Nearly seven thousand words later, and long over-due...
Title: Crash Landed and Helplessly Devoid
Author: earth_heart
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Warning: Fallen!Castiel (kind of), FLUFF OMG WTF I NEVER WRITE FLUFF
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Supernatural does not belong to me. It belongs to Kripke and the CW/WB. I make no profit from this.
Summary: For highermagic ; she requested this forever ago. God, I am so far behind. ;~; I’M SORRY, SWEETHEART.
A/N: This was supposed to have porn in it, but my muse decided differently somewhere around page nine. ._. Sorry.
All he saw was a flash of tan and red.
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All he saw was a flash of tan and red. A split second later, the fresh stench of coppery blood tainted the air, cloying and sweet. Dean started forward towards Castiel immediately, trying to make it to the angel before he crumpled to the ground. He barely made it in time, his hands sliding around Castiel’s back just as the angel’s legs gave out.
Blue eyes stared up at him, trapping him in their too-bright, painful gaze. Dean felt his skin tighten from the unimaginable heat; watched as the pinpricks of silvery-blue grace blew outward from the center of Castiel’s pupils. He opened his mouth to shout for Sam, but then Castiel was gripping his arm so tightly his bones ground against one another, the angels fingers curling instinctively over the brand he’d seared into Dean’s flesh when he rescued him from Hell.
Dean’s shout morphed into an animalistic howl. His blood boiled and his vision clouded over with silver. Something forced his mouth open, and then molten heat was trickling down his throat and burning him alive from the inside out. The last thing he remembered was feeling Castiel’s hands gripping his arms, the touch somehow significantly weaker than it had been just a moment ago. He thought Castiel had died for a moment, but before he could check everything went black and he collapsed.
Nothing hurt when he woke up. For a moment, Dean was certain he was dead, but he didn’t feel the usual weightlessness that came with being an untethered soul, and he definitely didn’t feel like he was in Heaven, or Hell. When he looked around, he found himself in Bobby’s spare bedroom. Nothing was different, but at the same time, everything was. The world was the same, but it was almost like Dean was looking at it through a haze that made everything brighter. He blinked several times, but it didn’t go away.
No one was in the room, but he could hear Sam and Bobby down in the kitchen. Someone else was down there with them. Dean could hear a lower rumbling voice that sent shivers through him. He knew who that was, and the image of Castiel, covered in blood and crumpling to the ground, flashed through his mind. Immediately Dean stood up; the world spun around him suddenly and he hit the ground hard. Wind whipped through the room, feathers rustling, and he looked up expectantly. Castiel was nowhere to be found, though, and Dean frowned in confusion.
“Cas,” he called, out, his voice rasping out of him like he hadn’t spoken in months. Clearing his throat, Dean tried again a bit louder. “Cas!”
The bedside lamp exploded in a shower of glass and ceramic shards. Dean ducked his head to avoid them; pinpricks of pain shuddered across muscles that weren’t supposed to be there. It hurt far more than it should have, and Dean whined high in his throat. The window panes rattled.
“Dean.”
Castiel was standing in the doorway, his eyes shadowed by tufts of dark brown hair that fell across his forehead in a messy tangle. He was wearing some of Dean’s old, old clothing; a simple blue button-down and baggy sweatpants that sagged off of his slender frame. He looked exactly like a Castiel that Dean never wanted to see again, complete with scruff one his face that should not have been there. The angel looked tired, and worn down; the usual electricity that charged the air around him was gone.
“Cas,” Dean whispered, trying to push himself to his feet. His friend came forward to help him, sliding smooth, cool palms beneath Dean’s armpits to help him steady himself. Curiously, Dean sniffed the air, but his nose didn’t tingle with the familiar charge of power and ozone. “Cas, what happened?”
“I was gravely injured in a fight. My body was too destroyed to contain my damaged grace, and I needed somewhere to keep it safe until I had recovered. I didn’t mean to come here, but I did, and when you touched me my grace jumped into you through our bond. You healed me before you lost consciousness.”
Dean stared at Castiel for several long, silent moments. “You shoved your grace into me? How did you manage to do that without completely leaving Jimmy’s body?”
“I do not know.” Castiel shook his head. “Perhaps it is because Jimmy no longer inhabits this body. His soul was taken to Heaven when Lucifer killed me. This body is essentially my own, now.”
“So why can’t you just take your grace back now?”
“Your body won’t give it to him.” Sam walked into the room, watching Dean with dark, worried eyes. He must have really scared his brother to put that look on his face without even getting a bitchface first.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Dean stared between Sam and Castiel.
“My grace is still damaged,” Castiel replied, watching Dean with large, dull blue eyes. The usual bright spark was missing, and without the crackle of energy around him he was just like another human despite the stiff way he held his body. “It needs to heal first before I can take it into myself again. Sam is right, though. Your body and soul will not give it up right now. They have joined with it in a way that I have never seen happen before.”
That news right there wasn’t exactly relaxing, and Dean frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He didn’t like the way they were looking at him and hunched his shoulders. From behind him came the sound of rustling feathers, and he felt something soft brush against his forearms. It startled him and he jerked in surprise. Something shot past him in a blur and Dean winced as a sharp spark of pain traveled through him around the same time as he heard a solid crack against the wall. “Ow!”
“Dean,” Castiel said reproachfully, “you must be more careful than that. Wings are incredibly strong, but the muscles are sensitive and easily bruised. You’ll do yourself immense damage if you continue to thrash them around like that.”
Dean glared at his friend; let out a frustrated huff. “Thanks, Einstein, I think I got that. Would you mind telling me why I’m supposed to have wings in the first place?”
“They are a manifestation of grace.” Castiel scowled at him, like he was insulted that Dean even had to ask in the first place. “You carry my grace inside of you, and it has given you wings. It’s a gift you should be much more grateful for.”
“Flying and I have never been really good buddies.” Despite the snark laced into his words, Dean was curious about the wings he was supposed to have. He had seen something before, hadn’t he? He turned his head to look over his shoulder and had to muffle a noise that was definitely not masculine.
He had wings, all right; enormous wings that were flared out in surprise. They were far too big for Bobby’s guest room, and when they stretched out even farther the primary feathers bent until the actual meat and muscle of the wings was pressing uncomfortably against the walls. Dean winced and the wings pulled back automatically. It seemed like they were tied into his emotions, and now that he was actually aware of them he could feel the new, unusual weight on his back from where they melded into his shoulderblades.
“Holy Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Watch your tone, Dean. I may not currently be an angel, but I still do not approve of blasphemy.” Castiel sounded annoyed, but there was something in his tone, something buried deep down, that sounded like pain and longing. Dean turned to look at him and saw the man watching his wings with unmasked longing on his face.
“You guys can see them?”
“Yeah, dude,” Sam agreed with a nod. “We can see them easily. They showed up about five minutes after you went down. Castiel says they’re a by-product of his grace temporarily melding with your human anatomy. If you were an actual angel, we wouldn’t be able to see them. Since you’re not, we can.”
The thought of him being anything remotely angelic was enough to make Dean snort in amusement, and he shook his head. Still, there was still the problem of him having wings. There was also the fact that Bobby’s house, while not exactly on the small side, was still nowhere near big enough to cope with Dean’s inexperience in all things related to wings and temporary angelic abilities. Every time he felt any kind of emotion, the wings reacted in one way or another.
“This is going to be a problem.” Dean sighed and felt his wings shift and resettle, drooping down low until the longest primary feathers brushed over the dirty floor. Every little touch tingled up through the shaft of the feathers, arching across new nerves and muscles and registering in Dean’s mind. His back was beginning to hurt, trying to adjust to the weight of new limbs that hadn’t been there before, and when they moved he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Castiel sounded confused when he spoke. “What is the problem, aside from the obvious?”
“Well, my back hurts, I said your name and a lamp exploded, and every time I get agitated I seem to hit the wall. I hate flying, my eyes hurt because your grace makes everything look different, and I can’t be mad or else these stupid things try and break something.” Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the wings, and when he glanced back at them the feathers were bristling in response to his feelings.
