nearby fig tree was a startled into dropping its fruit by the resounding shriek. Dean ran his free hand over his face in a panic before he noticed the feathers trembling merrily beside him. “ Angel . . . did you just make a joke?”
Yes. I think I did.
“Well stop shakin’ your feathers, it wasn’t that funny.”
Only because you could not see the look on your own face.
The angel was glad that its laughter had distracted the man, for as they approached the lake Dean had become increasingly apprehensive and he’d retreated under the arch of its great wings. Soon enough, the soil softened to mud beneath their feet and they had reached the banks of a great lake.
“You know, this was a bad idea.” Dean shifted his eyes downwards and his shoulders were drawn in an unhappy hunch.
No. It is in fact a very good idea. With a gentle push of its wings the angel released his companion’s hand and urged Dean forward until he had no choice but to look at his reflection. Green eyes, just two of them, stared back at him in the still surface of the lake.
“Hey . . . hey, angel, you didn’t do a bad job. I look pretty good!” He smiled widely at himself and then at the angel, “You even got my dimples right!”
Yes. The ones at the base of your spine were more difficult to create.
“Are you implying that I have dimples on my ass?”
I am stating a fact. It took me days of labor to work the two dips into your skin.
“Are you trying to make another joke? ‘Cause this one still ain’t funny.” With a firm eye on the angel’s impassive feathers, for Dean had figured out after the first few months spent with the angel not to use its face to determine its emotions, he turned to look over his shoulder.
Low and behold, just as his spine began to gently slope into his butt, there were two small dimples. But Dean didn’t care about them anymore because he realized that the angel had forgotten something important. “Angel!” He gasped in panic, “Angel! You messed up big-time buddy! I’m missing parts!”
Feathers rustled as the angel moved closer. You are whole.
Dean stood up violently, “No! I’m not. Where are my wings, angel? I have no wings!”
Suddenly the man found himself surrounded by a familiar flurry of golden-white down. I cannot give you wings.
“Why not?” Dean leaned back into the blanket of feathers, taking comfort from their warmth.
The angel felt a small thrum of contentment move through itself the moment it had Dean folded within its plumage. You must earn them for yourself.
“And how am I gonna do that?”
I do not know.
“I can’t stay here, can I, angel?”
No. Our quest lies elsewhere. The angel took a step forward and used its wings to herd Dean along until they reached the soft fringes of the wheat field. There they sat for a while.
Dean took the opportunity to settle himself more securely within the angel’s wings. “So, we have a quest. Gotta figure out the whole Righteous Man thing, right?”
Yes. But not at this moment, we can rest here for a while longer.
“Resting, huh?” Dean paused and yawned, “I can totally get on board with that.”
The angel allowed Dean to lean them both backwards until they were lying amongst the wheat stalks. Dean’s fingers threaded mindlessly through its quills in the same habitual fashion that his soul had. For a moment, the angel allowed its gaze to appreciate the masterpiece it had created.
Dean Winchester was perfect.
It felt Dean’s light breath move along its feathers in small tides and eddies, just as the wind flirted through the reeds in teasing swirls.
“Hey, angel?” Dean paused his stroking before continuing on, “Am I gonna remember our time here?”
Eventually.
“Way to be vague, angel. What does that mean?”
The angel curled its flight plumes around Dean like a blanket. Your memories of this place will act as a container for the memories that are not yet safe for you to recall.
“So, when I remember those things I’ll remember this place.” With that statement, Dean closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh.
The angel assumed the man was succumbing to sleep but soon he felt a tender flush radiate throughout his grace. Dean?
Hey! You finally used my name!
I can feel you within me as if I still carry your soul.
The tingling sensation whirling through the angel increased as Dean let out a laugh. You just noticed that angel? That’s because you’ve still got bits and pieces of me within you . . . and I, Dean picked up the angel’s hand and placed it over the handprint on his shoulder, well, I definitely have a little bit of you in me. He waggled his eyebrows.
