[FIC] The Light Crept In for nightflyer42
Gift type: Fanfic
Title: The Light Crept In
Author: sorenne
Recipient: nightflyer42
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2691
Warnings: none
Spoilers: none
Word Count: 2700
Summary: AU. Dean Winchester is priest, telling himself that he is happy and failing to believe it. That is, until a stranger shows up at his church on Christmas Eve and shows him two people walking through the snow.
Author notes: Written for the prompt: AU: Dean is a priest, struggling with his faith because of his repressed homosexuality, sitting depressed and alone in church after Christmas service. And God... well, God sends him an angel for Christmas. I never really thought AU was my cup of tea, but the prompt sort of grabbed me and refused to let go, so here we are. I tried to hit some of your likes, but I’m afraid this turned out more angsty than schmoopy. Hope you still enjoy it!
He’d tried to keep his schedule as full as possible, taking on extra counseling sessions, spending more time saying Mass, lingering to talk to members of his congregation.
Anything. Anything to avoid the crystallized moment of silence when he would be left alone with his thoughts.
Not that they were necessarily bad thoughts, of course. There were thoughts of the children who had volunteered to sing a carol for Christmas, of the elderly woman who had baked pies for everyone, of the families sitting around a dinner table, of God... There were also thoughts of a different kind of love.
Those were not happy thoughts.
Dean shifted in the pew, leaning back against the unyielding wooden bench. Soft, evening light crept in through the stained glass windows and the door that refused to shut properly. Dean had tried fixing the stubborn hinges on multiple occasions, but had given up in the end. Let the crack in the door be a symbol of welcome rather than of shoddy construction.
He briefly considered praying. He knew he probably should, being a priest and all. But despite the cassock, Dean never felt completely comfortable just out and out talking with God. Sure, he was more than happy to speak to the man upstairs on behalf of his congregation members. Putting in a good word for other people was fine. Talking to God about himself was not.
He took the job to help people. And he was doing that. He really was.
He did not take it to mutter soft prayers in his head and wonder at the guilty thoughts that crept in unbidden like light through a crack.
In retrospect, he should have accepted one of the handful of Christmas dinner invitations that had been extended to him. Instead, he was alone on Christmas Eve, sitting in a pew with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up and his collar nowhere in sight.
Someone coughed politely behind him, following up with a soft “Excuse me.”
Dean whipped around, wincing inwardly as he bumped his shoulder against the bench. He hadn’t heard anyone come in, but there was a man in the church, nonetheless. He stood at just below six feet, clad in a rumpled trench coat that was more suited to falling leaves and rain puddles than the snow piling up outside. His hair was slightly ruffled and his eyes were unbelievably bright. Altogether, he presented a rather complete picture of a tax account who had just escaped from a special sort of mental facility. His demeanor wavered impossibly between bland and eccentric. And his voice was something else entirely - deep and oddly intense where Dean had been expecting something dry and breathy.
The man cleared his throat again, and Dean realized, with some embarrassment, that he had been staring.
He pushed himself up from the bench, plastering a smile on his face in the spirit of the holidays. “Hi there. I’m Pastor Dean. I haven’t seen you around here before.”
Dean reached out a hand, which the other man immediately clasped. His grip was firm and strong, and his skin was surprisingly warm for someone who had just come in from the cold.
“I am Castiel,” the man replied in a deep, level baritone. Letting go of Dean’s hand, he looked curiously around the church. “It is true. I have not been here before. This is a pleasant place.”
Dean blinked. It seemed an odd thing to say, but it was certainly true. The little church was warm and cozy, and with two people there instead of one, it already didn’t seem so empty.
“Uh, yea, it is. We take good care of it,” he offered lamely, pretending to survey the space as well, though he could easily reconstruct every inch of the church with his eyes closed.
“We?” the man questioned.
“Oh, there are a lot of people who help out. Sweeping floors, washing windows, baking pies… that sort of thing.”
“I see,” Castiel said, lapsing into silence.
Dean had a sudden feeling that the man could stand there all evening, impossibly blue eyes boring into Dean’s.
“So… Castiel, that’s an interesting name. Not many people name their children after angels these days,” he said, trying for some conversation.
The man continued to stare at him as if he had not heard. After a few seconds of standing there with slightly parted lips, expecting an answer, Dean gave up and stared right back. The man could be mentally unhinged for all he knew; best to wait this out.
“Dean… I require something of you.”