He couldn’t take back what he said, and he didn’t regret saying any of it because Dean always spoke his mind, but the look of near devastation on Castiel’s face made a part of Dean’s soul curl up into a tiny ball. Behind him, his wings curved down and drooped even farther that before, the wrist-joints pressing down against the floor in contrition. Sam watched them while Dean watched Castiel. Before he could say anything else the blue-eyed former angel turned and walked out of the room. That left Dean and Sam staring at each other, and his brother scowled.
“Way to be grateful, jackass. You’ve got his grace and he almost died trying to get to you, and this is how you thank him.” Sam huffed. Then he turned and stalked out of the room as well, slamming the door behind him. Dean breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. The overall brightness of everything was starting to give him a headache.
Night fell quickly, like it always did at Bobby’s house. The older hunter had kicked Dean out after he’d smashed a window in the kitchen and had broken several dishes when a truck had backfired out in the salvage yard. Something told him Castiel had been hiding in the jungle of scrap parts and rusting cars all day; who knew, maybe he’d even been the one to make the car backfire.
“Get outta my kitchen,” Bobby ordered, shoving Dean out of the screen door and trying to avoid getting smacked in the face by his wings. Dean went quickly, tucking the bothersome appendages against his back as tightly as he could to keep from causing damage. Once he was outside, the humid air tickling across his bare chest and winding through his feathers, he relaxed and spread his new wings. It was a strange feeling, stretching muscles he wasn’t supposed to have, but once his wings were fully unfurled he felt amazing.
Dean hadn’t actually taken a proper look at them, and once he was beneath one of the dusk-to-dawn lights outside of the salvage yard he curled one wing around so he could bury his fingers into the feathers and check them out. His fingertips carded through the baby-soft down, stirring up a fine cloud of down dust that settled on the top layer of feathers. His wings were a mixture of dark, glossy brown and lighter tawny, with a few feathers that were almost a dirty blonde color. Here and there Dean found specks of silver, and he curiously lifted the wing to see if the underside was the same color.
The underside of his wing was lighter, the colors much more varied. The primaries were a silvery-white color, while the secondary feathers were royal blue. Dean had been fascinated by birds when he was younger despite his fear of flying, and he’d read a lot of books whenever he had a free moment. He knew that males were usually much more brightly colored than females, their eye-catching plumage meant for trying to attract mates. It was interesting to see that the same thing seemed to extend to angels.
“What are you doing?”
Yelping in surprise, Dean jerked up and his wings flared out instinctively. He spun around, but immediately relaxed when he saw Castiel standing half in shadow, watching him with guarded blue eyes. Once he realized that it was his friend he relaxed, his wings settling into a more comfortable position. Above them, the light flickered, but Dean didn’t know if that was from him or just normal.
“So, uh, I’m sorry for being a dick earlier,” he mumbled, rubbing the nape of his neck. “I was kind of freaking out, and I was really insensitive towards you. I know losing your grace is hard for you.”
Castiel stared at him silently, but Dean noticed the slight relaxation of his shoulders after a moment, and the angel nodded his head. “It is,” he replied quietly, his familiar voice rasping; traveling through the air to brush against Dean’s skin and make his feathers tremble slightly. “I have lost the thing that makes me an angel, and it hurts even more because it isn’t truly gone. It’s inside of you, and I have a physical manifestation to remind me of that every time I see you.”
“Did it hurt this time?” Dean whispered, stepping closer to Castiel. Usually his night vision was pretty good, and with grace to charge him up, he could see Castiel almost perfectly, even with the slight haze he’d been looking through all day.
“It hurt you more than it hurt me, but it was still painful.” Castiel watched him approach, as unmovable as ever. He would look at Dean’s face, but his eyes always strayed to the hunter’s wings, and every time they did Dean would see his unbearable longing.
“As painful as last time?”
“Last time, I was knocked unconscious as soon as I activated the banishing sigil. I didn’t feel the loss of my grace until I woke up, and then it was like a dull ache layered under the pains of my human body.”
Hearing about the banishing sigil, Dean’s eyes immediately dropped to the angel’s chest, still covered in his old blue shirt. He remembered carving the sigil into Castiel’s chest, how his friend hadn’t even flinched and his blood had run hotly over Dean’s fingers, dark red but with sparks and traces of silvery-blue.
“I’m sorry, Cas,” he whispered. “You’ve gone through so much shit because of me, and I know I don’t apologize nearly enough for everything you do for us. Hell, I never really apologize at all for anything that I do. So... thank you, I guess.” Dean shifted uncomfortably, his wings ruffling up before they resettled. He watched Castiel follow the action and turned slightly, extending one wing. It had taken him most of the day to master such a simple task, but Dean was completely out of his element and he’d been too stubbornly proud to ask Castiel for help.
Castiel stared at Dean’s outstretched wing; his fingers twitched and then clenched. “What are you doing?”
“D’you want to touch it?” The words sounded dirty as they left his mouth and Dean looked away, feeling something fluttering in his stomach. He knew it wasn’t Castiel’s grace, because that was wrapped securely around his soul. Dean wasn’t sure how he knew that; he just knew it.
His friend pulled back as if he’d been burned, his eyes darkening. “You do not ask that of someone,” he growled, his voice dipping lower than even Dean could speak. It rolled his words together into a rugged, rasping growl, and the hunter dug his fingernails into the skin of his palms to keep from reacting. The hunter wasn’t quite sure when these feelings had sprung up inside of him, reaching out towards Castiel every time the angel stared at him, or spoke to him. Usually he was very good at keeping himself under control, and Castiel had never picked up on them before. Dean wasn’t about to give himself away now that he had a clear, visible line to his emotions.
“Why not?” Dean rumbled, pushing his wing out farther. Castiel backed away quickly and the hunter eventually pulled his wing back, feeling hurt. His wings drooped down, curling forward and around him to partially hide him from view. He didn’t like Castiel backing away from him. “I don’t see why it’s a problem.”
“Angels are very private. Their wings are an extension of their grace; a visible aspect of it, like I’ve told you before. We do not make it a habit of touching one another’s’ wings unless the angels are mated. That is an act of love and affection that not even friends are permitted.”
“Well, I’m not technically an angel.” Dean didn’t know why he was putting so much stress into this. He kept his wings curled around his body, and his hurt made them tremble and press up against him, trying to hide more of the hunter from view. Castiel watched the action, and that same flash of longing darkened his eyes. Dean looked away.
“Whatever then, man. Forget I mentioned it.” The hunter turned away, but Castiel spoke up again.
“It would hurt too much.” Castiel’s voice was soft, but Dean had no problem hearing him. “They are still my wings, but the way my grace has mixed with your soul has added bits and traces of you into them as well. If I touched them, I would feel my grace, and it would be too painful because it’s not mine right now. The wings won’t be mine until my grace heals and I can take it back into myself.”
Dean looked up at the sky. Somewhere out there, angels were fighting and dying; flying and carrying out orders given to them by God. Meanwhile, Castiel was stuck down on earth looking at the human who was holding onto his grace because he couldn’t have it himself. It couldn’t be easy for him.
Anger surged through Dean, thinking of the ones who had put Castiel into this position. A wordless growl left him seconds before every single light across the salvage yard exploded in sparks of light and shards of glass; the windows of the cars shattering and blowing outwards. The razor-sharp pieces fell around them and Dean shot forward, arching his wings up over Castiel instinctively to protect him from the worst of it. It left them standing chest-to-chest, Castiel’s breath hot against his lips and the former angel’s eyes wide. They stared at one another for several seconds before Dean realized how close they were and scrambled back, pulling his wings away.
“Sorry, still trying to control that,” he mumbled, looking around at all of the damage. Bobby would be incredibly angry, no doubt. Dean would probably have to replace all of the light bulbs himself, though there wasn’t really anything anyone could do about the windows of cars that were going to be used for scrap anyway.