Something deep within the unfathomable recesses of the angel’s being loosened as the truth of Dean’s words rang through him. I am . . . happy. I had feared that our closeness would be lost.
Dean’s smile, when it broke, was brighter than the sun- which the angel thought was only fitting since it had been made from the sunbeams it had painstakingly collected over the years he’d spent making the vessel. “Sorry if I freaked you out angel. I was just checking to make sure that I wouldn’t forget the important things.”
What things?
“You.”
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Act II: Now, in the Chariot
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There are some things, Sam Winchester thought as he watched the world roll by at eighty miles an hour outside the Impala, that he’d never needed to know about his older brother.
“Next time, Sammy-boy, you should knock.” Sam didn’t even need to look over to know that his brother had a giant shit-eating grin plastered across his face.
“You were in a wheat field out behind a motel, in the rain. How was I supposed to knock Dean?”
“Fine then, you shoulda stomped or sumthin’ so we could hear you!”
The youngest Winchester straightened his shoulders indignantly only to have the wind cut out of his sails as a new voice broke into their conversation from the back seat, “He did stomp, Dean. That was the problem.”
With that Sam slunk back down into his seat because he could feel Castiel’s gaze burning into him over the headrest. “Yeah. . .” he started to say and then he had to stop, because how do you apologize to an angel after . . . well . . . it hadn’t been his fault though. Really.
Sam had been woken up in the middle of the night by a loud clap of thunder. Which sucked because it’d been the first real sleep he’d been able to snag since some entrepreneurial demons had the bright idea of capturing Dean and torturing him for information. It had taken him and Castiel two sleepless days to track down his wayward brother who, thankfully, was only missing a few fingernails.
“Close your eyes Sam,” was the only warning the angel had given him before unleashing his true form and deep-frying the demons. It still took him a couple of minutes to regain his footing because, even with his eyes closed, Castiel’s angel-fu knocked him flat on his ass.
Sounds came back to him first and he heard Castiel muttering something like, “Two days, Dean. I was worried.”
And then Dean cheerily replying, “M’fine Cas.”
Someone sighed deeply and then the angel was speaking again, “I’ll never find the right seashells here.”
“Dude, really . . . you used seashells?” Sam let out a breath of relief because if his brother could mock the angel then all was well.
With a groan he sat up just in time to see Castiel smile at Dean, untie him from the rickety chair, and vanish.
Sam figured it was a good a time as any to speak up. “Hey, you okay?”
Dean flexed his injured hands. “Yeah, Sammy. You?”
Typical Dean, Sam shook his head to himself, he gets kidnapped and tortured by demons and still ends up worrying about me.
“I’m fine Dean, I’m not the one sitting here with a demonic manicure.”
“Whatever, Bitch, Cas’ll fix me right up.” And he was right, the angel would.
After the day Sam freed Lucifer and Castiel self-exiled himself from Heaven, the angel had been glued to Dean’s side like white on rice and fixing everything from a hangnail to a severed artery. Not to mention all of the other ways, that Sam did not think about, in which Castiel tended to Dean. Which made it weird that he’d decided to vanish now, when Dean was injured.
Still, it was easy work to get Dean into the car, into a nearby motel and then hustle his brother a few more steps into a hot shower. After that he’d flopped back onto one of the stiff motel mattress and intended to stay awake long enough to bandage Dean’s fingers.
He must have nodded off because he woke up to the strong smell of ocean water and Castiel leaning over him, “Go back to bed, Sam. I’ll take care of Dean.”
That was the last he remembered until he was awoken by the gunshot crack of thunder rumbling overhead. He turned to make sure that Dean hadn’t woken up, only to have a flash of lightning illuminate an empty bed.
