So very backdated

[holythursday]

Who: Aziraphale and Castiel
Where: Castiel's room
When: After Cas gets the Cara treatment
Warnings: Angry ex-angel?

Comments

[tartaned]

He hurried over quickly, eager as always to help someone but doubly eager in this case. Castiel was something of a murky area for him; Aziraphale felt an odd sense of camaraderie that he'd never found with another angel before, and also a sense of pity, not for what had happened to him but just because of what his world was like in general. He appreciated greatly how forthwith he'd been about Alastair and had come to revise his assessment of him for the better. His perspective was adjusting, and he hoped they could find a kind of friendship eventually.

This was a good step to that. He knocked only as a precursor to entering, not wanting to be rude but even moreso not wanting to make him stand. He was sure the former angel wouldn't have asked for his help if it weren't dire.

"Castiel?" he asked reflexively, stepping in and shutting the door behind him.

[holythursday]

Castiel's eyes, normally full of humor and such, were half lidded and dazed. The injuries were extensive and one could tell that simply from taking a cursory glance at him. However, Castiel made no movement, no sound to indicate that he was in any pain. He was simply lying in the floor, unable to get up. If that was any indication at all...

The ex-angel, when the door opened, looked back towards his savior and struggled to sit up, though he had a few broken bones to prevent that from happening too quickly.

"I'm right here, who else would be in my room, asking for your help?" Yes, he was a bit on the grumpy side, but really...who could blame him?

[tartaned]

"No need to get tart, my dear," he said lightly, coming to kneel beside him. He looked at him sympathetically. "Whatever happened, I won't leave you in pain."

Aziraphale took a silent breath, feeling kind of strange about the whole thing; he nonetheless made a brief hand gesture, folding his fingers, and willed the bones to mend, the flesh to knit. It was a simple matter for him, as he'd done it almost regularly ever since coming aboard. To Castiel, who was sensitive to such things, it probably felt like being wrapped in a warm blanket while it lasted.

"I confess it's odd to be healing you," he admitted afterward, standing up again and trusting the other to stand on his own. "Almost makes me self-conscious."

[holythursday]

Castiel didn't speak for a moment as his eyes closed and he calmed considerably. Pain does awful things to a person, the least of which to make them quite grumpy. When it was finished, he looked to his hands, his arms, his ripped clothing and nodded. Well, that was done.

"I was a soldier, not a healer." He did heal, yes, but he was more accustomed to other jobs. Fighting. Guarding Dean. He healed himself and occasionally healed other people, but he didn't make a job out of it. And he didn't like doing it. Pain was irrelevant to him. Or, at least it had been.

"There's no need to be self conscious." He stood up, testing his newly healed body, and walked over to his dresser, lighting a candle.

"You should probably go now. Your duty is done here."

He did not need this. Not now.