“You need help controlling your temper. You have to remember things like that, Dean. If you get angry, something is going to happen and someone might get hurt.” Castiel’s voice sounded distant as he looked around. Dean glanced at him, watching the way his eyes traced over everything around them.
“That’s easier said than done. Do I really strike you as the kind of person who can easily control himself, Cas?” His friend knew the answer to that, so Dean was expecting it when Castiel shook his head. “I didn’t think so. You know me; I live in the moment, in my emotions. Most humans do, but I guess I’m just a bit more hands-on in the emotion part. Actually, I guess I’m more hands on in every part. You can’t hand a children a book and expect them to know how to read. Well, you can’t slap a pair of wings on me and fill me with grace and expect me to know how to control it.”
“I know that, Dean,” Castiel growled, turning and walking away from him. Dean followed after the smaller man, holding his wings up carefully so the ends didn’t drag through the dirt and the glass that crunched under his boots. “I’m offering to help you, though, despite the fact that it pains me. I’d rather have you in control and aware of what you’re doing, or else there’s going to be consequences in response to your actions.”
That meant spending even more time with Castiel, and Dean didn’t even have to think about his answer to that. Still, he let the silence fall between them, thick but comfortable, as they walked back to Bobby’s house. The lights in the study were on, meaning that Sam was probably still awake and waiting for them to come inside. Dean walked up the old steps, feeling them sink to brace his weight and hearing the familiar, comforting creak that he’d memorized years ago.
When Castiel reached for the doorknob, he curled his fingers around his friend’s wrist and stopped him. Blue eyes stared at him, and Dean grinned easily. The corners of Castiel’s eyes crinkled, his lips twitching before tilting up into a crooked smile that wiped away a lot of the sorrow and longing.
“I wouldn’t mind having you as a teacher, Cas,” he said coolly. His wings twitched in response to the eagerness he was trying not to show. “The sooner we get started, the better, right? If I smash up another one of Bobby’s rooms I think he’s going to kill me.”
Castiel nodded. “We’ll start tomorrow then.” He let go of the doorknob and stroked his fingers briefly over the backs of Dean’s knuckles. The touch startled him so much that he let go of Castiel’s wrist, a tingle racing up his arm. His friend smiled at him, warm and fond, and then he was turning and opening the door. Dean stood on the porch for a while longer, staring at his fingers and still feeling the phantom warmth of Castiel’s touch.
Dean couldn’t exactly go out and track down hunts that were states away because of his new appearance, which meant that all of their hunts had to be close to Bobby’s house. With Castiel’s help, Dean’s new wings became more of an asset than they did a liability, but walking around with twenty-plus feet of visible, damageable wings wasn’t completely a cake-walk, either. When a pair of werewolves moved into a town sixteen miles from Sioux Falls, Dean learned that the hard way.
Castiel was furious, and during his first experience with being completely human he’d learned to fire very well. He almost rivaled Dean, which was surprising, and even fleeing the werewolves didn’t have a chance against him when he shot them full of silver bullets. Sam had to stop him finally when he kept shooting the dead bodies, but Dean was currently curled up on the ground with a mangled right wing, biting out curses and trying not to let his tenuous control over the grace inside him fluctuate. If he blew up something, it would be a lot more troublesome than ridding a town of some werewolves.
Someone dropped to the ground beside him and Dean snarled instinctively, lashing out with his uninjured wing just like a bird would do. He’d learned over the past few weeks that he was more bird-like than he was angelic, much to everyone’s amusement. In this case, someone was trying to touch his wing and he was just not having that. When he sensed a hand too close to his damaged wing he snarled again and lashed out even harder. This time he hit someone, and the muffled grunt made him feel victorious for a moment. He just wanted to get away, but every time he moved, his soul and the borrowed grace inside of him fluctuated in pain. The air around him was heating up, smelling like ozone and burning his nose.
“Dean, you need to calm down.” Castiel’s shadow fell over him, and when Dean glared up at him he saw that the man was bleeding from his temple. He must have been the one Dean struck at. “Relax yourself and try and concentrate. It will help you heal faster.”
“Easier said than done, Cas,” Dean bit out through clenched teeth. “I feel like someone just put part of me through a meat grinder. Your grace isn’t exactly cooperating right now, either.”
“I can tell. Let up on the restraints you are using on it. All my grace wants to do is heal your wing. If you let it go, nothing bad will happen, Dean.”
“Yeah? Can you say that for certain?” He didn’t mean to sound so disbelieving and full of scorn, but he was in pain. “Cas, I just got bitten and clawed by a fucking werewolf.”
“My grace will purge your body of the poison, Dean.” Castiel’s voice dropped to a growl and Dean cringed away from him, his good wing fluttering slightly before it tucked down in submission. “You forget that it is my grace. No one knows it better than I do. Let it heal you.”
Reluctantly, Dean let go of his hold on Castiel’s grace. The air around him crackled as it raced, free and unchecked, through his body, flowing through his shoulderblade and up into his wing. His nerves tingled as the grace passed over them, and when his wing began to heal Dean visibly relaxed and let out a quiet, relieved whine. He’d been hunting for as long as he could remember, and nothing felt as painful as having his wing attacked. Even Alistair and his creative tortures was hard-pressed to add up to the unbearable agony Dean had felt when the werewolf had first torn through the thin, sensitive skin close to the ulna bone.
Sam stood a safe distance away, and Dean could see him struggling with himself. His brother wanted to come closer to make sure he was all right, but at the same time he was wary of getting too close to Dean when he was in so much pain and prone to lash out at whatever approached him.
Dean sat up after his wing was healed, curling it around and letting the now-familiar weight rest across his thighs as he combed the new feathers back into place and straightened them out where they’d become crooked. Several shafts were broken and he pulled them out so new feathers could grow in. He held one of the broken feathers, a golden-brown one, in his fingers and twirled it, marveling at the difference between the top and the royal blue underside. Castiel sat down beside him and watched, blood still trickling sluggishly from his head wound. He was scraped in several other places, and his plain grey t-shirt was torn. Without thinking, Dean reached over and brushed his fingers across the man’s forehead, drawing streaks through the light coat of dust on his skin. He healed all of his friend’s injuries with just a light touch to his forehead.
“Thank you,” Castiel murmured, smiling at him before he pushed himself up. When he held out his hand to help Dean to his feet, the hunter took it, feeling the new gun calluses on Castiel’s palm as their fingers slid together. Sam was closer when Dean was on his feet, and thankfully his brother was unharmed. His shirt was torn but that was it. Dean was relieved, knowing that his brother was fine. They cleaned up together, salting and burning the bodies of the werewolves and getting rid of as much evidence as they could. Luckily no one had been drawn towards the sound of gunfire, so they didn’t have to worry about any unsuspecting pedestrians while they worked. Castiel moved with them as easily as ever, flowing around Dean and Sam and picking up unspoken directions from them without any of them having to actually speak. It used to be only Dean and his brother doing that, but Castiel had long ago become part of the group, so it didn’t even feel as strange as it should that an outsider had melded seamlessly in with the Winchesters.
“You want me to get something to eat for the way back, Dean?” Sam asked as they headed back towards the Impala, the scent of burning meat rising into the air; dark smoke swirling away from them like a taint being burned away by righteousness.
Dean hummed thoughtfully at the back of his throat, moving towards the trunk of the car to put their gear away. Castiel followed him, his silent, solemn shadow. He’d learned a lot about control thanks to his friend, and Dean’s sharp eyes never missed the sorrow in Castiel’s eyes whenever he helped Dean learn to limit the grace inside of him, or fight with his wings. One thing they never, ever discussed was flying. Dean knew why, because he could see the way Castiel watched birds around the house, his eyes darkened by pain and sadness until he caught Dean watching him.
Castiel missed flying the same way Dean missed his father; the way sometimes, late at night when no one was around to see him, he would wake up from a nightmare missing Alistair and the feeling of carving apart a soul with the demon whispering praises into his ears. Alistair was dead, though, and every time Castiel looked at Dean he was faced with the thing he missed.