Sam grabbed his gun from beneath his pillow, spared a moment to be grateful that he’d fallen asleep fully clothed, and burst outside to search for Dean who was missing once again. The full fury of the storm lashed at his clothing as he struggled to find the faintest scrap of evidence pointing him towards his brother’s location.
“Dean!” It was a struggle to make his voice heard over the squalling wind and he had little hope that his brother would hear him, but as he trudged forward, Sam saw the impossible outline of vast wings spread out over the wheat field that stretched out beyond the motel parking lot. “Dean!”
The rich dirt sucked at his shoes as he tried to navigate the wheat stalks turned to whips in the potent wind, but he continued to move in the direction that he hoped would bring him to Dean. In the darkness of the tempest, it was hard to tell which way he was going so Sam had no choice but to rely upon his gut.
And his gut told him to walk forward.
Which was unfortunate because one moment the youngest Winchester had his feet firmly planted on the ground and the next he found himself blinking stars out of his eyes and laying on his back in the mud.
Well, at least it had stopped raining.
Then the sky decided to shift and rustle and that’s when Sam realized that the rain hadn’t stopped but rather that he was being protected from the downpour by a large wing mantled above him.
He heard footsteps sloshing towards him and tried to fumble for his gun before it was kicked out of his hands, “God damn it, Sammy! What are you doin’ out here?”
The muzzy feeling weighting down his thoughts was instantly washed away by the concern coloring his older brother’s face as he stared down at Sam. “Hey, Dean, did you know your hair is the same color as the wheat?”
“What?” Green eyes widened comically. “Cas, get over here. I think Sammy hit his head pretty hard.”
Sam groaned, sat up and promptly wished that he hadn’t. Dean was standing in front of him dressed in a haphazardly cinched trench coat and untied boots, which was two items of clothing more than Castiel. Unless you considered two massive wings to be clothing, which Sam didn’t. Not that the angel had anything to be ashamed of, so to speak, but Sam wasn’t interested in his brother’s lover’s dangly bits and so he shifted his eyes back up to those wings.
They were immense, each one twice the length of the Impala, and the color of burnished gold. And the wing that was spread over them all like some sort of angelic umbrella had a big, Sam-sized, boot print on it.
He took one look at the narrowed, blue, eyes staring at him over Dean’s shoulder and had known then - as he did now sitting in the Impala with those same blue eyes boring holes into his skull over the back seat - that Castiel was pissed.
So, how do you apologize to an angel after you stepped on his wings while he was having sex with your brother in a wheat field behind a crappy motel in a rainstorm, in the middle of some God forsaken corner of Iowa?
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Act III: Epilogue, An In between Conversation Concerning Hearts
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Dean’s fingers throbbed as he sat on the mattress and waited for the angel to heal him as Sammy snored away in the next bed. Cas?
An inquisitive head cocked in his direction, though Cas remained bent over the hunter’s maimed hand. Yes, Dean.
So you made my fingernails from seashells back . . . well you know, back when you first made me?
I did and that is what I’ll make them out of now.
Dean shifted his uninjured hand forward and let his fingers tangle languidly in the angel’s hair. I think, he paused thoughtfully, I think I remember that.
That’s good. It means your mind is healing from the trauma dealt to it by the Pit.
That means you really did make my brain out of an apple, right?
Yes.
The hunter’s eyes crinkled a bit as he chewed an idea around his head. Does that mean that I’m, like, committing cannibalism every time I eat an apple pie?
Yes. Cas’ face remained impassive but for a small quirking of his lips.
Dean’s eyebrows jumped into his hairline. You must think you’re really cute, angel.
To quote you Dean, I think I’m adorable. You have only yourself to blame if you don’t like my sense of humor. Cas continued on with his task of healing Dean, only moving when it came time to select a seashell from the collection he had gathered earlier from the virgin shores of an unmapped island.
Yeah, yeah. Anyway, Mr. Comedian, I have an actual question. His freckled nose scrunched up in thought. I remember almost everything from the time before, and I remember most of the stuff I’m made out of, but I don’t remember what you made my heart from.
