Work Text:
“You're insane.”
“It's called exercise, you should try it some time,” Sam quips, downing a glass of water.
Still clutching his warm mug of coffee, half slouched against the counter and on the brink of falling back asleep, Dean gives him a judgemental look. Runs are one thing, but in the morning?
“We just got back. Can't ganking something count as exercise?” Dean grumbles, breathing in the steam from his mug deeply.
“Cas did all the heavy-lifting.”
Dean makes a vaguely affronted noise at that, for the sake of defending his dignity, but it prickles because he knows it's true. If it hadn't been for Cas, they might've been in some hot water with those witches. He knows it was bad by the way Cas has yet to emerge from his room, sleeping off all the lost mojo.
Not even twenty-four hours ago, he'd thought the guy was gonna drop dead where he stood.
Blood-soaked and bundled into the backseat of the Impala, tiredly batting them away and insisting, it's healing. Dean's shaking hands pressed over the white glow of his wound anyway, because Cas was too drained to do it himself. As if a hand could contain the ocean. As if he had any say in it at all.
“We could've handled it,” he still mutters, guilt forming a hard lump in his throat. “He needs to save his energy and quit rushing into things.”
“Like you're any better,” Sam says, and ducks out of reach before Dean's thump can land. “Bye. Back later.”
The kitchen goes quiet. Even now, this kind of peace feels unnatural, like they're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dean stares into the dark, swirling vortex of his coffee and tries to summon the will to make breakfast.
They'd gotten back so late last night he'd only just managed to drag himself into the shower, blood and filth a grimy film on his skin, and straight into the loving embrace of his memory foam mattress. Running solely on the greasy drive-thru burgers they picked up on the drive back for fuel. He should be starving by now, nearing noon, but he's still so exhausted that just the effort required to swallow sounds nauseating.
A quiet shuffling alerts him to Cas’ entrance. He comes into the kitchen rubbing his eyes sleepily, dark hair wildly dishevelled, in boxers and one of Dean's old, faded t-shirts.
“Mornin’, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean teases, trying to ignore the warm flutter in his chest.
Cas squints at him, frowning like he doesn't understand, but seems to elect to ignore him. He goes straight for the cupboard, having seen what Dean's holding, and reaches up for a mug.
The small noise Cas makes doesn't register to Dean at first. When it does, he looks over quickly, concerned he's going to see a still-open wound, and notices the pinched expression of discomfort on Cas’ face. He's setting his mug on the counter and rolling one shoulder rigidly, brow twitching.
“Stiff?” Dean prompts, taking the mug and filling it. He slides it back over and Cas wraps his hands around it gratefully.
“My shoulders appear to be under some strain,” Cas mumbles over the rim.
“Too low on mojo?”
Cas frowns, but doesn't dispute it.
“I could take a look if you want,” Dean finds himself offering. “Take the edge off a bit.”
Immediately he regrets his choice of words, face warming, but if Cas picks up on it he doesn't say anything. Cas doesn't seem to understand the offer at all, squinting into his coffee with the vacant gaze of somebody barely awake.
“Here, just—” Dean puts his own mug back on the counter, clasping a hand to Cas’ shoulder. “Set that down a sec.”
Cas obliges him, even as he asks, “Why?”
Dean guides him to turn around with a touch to his back, and Cas goes pliantly, a hand rubbing at his face like he can scrub the tiredness away. His shoulders are warm and firm beneath Dean's hands, muscles shifting.
“Relax your arms,” Dean says, taking a long breath in through his nose. They don't often have reason to stand so close; he can smell the soap in Cas’ hair, the sleep-warm smell of his skin.
The moment he digs his fingers in between Cas’ shoulder blades, Cas tenses up with a pained groan.
Pulse hammering in his ears, Dean stops. “Shit, sorry. You good?”
“Is this meant to help?” Cas grouses, hanging his head low.
“It will if you let me work out all the knots. It's gonna hurt like hell, but you'll feel better when I'm done, promise.”