Oh, so that’s what it was. Maybe the stranger wanted to give a confession or a place to stay the night or any number of things really…
Deciding that under the circumstances the man most likely needed somewhere to stay the night, Dean was about to offer the church’s hospitality, when something in Castiel’s face gave him pause. The man was oddly tense - his jawline rigid and his back ramrod straight. Dean could have sworn that the tight lines around his eyes haven’t been there a second ago.
Suddenly, some sort of invisible string seemed to snap and the man’s face crumpled in pain. He exhaled a breathy gasp and swayed forward, throwing out his hand to lean on one of the pews and missing by a good foot. Instinctively, Dean stepped forward, catching the other man by the elbow.
“Whoa, there. You okay?” Dean muttered, grasping the man’s arm firmly, just in case he decided to try for a fainting spell again.
“I am…fine,” Castiel replied, looking anything but.
“Sure, you are. You need some medical help? I could get a doctor here fast if you need one.”
“No, I am alright. I am simply not used to this.”
“Not used to what?” Dean asked, his brow furrowing.
“This… form. I have not had to present myself like this in some time,” the man replied hesitantly, now looking marginally less sick than he had a few seconds ago.
Dean had no idea what the stranger was talking about, but as he had learned from prior experience, it was often best not to question people. Everyone had their hang-ups.
“Right then,” Dean muttered, suddenly acutely aware that he was still holding onto the man’s arm. He let his had drop.
The man tilted his head to the side, considering him. “You are the only person here. Why is that?”
“Oh, You know how it is. Everyone’s at home with their families - dinner, presents, the usual,” Dean said with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders.
“You are not,” the man observed quietly, his eyes boring into the side of Dean’s head.
“Well, someone has to look after things around here,” he offered lamely, sweeping his arm out to encompass the modest church hall.
The man shook his head slightly, his eyes growing said. “I had expected to find you here, but I am disappointed that I have,” Castiel said quietly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean bristled. The man was speaking as if he knew him. Dean found that deeply disconcerting.
In lieu of an answer, Castiel turned around and began walking toward the door.
“As I was saying previously, I require you to see something, Dean. If you would follow me,” he called over his shoulder.
Dean promptly decided that the guy was insane or at least not in his right mind at the moment. But, it was not his place to judge. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do.
Dean followed the man down the aisle and out the doors, not even bothering with a jacket.
Snow covered every square inch of the ground. Even the narrow path leading to the church’s entrance that Dean had dug out in the morning was concealed by a blanket of white. The late hours of the evening saw the sky completely dark, with only a smartening of early stars and a few lampposts to light the way. It seemed to Dean that the snow was saturated with the night, and he could not quite decide whether it was white or blue or some other unnamable color entirely.
He breathed in deeply, forgetting for a moment that he was not alone.
A hand brushed against his and he started, turning his head to see Castiel standing beside him. Castiel was watching a man and woman walking on the opposite side of the street. They were holding hands and chattering happily. The man must have said something funny, because the woman let out a high-pitched giggle and swatted him on the arm. He laughed as well and pulled her to him by the waist, kissing her quickly on the temple. As they passed under a lamppost, Dean saw that both were grinning.
“Do you see them, Dean?” Castiel questioned.
Dean could only nod. His stomach was clenched and his throat felt strangely constricted. More than anything in the world, he wanted somebody to hold his hand like that.
The couple soon disappeared behind a corner, the happy cadences of their voices lingering behind in the air.
“Do you not want a happiness like theirs?” Castiel continued.
“Of course. Of course, I do.” Dean’s throat felt raw.
“Then why are you alone, Dean? Why not find that happiness?
“That’s not - That’s not possible for me,” Dean answered haltingly. “I couldn’t be happy like that with a woman.”
Not that he hadn’t tried, of course. They were several women who he had considered starting a relationship with and one who he had actually called his girlfriend for almost a year. But they had never had that carefree joy, that unconditional comfort that the couple on the sidewalk seemed to share.
“Why do you think that?” The man’s voice was soft and curious.
Dean could think of a million reasons not to answer that question. For one, he had never told anyone. For another, he had never wanted to admit this out loud. But, he was cold and this was Christmas Eve and he was here with a stranger - nobody who would really care enough to judge him.
“I’m gay,” he said flatly. It was surprisingly easy.
There was a beat of silence, as if Castiel was waiting for him to continue, and then: “So what?”
“So… So what?” Dean stuttered. “I’m a priest. I can’t. I-”
“You believe, Dean,” the man cut him off. “You believe in the goodness of people. You believe that you can save those who need saving. You believe in God, Dean. Why don’t you believe in yourself?”