The man was watching his wings now. Dean was leaning into the trunk of the Impala, his wings flared out and tilted to balance him naturally as he put most of his weight forward onto his toes. He couldn’t see Castiel watching his wings, but he could feel the longing coming off of the angel, his grace curling tightly around Dean’s soul in response to the powerful sense of sorrow.
“Dean?”
Looking up at Sam, Dean blinked at his brother before pulling back and shutting the hood of the trunk. For a moment he just stood there, his fingers absently caressing the black metal of his car as he looked off into the distance.
“Get something on the way back, Sam. Cas and I are taking another way back.” His wings twitched eagerly, arching up as he backed away from the car; curled his fingers tightly around Castiel’s wrist and pulled him after him. Castiel watched him, his blue eyes narrowed in confusion while Sam just stared.
“What are you doing, Dean? How are you getting home.”
Rather than answering, Dean stretched out first one wing, then the other. He’d gotten used to the weight a while ago. Now it felt natural to him to have the wings; it felt like he had something he’d been missing his entire life, and he hadn’t even known it until he had them.
“Dean...”
He looked down at Castiel, who was watching his wings. Castiel’s wrist trembled lightly in his hold, so Dean curled his wings around Castiel slightly, careful not to touch the former angel.
“I think I want to try flying, Cas,” Dean said quietly, looking into his friend’s eyes while Castiel stared up at him. “I want you to help me, okay? I know you miss it. It won’t be the same as having your own wings, but I figure it’s better than nothing, right?”
Castiel swallowed loudly; gave a jerky nod. “Don’t think about it too hard, Dean,” he whispered, and his voice was tight. Dean felt his soul nuzzle up against Castiel’s grace and it warmed him, the way they twined around one another, as if they were one single soul instead of two completely different energies. “Your body and your wings will know what to do. My grace will help you. Don’t over-think it.”
“Will you guys be all right?” Sam was watching them, leaning his hip against the side of the Impala. His hazel eyes met Dean’s, full of worry and unasked questions, and Dean put his brother’s fears to rest when he smiled and gave a small nod. They would be fine- he had Castiel with him.
“I’ll wait for you to get a good distance away first, Sammy,” he said, and Sam nodded before he climbed into the car, his long limbs folding into the seat with far more grace than it seemed they should have. Sam knew the car just as well as Dean did, though, and when the Impala groaned and adjusted to the younger Winchester’s weight it wasn’t a long-suffering sound. She knew him, and she knew Dean, and she would run just as smoothly for Sam. Dean didn’t have to worry, even though most of the time he acted like he did.
He waited until Sam was well out of sight before he pulled Castiel against his chest. The man’s hands were warm on his shoulders, his fingers curling in the fabric of Dean’s shirt and digging into his muscles in a way that sent a shiver through him. Dean slid his arms around his friend’s back, holding onto him tightly, and he looked up at the sky. There were no clouds today, the sky a gorgeous blue, and Dean smiled; arched his wings up, bent down slightly, and then lunged upwards using some of Castiel’s grace to help propel him higher.
Castiel gasped loudly against his throat, a joyous noise that made Dean feel warm and content as his wings unfurled with a quiet noise, feathers rustling, and pumped strongly once; twice; caught a low-riding thermal and lifted them high into the air quickly. Dean flew in a lazy spiral, each loop taking him further and further away from the core of the flight pattern, until he was high enough in the air that the ground was a blur of colors and the people were hardly noticeable.
The wind was cold against his skin, and stronger than it had been on the ground. Dean’s wings adjusted easily though, carrying them both in a relaxed glide. At first Dean didn’t want to look down, afraid that he would see the ground so far away and freeze up, but despite his hatred of planes he felt no fear. The wings carrying him were his own, for the most part, and his body and mind controlled them just as much as he instinctually knew what to do.
“Dean,” Castiel whispered against his throat, and there were no words to describe how happy his friend sounded. Dean let out a soft noise in response and pumped his wings a few times, taking them higher; angled them so that when the wind blew from behind they flew faster. “Thank you.”
Dean pressed his cheek against Castiel’s temple, smelling the angel’s natural scent and the shampoo he’d been using. “Don’t worry about it, Cas.”
They made it home before Sam did, and Dean touched down much more delicately than he’d expected to. He didn’t let Castiel go, too empowered from his first successful flight and wanting to hold onto the feeling of Castiel’s body against his for a bit longer. His muscles burned from having flown so far, but it was a good ache that just made him sigh in contentment.
Castiel’s cold fingers cupped his cheeks and Dean smiled at his friend. It felt natural, leaning down and pressing their lips together. Castiel’s lips were slightly chapped, but still full and gentle, and the noise he made against Dean’s mouth made the hunter wrap his wings around them both and kiss him again. There was no hesitation from either of them, and Castiel’s grace sang in joy, coiling around and through Dean’s soul and making him moan softly at the intimate, loving feeling of it. Was this how angels felt when they were with their mates? Dean had never experienced such a feeling before, and he clung to it as tightly as he held onto Castiel.
Dean felt Castiel’s hands move away from his face. One dropped down to curl against his neck, the angel’s thumb stroking against the underside of Dean’s jaw, while his right hand slid across Dean’s shoulder and down. The hand nudged under his over shirt, fingers passing over the material of his t-shirt until they slipped up under the sleeve. Castiel fit his hand over the handprint brand on Dean’s shoulder, and as soon as he did Dean’s entire world lit up like a firework. He keened into the angel’s mouth, something warm trickling up his throat in the most pleasant sensation he’d ever felt. His mouth opened when it nudged over the back of his teeth and Castiel opened his mouth as well.
Grace flowed from Dean into Castiel, and some of Dean’s soul went with it, twined into Castiel’s grace like it had always been there. There was no pain or blacking out this time, just Dean’s fingers digging into Castiel’s back tightly while the angel moaned into his mouth.
The last thing to leave was his wings. Dean felt them fold against his back, then into his skin, their familiar weight vanishing and leaving him feeling like something important was missing. He whined softly, rolling his shoulders. Castiel soothed him with a soft noise, and then Dean heard the rustling of feathers and felt something warm and soft wrapping around him. It was Castiel’s wings, without a doubt, comforting him and making his soul brighten.
They pulled apart when the last of the grace had left him, but Dean could still feel some wrapped up in his soul, just like he knew some of his soul was inside of Castiel now. He could feel it inside of the angel, even if he couldn’t understand it. For the first time since he’d heard Famine’s whispers in his ears, laughing over the black pit inside of him, Dean felt whole and complete. Just like with his wings, he felt like something that had been missing for so long had finally been returned to him.
“Dean,” Castiel breathed against his face, his breath smelling like sweet honey, “I want to thank you for caring for my grace, and for everything you have done. It hasn’t been easy, I know that, but thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Cas,” Dean whispered, pressing his face into Castiel’s hair. The familiar crackle of power hung around his friend once more, ozone mixing with the scent of power to tingle up Dean’s nose when he inhaled. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed that until it was back, and he held Castiel tighter against him. “Just promise me one thing.”
Castiel’s fingers stroked against his neck, his other hand still gripping Dean’s shoulder. “What is that?”
“Can we go flying like that again some day? And when we do, can I see your wings?”
Dean felt Castiel’s lips against his cheek, kissing gently before the angel’s lips met his again. This time the kiss was firmer, more sure, and when Castiel’s tongue slipped out to trace over his lips Dean opened his mouth. There was nothing wet or filthy about the kiss. For the first time in a long time, Dean felt cared for and loved, rather than just another body needed to get off before his partner got away.
The sound of the Impala approaching made them pull apart. Castiel hadn’t answered his question so he stared at him, waiting to hear what the angel said.
“I would like that, Dean. We will go flying again, and I will show you my wings. With that much of my grace inside of you, it will not harm you to see them.”
Sam was watching them as he pulled up, but Dean wasn’t ready to let Castiel go just yet. He pressed his nose back into the angel’s thick, soft dark hair and hid his smile in the silky strands.