Slowly, Cas’ shoulders lower from their defensive hunch, and he goes loose beneath Dean's hands again. At the first hard press, he goes tense, but he doesn't make a sound. Dean works his fingers into the hard muscle, rolling it in tight circles as he maps out the expanse of Cas’ shoulders for sore spots.
As he works, Cas sags further into the touch with a sigh.
“Better?” Dean asks, slowing.
“Yes. Do not stop.”
“Bossy,” Dean mutters.
The more he stands and looks at Cas’ toned back, feeling out every groove beneath his fingertips, the more his thoughts start to wander. A strange feeling catches in his throat, knowing Cas is experiencing the inherent humanness of a sore back after a fight and a long drive home, crammed into the back of a car. He wonders if, beneath the fabric, there's any sign that Cas is more than human. An indentation, maybe, or a blemish over his shoulder blades, where Dean assumes his wings would protrude if they had a physical form.
If they're just celestial waves of light and intent, they probably don't have any visible affect on Cas’ vessel. As far as Dean has seen, on this plane they're nothing more than dark, sprawling shadows. Inconceivable to the naked eye. Raven's wings, imbued with all the terrifying, ozone power of a natural disaster. Something divine and unstoppable.
It occurs to him just what he has held in his hands. All that Cas has willingly given them, done for them, sacrificed for them. He saved their asses again just yesterday, draining himself dry against powerful magic. Such a simple act of service as this is the least Dean can do to repay him; to echo back that same devotion of care. It's mundanely, mockingly human, hardly close to the reverent worship an angel should be paid, but Dean has never been good at faith. His hands, he knows how to work with.
After a minute, Cas starts shifting like he's going to fall over. His head is drooping so far down that his neck is bared enticingly, so Dean presses his fingers in there, too. Nails scratching lightly over the tender areas left behind.
“You falling asleep over there?” Dean asks, mostly joking.
“Yes. You are… very good at this,” Cas murmurs.
Dean smiles bashfully to himself at the praise, stroking his thumb over the soft, downy hairs at the nape of Cas’ neck. A small, indulgent touch. He lets his hands travel in a slow exploration, pressing down, and kneads out the tension joining Cas’ neck and shoulders with the heel of his palm.
It's satisfying enough to get lost in— the gradual give of taut muscle, warm beneath his palms, rolling like the tide. Heat and closeness, the likes of which Dean is consistently starved for, seem intoxicating. He feels good about being able to do this for Cas, feels good about holding him without the sting of violence. Not a crushing embrace of desperate, burning urgency, not a life-or-death grip, not a harsh compress over weeping wounds. Just this. Cas, pliant and willing to lean on him, bearing into each other like slow-sliding rockfalls.
When Cas starts tilting again, heavy with languidity, Dean grabs onto him. A hand cupped around his bicep to support his weight.
“Woah, don't go full ragdoll on me. Maybe you should lie down,” Dean says, before Cas loses all the strength in his legs. “Might be easier to get some of this out.”
Nodding agreeably, Cas eases away. The delicate brush of Dean's fingertips as they release him seems to raise all the hairs on Dean's arms, like tracing a river current. He feels attuned to Cas’ every motion in a way he wasn't before. He can only watch as Cas turns and leaves the room in the direction of the bedrooms. Dean had meant the sofa, but he guesses it doesn't make much of a difference, really. It shouldn't. No matter how fast his heart is racing. He detours to put their mugs in the sink before following Cas out.
In Cas’ bedroom, two gentle lamps are lit, giving the space a golden glow in the dim underground. Without windows down here, the electronic lights are their daytime, like the world's orbit functions at their own command.
Even after hibernating all morning, Cas still seems content to crawl back into bed. He's already sprawled on his back when Dean joins him, eyes closed, rolling his shoulders back into the mattress with a considering grimace. His hair fans out across the white of the pillow like an oil spill.
“Still sore, huh?” Dean drops onto the foot of the bed. He's keenly aware of Cas’ long, bare legs. The tight muscle of his calves and thighs, dipped in supple planes of shadow.