The angel turned his head towards Dean until his cheek was brushing against the hunter’s hand that still lingered at the nape of his neck. Oh? That was the easiest and the hardest thing to give you.
Dean smiled over at his not-so-fallen-angel. Well come on, don’t be a tease or else I’ll think you made it out of a turnip or something. What’s thumpin’ away under my ribcage? What’s keeping me alive?
To give you life, Dean, I gave you my heart.
The End.
Author: bellajayd
Rating: R
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Blanket spoilers for all aired episodes.
Warnings: Romance
Word Count: 4,000
Prompt/Notes: Wing porn in a wheat field during a rainstorm. Ahem. Also, many thanks to
aisling_door for the beta! Written for
goth_clark.
Summary: So, how do you apologize to an angel after you stepped on his wings while he was having sex with your brother in a wheat field behind a crappy motel in a rainstorm, in the middle of some God forsaken corner of Iowa?
------------
Act I: Then, in the Garden
------------
It took the forces of Heaven thirty-two years to reach the soul buried deep within the Pit.
Thirty-two years of unending war against the damned that began the moment the man was dragged into Hell and Heaven first became aware of the demons’ intent. Then, a single angel broke through a terrible wall, built from the gristle and bone of Lucifer’s rotting wings, and found him.
The Hunter.
The Conqueror.
The Righteous Man.
Perdition had thirty-two years to deconstruct him, to unmake the Glory of God into a debased creature. To pervert the soul into something other. But the angel did not falter, did not doubt that this was indeed the man that his brethren had died in an attempt to find - the man the Celestial Spheres had sung their prophecy about - for even in the dank and doom of Hell the soul still sparked with the purity God first bestowed upon Adam.
The angel moved closer to the soul and unfurled its wings, expecting him to fight its hold, but instead the soul swayed forward to meet the Celestial being and curled soft tendrils through the small seams and fissures of its feathers. Soon the two were so tightly enmeshed it was impossible to tell where angel began and human soul ended.
With a swift pulse of light, both creatures vanished from within the borders of Perdition.
The angel searched far and wide through all of the planes of existence for a place in which they could repose as it rebuilt the human shell which must contain the soul. Finally, its wings brought them to a ripening wheat field that was cosseted on all sides by mountains that sloped gently upwards into oblivion. Amidst the waves of gold stood a wizened apple tree and it was here, beneath the shade of its gravid boughs, that the angel brought them to rest.
Here, thought the angel, here we shall find Sanctuary.
And so, a year passed as the angel’s grace, much tarnished and dimmed from the decades of Holy War, regained its resplendent glow and the soul it held nested within its wings struggled to grow whole again. It was a slow process and at times the angel would help the soul along by nourishing him with bits of its divine light.
Eventually though, the soul felt safe enough to send questing sparks of thought to the angel.
Where am I?
A safe place.
What are we doing here?
Resting. The angel expanded its wings in a languid stretch.
Immediately the soul began to explore the new crests and quills exposed by the angel’s movement. Why are we resting here?
We are weary. We have both been fighting for a long, long time.
What were we fighting for? The soul paused to soothe a crooked flight shaft back into place.
For you.
For me?
The angel hummed in pleasure as the soul preened its wings. Yes.
Who am I?
The Righteous Man.
What does that mean?
I do not know. And the angel felt a low quiver, the first stirrings of fear, echo through the soul. But we shall discover it together.
Together?
Yes.
And . . . what does that mean?
That you will never be alone.
A warm bloom spread across the soul, and with a nudge the sensation moved into the startled angel. That’s happiness that you’re feeling.
Is it?
Yes.
A playful breeze dallied with the branches above them before drifting out to dance amongst the sea of grain. Eager to play with the wind, a bold apple dropped from the tree to roll merrily through the thrushes.
The angel contemplated the fallen fruit.