“Good.”
Author: earth_heart
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Warning: Fallen!Castiel (kind of), FLUFF OMG WTF I NEVER WRITE FLUFF
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Supernatural does not belong to me. It belongs to Kripke and the CW/WB. I make no profit from this.
Summary: For highermagic ; she requested this forever ago. God, I am so far behind. ;~; I’M SORRY, SWEETHEART.
A/N: This was supposed to have porn in it, but my muse decided differently somewhere around page nine. ._. Sorry.
All he saw was a flash of tan and red.
------
All he saw was a flash of tan and red. A split second later, the fresh stench of coppery blood tainted the air, cloying and sweet. Dean started forward towards Castiel immediately, trying to make it to the angel before he crumpled to the ground. He barely made it in time, his hands sliding around Castiel’s back just as the angel’s legs gave out.
Blue eyes stared up at him, trapping him in their too-bright, painful gaze. Dean felt his skin tighten from the unimaginable heat; watched as the pinpricks of silvery-blue grace blew outward from the center of Castiel’s pupils. He opened his mouth to shout for Sam, but then Castiel was gripping his arm so tightly his bones ground against one another, the angels fingers curling instinctively over the brand he’d seared into Dean’s flesh when he rescued him from Hell.
Dean’s shout morphed into an animalistic howl. His blood boiled and his vision clouded over with silver. Something forced his mouth open, and then molten heat was trickling down his throat and burning him alive from the inside out. The last thing he remembered was feeling Castiel’s hands gripping his arms, the touch somehow significantly weaker than it had been just a moment ago. He thought Castiel had died for a moment, but before he could check everything went black and he collapsed.
Nothing hurt when he woke up. For a moment, Dean was certain he was dead, but he didn’t feel the usual weightlessness that came with being an untethered soul, and he definitely didn’t feel like he was in Heaven, or Hell. When he looked around, he found himself in Bobby’s spare bedroom. Nothing was different, but at the same time, everything was. The world was the same, but it was almost like Dean was looking at it through a haze that made everything brighter. He blinked several times, but it didn’t go away.
No one was in the room, but he could hear Sam and Bobby down in the kitchen. Someone else was down there with them. Dean could hear a lower rumbling voice that sent shivers through him. He knew who that was, and the image of Castiel, covered in blood and crumpling to the ground, flashed through his mind. Immediately Dean stood up; the world spun around him suddenly and he hit the ground hard. Wind whipped through the room, feathers rustling, and he looked up expectantly. Castiel was nowhere to be found, though, and Dean frowned in confusion.
“Cas,” he called, out, his voice rasping out of him like he hadn’t spoken in months. Clearing his throat, Dean tried again a bit louder. “Cas!”
The bedside lamp exploded in a shower of glass and ceramic shards. Dean ducked his head to avoid them; pinpricks of pain shuddered across muscles that weren’t supposed to be there. It hurt far more than it should have, and Dean whined high in his throat. The window panes rattled.
“Dean.”
Castiel was standing in the doorway, his eyes shadowed by tufts of dark brown hair that fell across his forehead in a messy tangle. He was wearing some of Dean’s old, old clothing; a simple blue button-down and baggy sweatpants that sagged off of his slender frame. He looked exactly like a Castiel that Dean never wanted to see again, complete with scruff one his face that should not have been there. The angel looked tired, and worn down; the usual electricity that charged the air around him was gone.
“Cas,” Dean whispered, trying to push himself to his feet. His friend came forward to help him, sliding smooth, cool palms beneath Dean’s armpits to help him steady himself. Curiously, Dean sniffed the air, but his nose didn’t tingle with the familiar charge of power and ozone. “Cas, what happened?”
“I was gravely injured in a fight. My body was too destroyed to contain my damaged grace, and I needed somewhere to keep it safe until I had recovered. I didn’t mean to come here, but I did, and when you touched me my grace jumped into you through our bond. You healed me before you lost consciousness.”
Dean stared at Castiel for several long, silent moments. “You shoved your grace into me? How did you manage to do that without completely leaving Jimmy’s body?”
“I do not know.” Castiel shook his head. “Perhaps it is because Jimmy no longer inhabits this body. His soul was taken to Heaven when Lucifer killed me. This body is essentially my own, now.”
“So why can’t you just take your grace back now?”
“Your body won’t give it to him.” Sam walked into the room, watching Dean with dark, worried eyes. He must have really scared his brother to put that look on his face without even getting a bitchface first.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Dean stared between Sam and Castiel.
“My grace is still damaged,” Castiel replied, watching Dean with large, dull blue eyes. The usual bright spark was missing, and without the crackle of energy around him he was just like another human despite the stiff way he held his body. “It needs to heal first before I can take it into myself again. Sam is right, though. Your body and soul will not give it up right now. They have joined with it in a way that I have never seen happen before.”
That news right there wasn’t exactly relaxing, and Dean frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He didn’t like the way they were looking at him and hunched his shoulders. From behind him came the sound of rustling feathers, and he felt something soft brush against his forearms. It startled him and he jerked in surprise. Something shot past him in a blur and Dean winced as a sharp spark of pain traveled through him around the same time as he heard a solid crack against the wall. “Ow!”
“Dean,” Castiel said reproachfully, “you must be more careful than that. Wings are incredibly strong, but the muscles are sensitive and easily bruised. You’ll do yourself immense damage if you continue to thrash them around like that.”
Dean glared at his friend; let out a frustrated huff. “Thanks, Einstein, I think I got that. Would you mind telling me why I’m supposed to have wings in the first place?”
“They are a manifestation of grace.” Castiel scowled at him, like he was insulted that Dean even had to ask in the first place. “You carry my grace inside of you, and it has given you wings. It’s a gift you should be much more grateful for.”
“Flying and I have never been really good buddies.” Despite the snark laced into his words, Dean was curious about the wings he was supposed to have. He had seen something before, hadn’t he? He turned his head to look over his shoulder and had to muffle a noise that was definitely not masculine.
He had wings, all right; enormous wings that were flared out in surprise. They were far too big for Bobby’s guest room, and when they stretched out even farther the primary feathers bent until the actual meat and muscle of the wings was pressing uncomfortably against the walls. Dean winced and the wings pulled back automatically. It seemed like they were tied into his emotions, and now that he was actually aware of them he could feel the new, unusual weight on his back from where they melded into his shoulderblades.
“Holy Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Watch your tone, Dean. I may not currently be an angel, but I still do not approve of blasphemy.” Castiel sounded annoyed, but there was something in his tone, something buried deep down, that sounded like pain and longing. Dean turned to look at him and saw the man watching his wings with unmasked longing on his face.
“You guys can see them?”
“Yeah, dude,” Sam agreed with a nod. “We can see them easily. They showed up about five minutes after you went down. Castiel says they’re a by-product of his grace temporarily melding with your human anatomy. If you were an actual angel, we wouldn’t be able to see them. Since you’re not, we can.”
The thought of him being anything remotely angelic was enough to make Dean snort in amusement, and he shook his head. Still, there was still the problem of him having wings. There was also the fact that Bobby’s house, while not exactly on the small side, was still nowhere near big enough to cope with Dean’s inexperience in all things related to wings and temporary angelic abilities. Every time he felt any kind of emotion, the wings reacted in one way or another.
“This is going to be a problem.” Dean sighed and felt his wings shift and resettle, drooping down low until the longest primary feathers brushed over the dirty floor. Every little touch tingled up through the shaft of the feathers, arching across new nerves and muscles and registering in Dean’s mind. His back was beginning to hurt, trying to adjust to the weight of new limbs that hadn’t been there before, and when they moved he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Castiel sounded confused when he spoke. “What is the problem, aside from the obvious?”
“Well, my back hurts, I said your name and a lamp exploded, and every time I get agitated I seem to hit the wall. I hate flying, my eyes hurt because your grace makes everything look different, and I can’t be mad or else these stupid things try and break something.” Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the wings, and when he glanced back at them the feathers were bristling in response to his feelings.