“Now look here, I believe in myself just fine. I don’t need a pep talk-” Dean huffed.
“No,” the man cut him off purposefully. “You don’t believe in your own feelings. You don’t believe that your instincts are leading you in the right direction. You are fighting yourself constantly.”
Dean opened his mouth to reply, but something stuck in his throat.
“What will it take, Dean Winchester?” the man continued in a softer tone. Somewhere in the last few minutes, he had drifted closer to Dean. Now, only a few steps separated them.
Again, Dean tried to respond, but he couldn’t. Years of doubt came surging up. Years of telling himself that he was confused, wrong, evil…
“What will it take?” The voice was a whisper now, resonating in his head.
Suddenly, there was a hand on his arm. He had to leave. He had to move away now, before he found himself giving in.
There were blue eyes just inches from his own. They were reflecting the sky-tinged snow and the icicles hanging from the windowsills and the soft light of the lamppost.
And Dean knew that he could look away right this second and leave this madness behind. He could look away and go back to leaving his life - his quiet, aching, pitiful life.
Instead, Dean took the last step toward Castiel and pressed his lips against the other man’s.
Castiel’s lips were chapped and tasted of clean, night air. But there was also a hint of cinnamon there - a scent of warm apple pie and eggnog. Dean felt pine trees and a snowball melting in his hand. He remembered a wooly hat scratching his ears as his mother pulled it over his head. He remembered opening presents and listening to stories by a warm fire. And there was the Church choir, singing Christmas carols in his head and a little girl asking him if God would keep her daddy happy in heaven. There were prayers and laughter and tears.
The kiss was over all too soon and Dean could already barely remember what it felt like. All he had were impressions of home.
He knew he had to say something, because as magical as the kiss had been, people just didn’t do this sort of thing. You didn’t go around kissing strangers. Everybody knew that. You certainly didn’t go around kissing other men. Dean had known that for years now.
“S-sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” he began, already feeling painfully awkward. Something in his chest was burning.
“Yes, you should have,” Castiel replied firmly.
“But, this isn’t right. God wouldn’t-“
“Stop right there, Dean,” Castiel interjected. “Do not presume to know what God would and would not want.”
“I’m not presuming. I know!” Dean shouted, something in him breaking - shattering into a thousand little pieces. “I know that I want this more than anything. I want to be happy and loved and I can’t! I can’t!”
He was not crying. That liquid sliding down his cheek? That was snow melting.
But Castiel was smiling at him - a soft, indulgent smile that seemed perfectly at home on his face. “You know. You have always known, but you have chosen not to understand. Look, Dean Winchester.”
And then, snow exploded from the man’s back - a blur of pure white.
Except, it wasn’t really snow.
Dean watched with wide eyes as what he had taken for snow rearranged itself behind Castiel’s shoulders.
Feathers. What Dean had taken for a million snowflakes were a million feathers. They seemed to emit a light of their own as they flickered like fireflies, like Christmas lights, like the last burning candle.
The man had wings sprouting from his shoulder blades.
And all Dean could think of was that, more than anything, he wanted to touch them.
As if reading his mind, the man - the angel - shifted his wings, bringing one forward so that it brushed against Dean’s chest.
Dean gasped softly at the contact, his eyes grown impossibly wide. He couldn’t comprehend this. It couldn’t be real. It was too much…Too perfect…
“Go ahead,” Castiel whispered softly.
Haltingly, Dean brought up a hand to caress the wing. His fingers sunk between the feathers and he marveled at the softness. The closest he had ever come to feeling something this soft was when he had found a baby sparrow as a child. The bird had fallen from its nest, not yet having grown all its feathers. But even the soft fuzz covering the baby bird’s body couldn’t compare to the warm silky feeling at his fingertips now.
“Are you- are you-” Dean breathed out, unable to finish the question.
“An Angel of the Lord, Dean Winchester,” Castiel finished for him, bringing his own hand to grasp Dean’s where it was buried in his wing.
Dean held onto that hand like a lifeline, irrationally afraid that the angel would disappear. But, a part of him knew that he would not. It was the same part of him that once told a little girl that her daddy was happy in heaven and believed it. The same part used to light up at the mention of Christmas dinner. The same part that knew that God was watching over him.
Castiel kissed him and Dean kissed right back, feeling for the first time in his life like he was truly happy.
Somewhere behind them, light from Castiel’s wings was seeping through a crack in the church door.