It is time.
Time for what?
I must make you a vessel.
The soul extended a curious wisp to explore amongst the feathers. How will you do that?
I shall bend the young branches of the yew bush and they will become your bones. The strong sinews of the palm tree and the creeping ivy will be the muscles and veins that bind you.
And my blood? Blood is important angel, it is.
The melting snow from the mountain tops will be the blood that washes through you and the softest shade-dappled peaches shall become your skin. Then I will weave the golden wheat into the finest threads of the softest silk and this shall become your hair.
But how will I see?
I will hunt the rocks for the finest of gems and those will become your eyes.
And my mind, angel? My thoughts can’t be allowed to scatter to the four corners of space.
That apple there, so eager to visit the earth, will contain your knowledge.
Oh! Teeth, a tongue, and lips . . . angel . . . I need those to eat!
And so, seven more years were spent thusly beneath the apple tree as the diligent angel labored over a vessel worthy of containing the ever questioning soul. By the time it had finished its task the soul had grown bold enough to move away from the comforting pinions of the angel’s wings until he had woven himself through all parts of the angelic being. This posed a problem when it came time for the soul to move into its new body.
No.
You must.
The soul recoiled back into his winged haven. No!
Are you not pleased with the body I have made for you?
I’ll be alone in there.
Never alone.
Do you promise?
The angel curled its wings protectively around the soul. I do.
The soul trusted the angel, who had been his devoted and patient companion through the years that passed as they stayed in the wheat field, and so he unwound himself from the thousands upon thousands of feathers and gathered in the angel’s palm. Even then, he’d left warm traces of himself within the other being.
Hovering there, over the recumbent vessel, the angel clenched its wings tightly against its back. It paused for a moment because the soul had never shared this feeling with it before. What are you feeling?
That’s not me, angel.
No?
It’s you. You’re unhappy.
The wind hushed through the dandelions and stirred up a gentle puff of dirt. I am worried.
Why?
It will not be easy to protect you once we depart from here.
But we’ll be together, right?
Yes.
Then don’t worry about it. We’ll be alright.
Do you promise?
Yeah.
With a decisive snap of its flight feathers, the angel pushed the soul into the vessel it had painstakingly created to be as beautiful as the consciousness it would contain. Its hand lingered for a moment on the man’s shoulder until it was sure the soul was firmly rooted within the body. The man let out a groan and the angel called down a cold spring rain to wash the mud from him and awaken his senses.
Eyes made from the most precious of emeralds opened and Dean Winchester smiled at the angel. “Hey, you look different from this angle!”
The angel felt joy as it heard Dean’s voice, made for him from the raspy winter chill, for the first time. Do I?
“Oh yeah!” He paused and stretched in a delicate arch from the points of his fingers to the tips of his toes. “I mean, you’re shorter than I thought.”
Perhaps I have made you too tall.
Dean squinted his eyes in concentration. “Well, there’s only one way to find out. Here,” he extended an arm towards the angel, “help me stand up.”
Once he was on his feet Dean swayed dramatically for a moment, prompting the angel to tighten his grip on the man’s hand, before taking a stumbling step forward.
Then another.
And another.
Soon angel and man had left the shady protection of the apple tree and were tripping forward into the wheat field, hand in hand.
Where are we going?
“To the lake angel! I want to see what I look like . . . for all I know you’ve given me three eyes!”
No. I gave you four proper eyes.
“What?!” A nearby fig tree was a startled into dropping its fruit by the resounding shriek. Dean ran his free hand over his face in a panic before he noticed the feathers trembling merrily beside him. “ Angel . . . did you just make a joke?”
Yes. I think I did.
“Well stop shakin’ your feathers, it wasn’t that funny.”
Only because you could not see the look on your own face.
The angel was glad that its laughter had distracted the man, for as they approached the lake Dean had become increasingly apprehensive and he’d retreated under the arch of its great wings. Soon enough, the soil softened to mud beneath their feet and they had reached the banks of a great lake.