He couldn’t take back what he said, and he didn’t regret saying any of it because Dean always spoke his mind, but the look of near devastation on Castiel’s face made a part of Dean’s soul curl up into a tiny ball. Behind him, his wings curved down and drooped even farther that before, the wrist-joints pressing down against the floor in contrition. Sam watched them while Dean watched Castiel. Before he could say anything else the blue-eyed former angel turned and walked out of the room. That left Dean and Sam staring at each other, and his brother scowled.
“Way to be grateful, jackass. You’ve got his grace and he almost died trying to get to you, and this is how you thank him.” Sam huffed. Then he turned and stalked out of the room as well, slamming the door behind him. Dean breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. The overall brightness of everything was starting to give him a headache.
Night fell quickly, like it always did at Bobby’s house. The older hunter had kicked Dean out after he’d smashed a window in the kitchen and had broken several dishes when a truck had backfired out in the salvage yard. Something told him Castiel had been hiding in the jungle of scrap parts and rusting cars all day; who knew, maybe he’d even been the one to make the car backfire.
“Get outta my kitchen,” Bobby ordered, shoving Dean out of the screen door and trying to avoid getting smacked in the face by his wings. Dean went quickly, tucking the bothersome appendages against his back as tightly as he could to keep from causing damage. Once he was outside, the humid air tickling across his bare chest and winding through his feathers, he relaxed and spread his new wings. It was a strange feeling, stretching muscles he wasn’t supposed to have, but once his wings were fully unfurled he felt amazing.
Dean hadn’t actually taken a proper look at them, and once he was beneath one of the dusk-to-dawn lights outside of the salvage yard he curled one wing around so he could bury his fingers into the feathers and check them out. His fingertips carded through the baby-soft down, stirring up a fine cloud of down dust that settled on the top layer of feathers. His wings were a mixture of dark, glossy brown and lighter tawny, with a few feathers that were almost a dirty blonde color. Here and there Dean found specks of silver, and he curiously lifted the wing to see if the underside was the same color.
The underside of his wing was lighter, the colors much more varied. The primaries were a silvery-white color, while the secondary feathers were royal blue. Dean had been fascinated by birds when he was younger despite his fear of flying, and he’d read a lot of books whenever he had a free moment. He knew that males were usually much more brightly colored than females, their eye-catching plumage meant for trying to attract mates. It was interesting to see that the same thing seemed to extend to angels.
“What are you doing?”
Yelping in surprise, Dean jerked up and his wings flared out instinctively. He spun around, but immediately relaxed when he saw Castiel standing half in shadow, watching him with guarded blue eyes. Once he realized that it was his friend he relaxed, his wings settling into a more comfortable position. Above them, the light flickered, but Dean didn’t know if that was from him or just normal.
“So, uh, I’m sorry for being a dick earlier,” he mumbled, rubbing the nape of his neck. “I was kind of freaking out, and I was really insensitive towards you. I know losing your grace is hard for you.”
Castiel stared at him silently, but Dean noticed the slight relaxation of his shoulders after a moment, and the angel nodded his head. “It is,” he replied quietly, his familiar voice rasping; traveling through the air to brush against Dean’s skin and make his feathers tremble slightly. “I have lost the thing that makes me an angel, and it hurts even more because it isn’t truly gone. It’s inside of you, and I have a physical manifestation to remind me of that every time I see you.”
“Did it hurt this time?” Dean whispered, stepping closer to Castiel. Usually his night vision was pretty good, and with grace to charge him up, he could see Castiel almost perfectly, even with the slight haze he’d been looking through all day.
“It hurt you more than it hurt me, but it was still painful.” Castiel watched him approach, as unmovable as ever. He would look at Dean’s face, but his eyes always strayed to the hunter’s wings, and every time they did Dean would see his unbearable longing.
“As painful as last time?”
“Last time, I was knocked unconscious as soon as I activated the banishing sigil. I didn’t feel the loss of my grace until I woke up, and then it was like a dull ache layered under the pains of my human body.”
Hearing about the banishing sigil, Dean’s eyes immediately dropped to the angel’s chest, still covered in his old blue shirt. He remembered carving the sigil into Castiel’s chest, how his friend hadn’t even flinched and his blood had run hotly over Dean’s fingers, dark red but with sparks and traces of silvery-blue.
“I’m sorry, Cas,” he whispered. “You’ve gone through so much shit because of me, and I know I don’t apologize nearly enough for everything you do for us. Hell, I never really apologize at all for anything that I do. So... thank you, I guess.” Dean shifted uncomfortably, his wings ruffling up before they resettled. He watched Castiel follow the action and turned slightly, extending one wing. It had taken him most of the day to master such a simple task, but Dean was completely out of his element and he’d been too stubbornly proud to ask Castiel for help.
Castiel stared at Dean’s outstretched wing; his fingers twitched and then clenched. “What are you doing?”
“D’you want to touch it?” The words sounded dirty as they left his mouth and Dean looked away, feeling something fluttering in his stomach. He knew it wasn’t Castiel’s grace, because that was wrapped securely around his soul. Dean wasn’t sure how he knew that; he just knew it.
His friend pulled back as if he’d been burned, his eyes darkening. “You do not ask that of someone,” he growled, his voice dipping lower than even Dean could speak. It rolled his words together into a rugged, rasping growl, and the hunter dug his fingernails into the skin of his palms to keep from reacting. The hunter wasn’t quite sure when these feelings had sprung up inside of him, reaching out towards Castiel every time the angel stared at him, or spoke to him. Usually he was very good at keeping himself under control, and Castiel had never picked up on them before. Dean wasn’t about to give himself away now that he had a clear, visible line to his emotions.
“Why not?” Dean rumbled, pushing his wing out farther. Castiel backed away quickly and the hunter eventually pulled his wing back, feeling hurt. His wings drooped down, curling forward and around him to partially hide him from view. He didn’t like Castiel backing away from him. “I don’t see why it’s a problem.”
“Angels are very private. Their wings are an extension of their grace; a visible aspect of it, like I’ve told you before. We do not make it a habit of touching one another’s’ wings unless the angels are mated. That is an act of love and affection that not even friends are permitted.”
“Well, I’m not technically an angel.” Dean didn’t know why he was putting so much stress into this. He kept his wings curled around his body, and his hurt made them tremble and press up against him, trying to hide more of the hunter from view. Castiel watched the action, and that same flash of longing darkened his eyes. Dean looked away.
“Whatever then, man. Forget I mentioned it.” The hunter turned away, but Castiel spoke up again.
“It would hurt too much.” Castiel’s voice was soft, but Dean had no problem hearing him. “They are still my wings, but the way my grace has mixed with your soul has added bits and traces of you into them as well. If I touched them, I would feel my grace, and it would be too painful because it’s not mine right now. The wings won’t be mine until my grace heals and I can take it back into myself.”
Dean looked up at the sky. Somewhere out there, angels were fighting and dying; flying and carrying out orders given to them by God. Meanwhile, Castiel was stuck down on earth looking at the human who was holding onto his grace because he couldn’t have it himself. It couldn’t be easy for him.
Anger surged through Dean, thinking of the ones who had put Castiel into this position. A wordless growl left him seconds before every single light across the salvage yard exploded in sparks of light and shards of glass; the windows of the cars shattering and blowing outwards. The razor-sharp pieces fell around them and Dean shot forward, arching his wings up over Castiel instinctively to protect him from the worst of it. It left them standing chest-to-chest, Castiel’s breath hot against his lips and the former angel’s eyes wide. They stared at one another for several seconds before Dean realized how close they were and scrambled back, pulling his wings away.
“Sorry, still trying to control that,” he mumbled, looking around at all of the damage. Bobby would be incredibly angry, no doubt. Dean would probably have to replace all of the light bulbs himself, though there wasn’t really anything anyone could do about the windows of cars that were going to be used for scrap anyway.