FIN
Title: The Light Crept In
Author: sorenne
Recipient: nightflyer42
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2691
Warnings: none
Spoilers: none
Word Count: 2700
Summary: AU. Dean Winchester is priest, telling himself that he is happy and failing to believe it. That is, until a stranger shows up at his church on Christmas Eve and shows him two people walking through the snow.
Author notes: Written for the prompt: AU: Dean is a priest, struggling with his faith because of his repressed homosexuality, sitting depressed and alone in church after Christmas service. And God... well, God sends him an angel for Christmas. I never really thought AU was my cup of tea, but the prompt sort of grabbed me and refused to let go, so here we are. I tried to hit some of your likes, but I’m afraid this turned out more angsty than schmoopy. Hope you still enjoy it!
He’d tried to keep his schedule as full as possible, taking on extra counseling sessions, spending more time saying Mass, lingering to talk to members of his congregation.
Anything. Anything to avoid the crystallized moment of silence when he would be left alone with his thoughts.
Not that they were necessarily bad thoughts, of course. There were thoughts of the children who had volunteered to sing a carol for Christmas, of the elderly woman who had baked pies for everyone, of the families sitting around a dinner table, of God... There were also thoughts of a different kind of love.
Those were not happy thoughts.
Dean shifted in the pew, leaning back against the unyielding wooden bench. Soft, evening light crept in through the stained glass windows and the door that refused to shut properly. Dean had tried fixing the stubborn hinges on multiple occasions, but had given up in the end. Let the crack in the door be a symbol of welcome rather than of shoddy construction.
He briefly considered praying. He knew he probably should, being a priest and all. But despite the cassock, Dean never felt completely comfortable just out and out talking with God. Sure, he was more than happy to speak to the man upstairs on behalf of his congregation members. Putting in a good word for other people was fine. Talking to God about himself was not.
He took the job to help people. And he was doing that. He really was.
He did not take it to mutter soft prayers in his head and wonder at the guilty thoughts that crept in unbidden like light through a crack.
In retrospect, he should have accepted one of the handful of Christmas dinner invitations that had been extended to him. Instead, he was alone on Christmas Eve, sitting in a pew with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up and his collar nowhere in sight.
Someone coughed politely behind him, following up with a soft “Excuse me.”
Dean whipped around, wincing inwardly as he bumped his shoulder against the bench. He hadn’t heard anyone come in, but there was a man in the church, nonetheless. He stood at just below six feet, clad in a rumpled trench coat that was more suited to falling leaves and rain puddles than the snow piling up outside. His hair was slightly ruffled and his eyes were unbelievably bright. Altogether, he presented a rather complete picture of a tax account who had just escaped from a special sort of mental facility. His demeanor wavered impossibly between bland and eccentric. And his voice was something else entirely - deep and oddly intense where Dean had been expecting something dry and breathy.
The man cleared his throat again, and Dean realized, with some embarrassment, that he had been staring.
He pushed himself up from the bench, plastering a smile on his face in the spirit of the holidays. “Hi there. I’m Pastor Dean. I haven’t seen you around here before.”
Dean reached out a hand, which the other man immediately clasped. His grip was firm and strong, and his skin was surprisingly warm for someone who had just come in from the cold.
“I am Castiel,” the man replied in a deep, level baritone. Letting go of Dean’s hand, he looked curiously around the church. “It is true. I have not been here before. This is a pleasant place.”
Dean blinked. It seemed an odd thing to say, but it was certainly true. The little church was warm and cozy, and with two people there instead of one, it already didn’t seem so empty.
“Uh, yea, it is. We take good care of it,” he offered lamely, pretending to survey the space as well, though he could easily reconstruct every inch of the church with his eyes closed.
“We?” the man questioned.
“Oh, there are a lot of people who help out. Sweeping floors, washing windows, baking pies… that sort of thing.”
“I see,” Castiel said, lapsing into silence.
Dean had a sudden feeling that the man could stand there all evening, impossibly blue eyes boring into Dean’s.
“So… Castiel, that’s an interesting name. Not many people name their children after angels these days,” he said, trying for some conversation.
The man continued to stare at him as if he had not heard. After a few seconds of standing there with slightly parted lips, expecting an answer, Dean gave up and stared right back. The man could be mentally unhinged for all he knew; best to wait this out.
“Dean… I require something of you.”