“You know, this was a bad idea.” Dean shifted his eyes downwards and his shoulders were drawn in an unhappy hunch.
No. It is in fact a very good idea. With a gentle push of its wings the angel released his companion’s hand and urged Dean forward until he had no choice but to look at his reflection. Green eyes, just two of them, stared back at him in the still surface of the lake.
“Hey . . . hey, angel, you didn’t do a bad job. I look pretty good!” He smiled widely at himself and then at the angel, “You even got my dimples right!”
Yes. The ones at the base of your spine were more difficult to create.
“Are you implying that I have dimples on my ass?”
I am stating a fact. It took me days of labor to work the two dips into your skin.
“Are you trying to make another joke? ‘Cause this one still ain’t funny.” With a firm eye on the angel’s impassive feathers, for Dean had figured out after the first few months spent with the angel not to use its face to determine its emotions, he turned to look over his shoulder.
Low and behold, just as his spine began to gently slope into his butt, there were two small dimples. But Dean didn’t care about them anymore because he realized that the angel had forgotten something important. “Angel!” He gasped in panic, “Angel! You messed up big-time buddy! I’m missing parts!”
Feathers rustled as the angel moved closer. You are whole.
Dean stood up violently, “No! I’m not. Where are my wings, angel? I have no wings!”
Suddenly the man found himself surrounded by a familiar flurry of golden-white down. I cannot give you wings.
“Why not?” Dean leaned back into the blanket of feathers, taking comfort from their warmth.
The angel felt a small thrum of contentment move through itself the moment it had Dean folded within its plumage. You must earn them for yourself.
“And how am I gonna do that?”
I do not know.
“I can’t stay here, can I, angel?”
No. Our quest lies elsewhere. The angel took a step forward and used its wings to herd Dean along until they reached the soft fringes of the wheat field. There they sat for a while.
Dean took the opportunity to settle himself more securely within the angel’s wings. “So, we have a quest. Gotta figure out the whole Righteous Man thing, right?”
Yes. But not at this moment, we can rest here for a while longer.
“Resting, huh?” Dean paused and yawned, “I can totally get on board with that.”
The angel allowed Dean to lean them both backwards until they were lying amongst the wheat stalks. Dean’s fingers threaded mindlessly through its quills in the same habitual fashion that his soul had. For a moment, the angel allowed its gaze to appreciate the masterpiece it had created.
Dean Winchester was perfect.
It felt Dean’s light breath move along its feathers in small tides and eddies, just as the wind flirted through the reeds in teasing swirls.
“Hey, angel?” Dean paused his stroking before continuing on, “Am I gonna remember our time here?”
Eventually.
“Way to be vague, angel. What does that mean?”
The angel curled its flight plumes around Dean like a blanket. Your memories of this place will act as a container for the memories that are not yet safe for you to recall.
“So, when I remember those things I’ll remember this place.” With that statement, Dean closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh.
The angel assumed the man was succumbing to sleep but soon he felt a tender flush radiate throughout his grace. Dean?
Hey! You finally used my name!
I can feel you within me as if I still carry your soul.
The tingling sensation whirling through the angel increased as Dean let out a laugh. You just noticed that angel? That’s because you’ve still got bits and pieces of me within you . . . and I, Dean picked up the angel’s hand and placed it over the handprint on his shoulder, well, I definitely have a little bit of you in me. He waggled his eyebrows.
Something deep within the unfathomable recesses of the angel’s being loosened as the truth of Dean’s words rang through him. I am . . . happy. I had feared that our closeness would be lost.
Dean’s smile, when it broke, was brighter than the sun- which the angel thought was only fitting since it had been made from the sunbeams it had painstakingly collected over the years he’d spent making the vessel. “Sorry if I freaked you out angel. I was just checking to make sure that I wouldn’t forget the important things.”