“You need help controlling your temper. You have to remember things like that, Dean. If you get angry, something is going to happen and someone might get hurt.” Castiel’s voice sounded distant as he looked around. Dean glanced at him, watching the way his eyes traced over everything around them.
“That’s easier said than done. Do I really strike you as the kind of person who can easily control himself, Cas?” His friend knew the answer to that, so Dean was expecting it when Castiel shook his head. “I didn’t think so. You know me; I live in the moment, in my emotions. Most humans do, but I guess I’m just a bit more hands-on in the emotion part. Actually, I guess I’m more hands on in every part. You can’t hand a children a book and expect them to know how to read. Well, you can’t slap a pair of wings on me and fill me with grace and expect me to know how to control it.”
“I know that, Dean,” Castiel growled, turning and walking away from him. Dean followed after the smaller man, holding his wings up carefully so the ends didn’t drag through the dirt and the glass that crunched under his boots. “I’m offering to help you, though, despite the fact that it pains me. I’d rather have you in control and aware of what you’re doing, or else there’s going to be consequences in response to your actions.”
That meant spending even more time with Castiel, and Dean didn’t even have to think about his answer to that. Still, he let the silence fall between them, thick but comfortable, as they walked back to Bobby’s house. The lights in the study were on, meaning that Sam was probably still awake and waiting for them to come inside. Dean walked up the old steps, feeling them sink to brace his weight and hearing the familiar, comforting creak that he’d memorized years ago.
When Castiel reached for the doorknob, he curled his fingers around his friend’s wrist and stopped him. Blue eyes stared at him, and Dean grinned easily. The corners of Castiel’s eyes crinkled, his lips twitching before tilting up into a crooked smile that wiped away a lot of the sorrow and longing.
“I wouldn’t mind having you as a teacher, Cas,” he said coolly. His wings twitched in response to the eagerness he was trying not to show. “The sooner we get started, the better, right? If I smash up another one of Bobby’s rooms I think he’s going to kill me.”
Castiel nodded. “We’ll start tomorrow then.” He let go of the doorknob and stroked his fingers briefly over the backs of Dean’s knuckles. The touch startled him so much that he let go of Castiel’s wrist, a tingle racing up his arm. His friend smiled at him, warm and fond, and then he was turning and opening the door. Dean stood on the porch for a while longer, staring at his fingers and still feeling the phantom warmth of Castiel’s touch.
Dean couldn’t exactly go out and track down hunts that were states away because of his new appearance, which meant that all of their hunts had to be close to Bobby’s house. With Castiel’s help, Dean’s new wings became more of an asset than they did a liability, but walking around with twenty-plus feet of visible, damageable wings wasn’t completely a cake-walk, either. When a pair of werewolves moved into a town sixteen miles from Sioux Falls, Dean learned that the hard way.
Castiel was furious, and during his first experience with being completely human he’d learned to fire very well. He almost rivaled Dean, which was surprising, and even fleeing the werewolves didn’t have a chance against him when he shot them full of silver bullets. Sam had to stop him finally when he kept shooting the dead bodies, but Dean was currently curled up on the ground with a mangled right wing, biting out curses and trying not to let his tenuous control over the grace inside him fluctuate. If he blew up something, it would be a lot more troublesome than ridding a town of some werewolves.
Someone dropped to the ground beside him and Dean snarled instinctively, lashing out with his uninjured wing just like a bird would do. He’d learned over the past few weeks that he was more bird-like than he was angelic, much to everyone’s amusement. In this case, someone was trying to touch his wing and he was just not having that. When he sensed a hand too close to his damaged wing he snarled again and lashed out even harder. This time he hit someone, and the muffled grunt made him feel victorious for a moment. He just wanted to get away, but every time he moved, his soul and the borrowed grace inside of him fluctuated in pain. The air around him was heating up, smelling like ozone and burning his nose.
“Dean, you need to calm down.” Castiel’s shadow fell over him, and when Dean glared up at him he saw that the man was bleeding from his temple. He must have been the one Dean struck at. “Relax yourself and try and concentrate. It will help you heal faster.”
“Easier said than done, Cas,” Dean bit out through clenched teeth. “I feel like someone just put part of me through a meat grinder. Your grace isn’t exactly cooperating right now, either.”
“I can tell. Let up on the restraints you are using on it. All my grace wants to do is heal your wing. If you let it go, nothing bad will happen, Dean.”
“Yeah? Can you say that for certain?” He didn’t mean to sound so disbelieving and full of scorn, but he was in pain. “Cas, I just got bitten and clawed by a fucking werewolf.”
“My grace will purge your body of the poison, Dean.” Castiel’s voice dropped to a growl and Dean cringed away from him, his good wing fluttering slightly before it tucked down in submission. “You forget that it is my grace. No one knows it better than I do. Let it heal you.”
Reluctantly, Dean let go of his hold on Castiel’s grace. The air around him crackled as it raced, free and unchecked, through his body, flowing through his shoulderblade and up into his wing. His nerves tingled as the grace passed over them, and when his wing began to heal Dean visibly relaxed and let out a quiet, relieved whine. He’d been hunting for as long as he could remember, and nothing felt as painful as having his wing attacked. Even Alistair and his creative tortures was hard-pressed to add up to the unbearable agony Dean had felt when the werewolf had first torn through the thin, sensitive skin close to the ulna bone.
Sam stood a safe distance away, and Dean could see him struggling with himself. His brother wanted to come closer to make sure he was all right, but at the same time he was wary of getting too close to Dean when he was in so much pain and prone to lash out at whatever approached him.
Dean sat up after his wing was healed, curling it around and letting the now-familiar weight rest across his thighs as he combed the new feathers back into place and straightened them out where they’d become crooked. Several shafts were broken and he pulled them out so new feathers could grow in. He held one of the broken feathers, a golden-brown one, in his fingers and twirled it, marveling at the difference between the top and the royal blue underside. Castiel sat down beside him and watched, blood still trickling sluggishly from his head wound. He was scraped in several other places, and his plain grey t-shirt was torn. Without thinking, Dean reached over and brushed his fingers across the man’s forehead, drawing streaks through the light coat of dust on his skin. He healed all of his friend’s injuries with just a light touch to his forehead.
“Thank you,” Castiel murmured, smiling at him before he pushed himself up. When he held out his hand to help Dean to his feet, the hunter took it, feeling the new gun calluses on Castiel’s palm as their fingers slid together. Sam was closer when Dean was on his feet, and thankfully his brother was unharmed. His shirt was torn but that was it. Dean was relieved, knowing that his brother was fine. They cleaned up together, salting and burning the bodies of the werewolves and getting rid of as much evidence as they could. Luckily no one had been drawn towards the sound of gunfire, so they didn’t have to worry about any unsuspecting pedestrians while they worked. Castiel moved with them as easily as ever, flowing around Dean and Sam and picking up unspoken directions from them without any of them having to actually speak. It used to be only Dean and his brother doing that, but Castiel had long ago become part of the group, so it didn’t even feel as strange as it should that an outsider had melded seamlessly in with the Winchesters.
“You want me to get something to eat for the way back, Dean?” Sam asked as they headed back towards the Impala, the scent of burning meat rising into the air; dark smoke swirling away from them like a taint being burned away by righteousness.
Dean hummed thoughtfully at the back of his throat, moving towards the trunk of the car to put their gear away. Castiel followed him, his silent, solemn shadow. He’d learned a lot about control thanks to his friend, and Dean’s sharp eyes never missed the sorrow in Castiel’s eyes whenever he helped Dean learn to limit the grace inside of him, or fight with his wings. One thing they never, ever discussed was flying. Dean knew why, because he could see the way Castiel watched birds around the house, his eyes darkened by pain and sadness until he caught Dean watching him.
Castiel missed flying the same way Dean missed his father; the way sometimes, late at night when no one was around to see him, he would wake up from a nightmare missing Alistair and the feeling of carving apart a soul with the demon whispering praises into his ears. Alistair was dead, though, and every time Castiel looked at Dean he was faced with the thing he missed.