Oh, so that’s what it was. Maybe the stranger wanted to give a confession or a place to stay the night or any number of things really…
Deciding that under the circumstances the man most likely needed somewhere to stay the night, Dean was about to offer the church’s hospitality, when something in Castiel’s face gave him pause. The man was oddly tense - his jawline rigid and his back ramrod straight. Dean could have sworn that the tight lines around his eyes haven’t been there a second ago.
Suddenly, some sort of invisible string seemed to snap and the man’s face crumpled in pain. He exhaled a breathy gasp and swayed forward, throwing out his hand to lean on one of the pews and missing by a good foot. Instinctively, Dean stepped forward, catching the other man by the elbow.
“Whoa, there. You okay?” Dean muttered, grasping the man’s arm firmly, just in case he decided to try for a fainting spell again.
“I am…fine,” Castiel replied, looking anything but.
“Sure, you are. You need some medical help? I could get a doctor here fast if you need one.”
“No, I am alright. I am simply not used to this.”
“Not used to what?” Dean asked, his brow furrowing.
“This… form. I have not had to present myself like this in some time,” the man replied hesitantly, now looking marginally less sick than he had a few seconds ago.
Dean had no idea what the stranger was talking about, but as he had learned from prior experience, it was often best not to question people. Everyone had their hang-ups.
“Right then,” Dean muttered, suddenly acutely aware that he was still holding onto the man’s arm. He let his had drop.
The man tilted his head to the side, considering him. “You are the only person here. Why is that?”
“Oh, You know how it is. Everyone’s at home with their families - dinner, presents, the usual,” Dean said with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders.
“You are not,” the man observed quietly, his eyes boring into the side of Dean’s head.
“Well, someone has to look after things around here,” he offered lamely, sweeping his arm out to encompass the modest church hall.
The man shook his head slightly, his eyes growing said. “I had expected to find you here, but I am disappointed that I have,” Castiel said quietly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean bristled. The man was speaking as if he knew him. Dean found that deeply disconcerting.
In lieu of an answer, Castiel turned around and began walking toward the door.
“As I was saying previously, I require you to see something, Dean. If you would follow me,” he called over his shoulder.
Dean promptly decided that the guy was insane or at least not in his right mind at the moment. But, it was not his place to judge. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do.
Dean followed the man down the aisle and out the doors, not even bothering with a jacket.
Snow covered every square inch of the ground. Even the narrow path leading to the church’s entrance that Dean had dug out in the morning was concealed by a blanket of white. The late hours of the evening saw the sky completely dark, with only a smartening of early stars and a few lampposts to light the way. It seemed to Dean that the snow was saturated with the night, and he could not quite decide whether it was white or blue or some other unnamable color entirely.
He breathed in deeply, forgetting for a moment that he was not alone.
A hand brushed against his and he started, turning his head to see Castiel standing beside him. Castiel was watching a man and woman walking on the opposite side of the street. They were holding hands and chattering happily. The man must have said something funny, because the woman let out a high-pitched giggle and swatted him on the arm. He laughed as well and pulled her to him by the waist, kissing her quickly on the temple. As they passed under a lamppost, Dean saw that both were grinning.
“Do you see them, Dean?” Castiel questioned.
Dean could only nod. His stomach was clenched and his throat felt strangely constricted. More than anything in the world, he wanted somebody to hold his hand like that.
The couple soon disappeared behind a corner, the happy cadences of their voices lingering behind in the air.
“Do you not want a happiness like theirs?” Castiel continued.
“Of course. Of course, I do.” Dean’s throat felt raw.
“Then why are you alone, Dean? Why not find that happiness?
“That’s not - That’s not possible for me,” Dean answered haltingly. “I couldn’t be happy like that with a woman.”
Not that he hadn’t tried, of course. They were several women who he had considered starting a relationship with and one who he had actually called his girlfriend for almost a year. But they had never had that carefree joy, that unconditional comfort that the couple on the sidewalk seemed to share.
“Why do you think that?” The man’s voice was soft and curious.
Dean could think of a million reasons not to answer that question. For one, he had never told anyone. For another, he had never wanted to admit this out loud. But, he was cold and this was Christmas Eve and he was here with a stranger - nobody who would really care enough to judge him.
“I’m gay,” he said flatly. It was surprisingly easy.
There was a beat of silence, as if Castiel was waiting for him to continue, and then: “So what?”
“So… So what?” Dean stuttered. “I’m a priest. I can’t. I-”
“You believe, Dean,” the man cut him off. “You believe in the goodness of people. You believe that you can save those who need saving. You believe in God, Dean. Why don’t you believe in yourself?”