What things?
“You.”
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Act II: Now, in the Chariot
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There are some things, Sam Winchester thought as he watched the world roll by at eighty miles an hour outside the Impala, that he’d never needed to know about his older brother.
“Next time, Sammy-boy, you should knock.” Sam didn’t even need to look over to know that his brother had a giant shit-eating grin plastered across his face.
“You were in a wheat field out behind a motel, in the rain. How was I supposed to knock Dean?”
“Fine then, you shoulda stomped or sumthin’ so we could hear you!”
The youngest Winchester straightened his shoulders indignantly only to have the wind cut out of his sails as a new voice broke into their conversation from the back seat, “He did stomp, Dean. That was the problem.”
With that Sam slunk back down into his seat because he could feel Castiel’s gaze burning into him over the headrest. “Yeah. . .” he started to say and then he had to stop, because how do you apologize to an angel after . . . well . . . it hadn’t been his fault though. Really.
Sam had been woken up in the middle of the night by a loud clap of thunder. Which sucked because it’d been the first real sleep he’d been able to snag since some entrepreneurial demons had the bright idea of capturing Dean and torturing him for information. It had taken him and Castiel two sleepless days to track down his wayward brother who, thankfully, was only missing a few fingernails.
“Close your eyes Sam,” was the only warning the angel had given him before unleashing his true form and deep-frying the demons. It still took him a couple of minutes to regain his footing because, even with his eyes closed, Castiel’s angel-fu knocked him flat on his ass.
Sounds came back to him first and he heard Castiel muttering something like, “Two days, Dean. I was worried.”
And then Dean cheerily replying, “M’fine Cas.”
Someone sighed deeply and then the angel was speaking again, “I’ll never find the right seashells here.”
“Dude, really . . . you used seashells?” Sam let out a breath of relief because if his brother could mock the angel then all was well.
With a groan he sat up just in time to see Castiel smile at Dean, untie him from the rickety chair, and vanish.
Sam figured it was a good a time as any to speak up. “Hey, you okay?”
Dean flexed his injured hands. “Yeah, Sammy. You?”
Typical Dean, Sam shook his head to himself, he gets kidnapped and tortured by demons and still ends up worrying about me.
“I’m fine Dean, I’m not the one sitting here with a demonic manicure.”
“Whatever, Bitch, Cas’ll fix me right up.” And he was right, the angel would.
After the day Sam freed Lucifer and Castiel self-exiled himself from Heaven, the angel had been glued to Dean’s side like white on rice and fixing everything from a hangnail to a severed artery. Not to mention all of the other ways, that Sam did not think about, in which Castiel tended to Dean. Which made it weird that he’d decided to vanish now, when Dean was injured.
Still, it was easy work to get Dean into the car, into a nearby motel and then hustle his brother a few more steps into a hot shower. After that he’d flopped back onto one of the stiff motel mattress and intended to stay awake long enough to bandage Dean’s fingers.
He must have nodded off because he woke up to the strong smell of ocean water and Castiel leaning over him, “Go back to bed, Sam. I’ll take care of Dean.”
That was the last he remembered until he was awoken by the gunshot crack of thunder rumbling overhead. He turned to make sure that Dean hadn’t woken up, only to have a flash of lightning illuminate an empty bed.
Sam grabbed his gun from beneath his pillow, spared a moment to be grateful that he’d fallen asleep fully clothed, and burst outside to search for Dean who was missing once again. The full fury of the storm lashed at his clothing as he struggled to find the faintest scrap of evidence pointing him towards his brother’s location.
“Dean!” It was a struggle to make his voice heard over the squalling wind and he had little hope that his brother would hear him, but as he trudged forward, Sam saw the impossible outline of vast wings spread out over the wheat field that stretched out beyond the motel parking lot. “Dean!”