The man was watching his wings now. Dean was leaning into the trunk of the Impala, his wings flared out and tilted to balance him naturally as he put most of his weight forward onto his toes. He couldn’t see Castiel watching his wings, but he could feel the longing coming off of the angel, his grace curling tightly around Dean’s soul in response to the powerful sense of sorrow.
“Dean?”
Looking up at Sam, Dean blinked at his brother before pulling back and shutting the hood of the trunk. For a moment he just stood there, his fingers absently caressing the black metal of his car as he looked off into the distance.
“Get something on the way back, Sam. Cas and I are taking another way back.” His wings twitched eagerly, arching up as he backed away from the car; curled his fingers tightly around Castiel’s wrist and pulled him after him. Castiel watched him, his blue eyes narrowed in confusion while Sam just stared.
“What are you doing, Dean? How are you getting home.”
Rather than answering, Dean stretched out first one wing, then the other. He’d gotten used to the weight a while ago. Now it felt natural to him to have the wings; it felt like he had something he’d been missing his entire life, and he hadn’t even known it until he had them.
“Dean...”
He looked down at Castiel, who was watching his wings. Castiel’s wrist trembled lightly in his hold, so Dean curled his wings around Castiel slightly, careful not to touch the former angel.
“I think I want to try flying, Cas,” Dean said quietly, looking into his friend’s eyes while Castiel stared up at him. “I want you to help me, okay? I know you miss it. It won’t be the same as having your own wings, but I figure it’s better than nothing, right?”
Castiel swallowed loudly; gave a jerky nod. “Don’t think about it too hard, Dean,” he whispered, and his voice was tight. Dean felt his soul nuzzle up against Castiel’s grace and it warmed him, the way they twined around one another, as if they were one single soul instead of two completely different energies. “Your body and your wings will know what to do. My grace will help you. Don’t over-think it.”
“Will you guys be all right?” Sam was watching them, leaning his hip against the side of the Impala. His hazel eyes met Dean’s, full of worry and unasked questions, and Dean put his brother’s fears to rest when he smiled and gave a small nod. They would be fine- he had Castiel with him.
“I’ll wait for you to get a good distance away first, Sammy,” he said, and Sam nodded before he climbed into the car, his long limbs folding into the seat with far more grace than it seemed they should have. Sam knew the car just as well as Dean did, though, and when the Impala groaned and adjusted to the younger Winchester’s weight it wasn’t a long-suffering sound. She knew him, and she knew Dean, and she would run just as smoothly for Sam. Dean didn’t have to worry, even though most of the time he acted like he did.
He waited until Sam was well out of sight before he pulled Castiel against his chest. The man’s hands were warm on his shoulders, his fingers curling in the fabric of Dean’s shirt and digging into his muscles in a way that sent a shiver through him. Dean slid his arms around his friend’s back, holding onto him tightly, and he looked up at the sky. There were no clouds today, the sky a gorgeous blue, and Dean smiled; arched his wings up, bent down slightly, and then lunged upwards using some of Castiel’s grace to help propel him higher.
Castiel gasped loudly against his throat, a joyous noise that made Dean feel warm and content as his wings unfurled with a quiet noise, feathers rustling, and pumped strongly once; twice; caught a low-riding thermal and lifted them high into the air quickly. Dean flew in a lazy spiral, each loop taking him further and further away from the core of the flight pattern, until he was high enough in the air that the ground was a blur of colors and the people were hardly noticeable.
The wind was cold against his skin, and stronger than it had been on the ground. Dean’s wings adjusted easily though, carrying them both in a relaxed glide. At first Dean didn’t want to look down, afraid that he would see the ground so far away and freeze up, but despite his hatred of planes he felt no fear. The wings carrying him were his own, for the most part, and his body and mind controlled them just as much as he instinctually knew what to do.
“Dean,” Castiel whispered against his throat, and there were no words to describe how happy his friend sounded. Dean let out a soft noise in response and pumped his wings a few times, taking them higher; angled them so that when the wind blew from behind they flew faster. “Thank you.”
Dean pressed his cheek against Castiel’s temple, smelling the angel’s natural scent and the shampoo he’d been using. “Don’t worry about it, Cas.”
They made it home before Sam did, and Dean touched down much more delicately than he’d expected to. He didn’t let Castiel go, too empowered from his first successful flight and wanting to hold onto the feeling of Castiel’s body against his for a bit longer. His muscles burned from having flown so far, but it was a good ache that just made him sigh in contentment.
Castiel’s cold fingers cupped his cheeks and Dean smiled at his friend. It felt natural, leaning down and pressing their lips together. Castiel’s lips were slightly chapped, but still full and gentle, and the noise he made against Dean’s mouth made the hunter wrap his wings around them both and kiss him again. There was no hesitation from either of them, and Castiel’s grace sang in joy, coiling around and through Dean’s soul and making him moan softly at the intimate, loving feeling of it. Was this how angels felt when they were with their mates? Dean had never experienced such a feeling before, and he clung to it as tightly as he held onto Castiel.
Dean felt Castiel’s hands move away from his face. One dropped down to curl against his neck, the angel’s thumb stroking against the underside of Dean’s jaw, while his right hand slid across Dean’s shoulder and down. The hand nudged under his over shirt, fingers passing over the material of his t-shirt until they slipped up under the sleeve. Castiel fit his hand over the handprint brand on Dean’s shoulder, and as soon as he did Dean’s entire world lit up like a firework. He keened into the angel’s mouth, something warm trickling up his throat in the most pleasant sensation he’d ever felt. His mouth opened when it nudged over the back of his teeth and Castiel opened his mouth as well.
Grace flowed from Dean into Castiel, and some of Dean’s soul went with it, twined into Castiel’s grace like it had always been there. There was no pain or blacking out this time, just Dean’s fingers digging into Castiel’s back tightly while the angel moaned into his mouth.
The last thing to leave was his wings. Dean felt them fold against his back, then into his skin, their familiar weight vanishing and leaving him feeling like something important was missing. He whined softly, rolling his shoulders. Castiel soothed him with a soft noise, and then Dean heard the rustling of feathers and felt something warm and soft wrapping around him. It was Castiel’s wings, without a doubt, comforting him and making his soul brighten.
They pulled apart when the last of the grace had left him, but Dean could still feel some wrapped up in his soul, just like he knew some of his soul was inside of Castiel now. He could feel it inside of the angel, even if he couldn’t understand it. For the first time since he’d heard Famine’s whispers in his ears, laughing over the black pit inside of him, Dean felt whole and complete. Just like with his wings, he felt like something that had been missing for so long had finally been returned to him.
“Dean,” Castiel breathed against his face, his breath smelling like sweet honey, “I want to thank you for caring for my grace, and for everything you have done. It hasn’t been easy, I know that, but thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Cas,” Dean whispered, pressing his face into Castiel’s hair. The familiar crackle of power hung around his friend once more, ozone mixing with the scent of power to tingle up Dean’s nose when he inhaled. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed that until it was back, and he held Castiel tighter against him. “Just promise me one thing.”
Castiel’s fingers stroked against his neck, his other hand still gripping Dean’s shoulder. “What is that?”
“Can we go flying like that again some day? And when we do, can I see your wings?”
Dean felt Castiel’s lips against his cheek, kissing gently before the angel’s lips met his again. This time the kiss was firmer, more sure, and when Castiel’s tongue slipped out to trace over his lips Dean opened his mouth. There was nothing wet or filthy about the kiss. For the first time in a long time, Dean felt cared for and loved, rather than just another body needed to get off before his partner got away.
The sound of the Impala approaching made them pull apart. Castiel hadn’t answered his question so he stared at him, waiting to hear what the angel said.
“I would like that, Dean. We will go flying again, and I will show you my wings. With that much of my grace inside of you, it will not harm you to see them.”
Sam was watching them as he pulled up, but Dean wasn’t ready to let Castiel go just yet. He pressed his nose back into the angel’s thick, soft dark hair and hid his smile in the silky strands.
“Good.”