“Now look here, I believe in myself just fine. I don’t need a pep talk-” Dean huffed.
“No,” the man cut him off purposefully. “You don’t believe in your own feelings. You don’t believe that your instincts are leading you in the right direction. You are fighting yourself constantly.”
Dean opened his mouth to reply, but something stuck in his throat.
“What will it take, Dean Winchester?” the man continued in a softer tone. Somewhere in the last few minutes, he had drifted closer to Dean. Now, only a few steps separated them.
Again, Dean tried to respond, but he couldn’t. Years of doubt came surging up. Years of telling himself that he was confused, wrong, evil…
“What will it take?” The voice was a whisper now, resonating in his head.
Suddenly, there was a hand on his arm. He had to leave. He had to move away now, before he found himself giving in.
There were blue eyes just inches from his own. They were reflecting the sky-tinged snow and the icicles hanging from the windowsills and the soft light of the lamppost.
And Dean knew that he could look away right this second and leave this madness behind. He could look away and go back to leaving his life - his quiet, aching, pitiful life.
Instead, Dean took the last step toward Castiel and pressed his lips against the other man’s.
Castiel’s lips were chapped and tasted of clean, night air. But there was also a hint of cinnamon there - a scent of warm apple pie and eggnog. Dean felt pine trees and a snowball melting in his hand. He remembered a wooly hat scratching his ears as his mother pulled it over his head. He remembered opening presents and listening to stories by a warm fire. And there was the Church choir, singing Christmas carols in his head and a little girl asking him if God would keep her daddy happy in heaven. There were prayers and laughter and tears.
The kiss was over all too soon and Dean could already barely remember what it felt like. All he had were impressions of home.
He knew he had to say something, because as magical as the kiss had been, people just didn’t do this sort of thing. You didn’t go around kissing strangers. Everybody knew that. You certainly didn’t go around kissing other men. Dean had known that for years now.
“S-sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” he began, already feeling painfully awkward. Something in his chest was burning.
“Yes, you should have,” Castiel replied firmly.
“But, this isn’t right. God wouldn’t-“
“Stop right there, Dean,” Castiel interjected. “Do not presume to know what God would and would not want.”
“I’m not presuming. I know!” Dean shouted, something in him breaking - shattering into a thousand little pieces. “I know that I want this more than anything. I want to be happy and loved and I can’t! I can’t!”
He was not crying. That liquid sliding down his cheek? That was snow melting.
But Castiel was smiling at him - a soft, indulgent smile that seemed perfectly at home on his face. “You know. You have always known, but you have chosen not to understand. Look, Dean Winchester.”
And then, snow exploded from the man’s back - a blur of pure white.
Except, it wasn’t really snow.
Dean watched with wide eyes as what he had taken for snow rearranged itself behind Castiel’s shoulders.
Feathers. What Dean had taken for a million snowflakes were a million feathers. They seemed to emit a light of their own as they flickered like fireflies, like Christmas lights, like the last burning candle.
The man had wings sprouting from his shoulder blades.
And all Dean could think of was that, more than anything, he wanted to touch them.
As if reading his mind, the man - the angel - shifted his wings, bringing one forward so that it brushed against Dean’s chest.
Dean gasped softly at the contact, his eyes grown impossibly wide. He couldn’t comprehend this. It couldn’t be real. It was too much…Too perfect…
“Go ahead,” Castiel whispered softly.
Haltingly, Dean brought up a hand to caress the wing. His fingers sunk between the feathers and he marveled at the softness. The closest he had ever come to feeling something this soft was when he had found a baby sparrow as a child. The bird had fallen from its nest, not yet having grown all its feathers. But even the soft fuzz covering the baby bird’s body couldn’t compare to the warm silky feeling at his fingertips now.
“Are you- are you-” Dean breathed out, unable to finish the question.
“An Angel of the Lord, Dean Winchester,” Castiel finished for him, bringing his own hand to grasp Dean’s where it was buried in his wing.
Dean held onto that hand like a lifeline, irrationally afraid that the angel would disappear. But, a part of him knew that he would not. It was the same part of him that once told a little girl that her daddy was happy in heaven and believed it. The same part used to light up at the mention of Christmas dinner. The same part that knew that God was watching over him.
Castiel kissed him and Dean kissed right back, feeling for the first time in his life like he was truly happy.
Somewhere behind them, light from Castiel’s wings was seeping through a crack in the church door.
FIN