The rich dirt sucked at his shoes as he tried to navigate the wheat stalks turned to whips in the potent wind, but he continued to move in the direction that he hoped would bring him to Dean. In the darkness of the tempest, it was hard to tell which way he was going so Sam had no choice but to rely upon his gut.
And his gut told him to walk forward.
Which was unfortunate because one moment the youngest Winchester had his feet firmly planted on the ground and the next he found himself blinking stars out of his eyes and laying on his back in the mud.
Well, at least it had stopped raining.
Then the sky decided to shift and rustle and that’s when Sam realized that the rain hadn’t stopped but rather that he was being protected from the downpour by a large wing mantled above him.
He heard footsteps sloshing towards him and tried to fumble for his gun before it was kicked out of his hands, “God damn it, Sammy! What are you doin’ out here?”
The muzzy feeling weighting down his thoughts was instantly washed away by the concern coloring his older brother’s face as he stared down at Sam. “Hey, Dean, did you know your hair is the same color as the wheat?”
“What?” Green eyes widened comically. “Cas, get over here. I think Sammy hit his head pretty hard.”
Sam groaned, sat up and promptly wished that he hadn’t. Dean was standing in front of him dressed in a haphazardly cinched trench coat and untied boots, which was two items of clothing more than Castiel. Unless you considered two massive wings to be clothing, which Sam didn’t. Not that the angel had anything to be ashamed of, so to speak, but Sam wasn’t interested in his brother’s lover’s dangly bits and so he shifted his eyes back up to those wings.
They were immense, each one twice the length of the Impala, and the color of burnished gold. And the wing that was spread over them all like some sort of angelic umbrella had a big, Sam-sized, boot print on it.
He took one look at the narrowed, blue, eyes staring at him over Dean’s shoulder and had known then - as he did now sitting in the Impala with those same blue eyes boring holes into his skull over the back seat - that Castiel was pissed.
So, how do you apologize to an angel after you stepped on his wings while he was having sex with your brother in a wheat field behind a crappy motel in a rainstorm, in the middle of some God forsaken corner of Iowa?
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Act III: Epilogue, An In between Conversation Concerning Hearts
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Dean’s fingers throbbed as he sat on the mattress and waited for the angel to heal him as Sammy snored away in the next bed. Cas?
An inquisitive head cocked in his direction, though Cas remained bent over the hunter’s maimed hand. Yes, Dean.
So you made my fingernails from seashells back . . . well you know, back when you first made me?
I did and that is what I’ll make them out of now.
Dean shifted his uninjured hand forward and let his fingers tangle languidly in the angel’s hair. I think, he paused thoughtfully, I think I remember that.
That’s good. It means your mind is healing from the trauma dealt to it by the Pit.
That means you really did make my brain out of an apple, right?
Yes.
The hunter’s eyes crinkled a bit as he chewed an idea around his head. Does that mean that I’m, like, committing cannibalism every time I eat an apple pie?
Yes. Cas’ face remained impassive but for a small quirking of his lips.
Dean’s eyebrows jumped into his hairline. You must think you’re really cute, angel.
To quote you Dean, I think I’m adorable. You have only yourself to blame if you don’t like my sense of humor. Cas continued on with his task of healing Dean, only moving when it came time to select a seashell from the collection he had gathered earlier from the virgin shores of an unmapped island.
Yeah, yeah. Anyway, Mr. Comedian, I have an actual question. His freckled nose scrunched up in thought. I remember almost everything from the time before, and I remember most of the stuff I’m made out of, but I don’t remember what you made my heart from.
The angel turned his head towards Dean until his cheek was brushing against the hunter’s hand that still lingered at the nape of his neck. Oh? That was the easiest and the hardest thing to give you.
Dean smiled over at his not-so-fallen-angel. Well come on, don’t be a tease or else I’ll think you made it out of a turnip or something. What’s thumpin’ away under my ribcage? What’s keeping me alive?
To give you life, Dean, I gave you my heart.
The End.