“It's burning,” Cas mumbles, with an edge of complaint.
“I told you, gets worse before it gets better. Turn over.”
Despite his grouchy misgivings, Cas does as he's told and rolls onto his stomach. He settles with his hands burrowing beneath the pillow, turning his face to the side so that his cheek is pressed up against it.
There is a significant flaw in this plan. Dean realises this far, far too late. His eyes travel the length of Cas’ languid body, following the dip at the small of his back all the way up to his broad, muscular shoulders. It's suddenly indecent, witnessing Cas dressed down like this. In his t-shirt. And boxers.
But before anything else, Cas is his best friend. And an angel, who possibly doesn't even feel things that way. And a man, who is real, warm muscle beneath his touch, not pixels on a TV screen. He's so off-limits he might as well be sculpture.
“Dean,” Cas says, voice rough and impatient.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Just— tryna get the right angle.”
It's a little awkward, stretching to reach Cas’ far shoulder from one side of the bed, but Dean manages. He rests both of his hands firmly on each shoulder blade, palms spread wide, and smooths over the warm fabric there in an effort to ease Cas into it. It doesn't make a difference— as soon as he drives the heel of his palms in, hard, Cas seizes up with a sharp inhale.
“Relax,” Dean murmurs. He massages into the same spot until Cas sinks into it. When he glances over, Cas has his eyes closed, lashes fluttering and brow furrowed with tension. “Okay?”
“Yes. Go higher,” Cas speaks half into the pillow.
Dean's hands shift, pushing at the taut lines of Cas’ upper trapezius, closer to his neck. Just like before, the motion makes Cas melt, working with the touch rather than against it. It feels so tight that Dean starts to wonder how Cas was functioning at all. He should have noticed he was hurting sooner.
He enjoys doing this for Cas. Helping him. Making him feel good. And if he doesn't look too closely at why that is, everything is fine.
“Wanna watch Die Hard after this?” Dean asks. His knuckle pops as he delves his fingers in and draws the tension up.
“Mm,” Cas answers, muffled into the pillow.
“I bet I could get you to agree to anything like this. You gonna do all our dishes?”
“No,” Cas grumbles, with a tone like he'd be giving Dean bitchface if he could.
“Woah, you're at my mercy here,” Dean teases, and kneads firmly at a sore knot, producing a strangled noise from Cas. “Might wanna reconsider.”
“I'm not doing the dishes.”
“Worth a shot.”
“And I've already seen Die Hard,” Cas says quietly, his breathing coming heavier as though he's falling asleep.
“And it's a classic, so we're watching it again.” Dean grins at the dramatic sigh this earns him. “We're gonna have a lazy movie day. We deserve it after that shitshow.”
All of a sudden, it's like there's a fire lit under Cas’ ass— he shifts under Dean's hands, moving to get up. “Are you still hurt?”
“Nah. You fixed me right up, doc,” Dean murmurs, quick to ease him. “That's why you're all Walking Dead.”
As he speaks, Dean pushes Cas down into the mattress by the shoulders, silently telling him to quit it and relax. He seems to get the message, going boneless again. It's only his willingness that allows it; he has more than enough angel mojo to dig his heels in if he wanted to.
“The zombies,” Cas says, uncertain.
“Gold star.”
It's becoming strenuous on Dean's own shoulders, leaning across at this angle. He shifts as close as he can, one knee pressed against Cas’ side, and tries to ignore the pins-and-needles forming in his trapped foot. The heat of Cas’ skin through the soft cotton seems to burn, searing itself into his palms. It reminds him a bit of the handprint branded on his own shoulder, when he first crawled back out of his grave.
“I can't reach from here,” Dean eventually mutters, having to concede defeat. “Do you mind…?”
The malleable pool of Cas beneath him doesn't seem capable of disagreeing. He gets a vague noise of approval, and the muscles of Cas’ back twitching when he lays a hand flat there for leverage. He straddles either side of Cas’ waist with his legs, stretching the ache of his own neck in the process. It's immediately more comfortable, reaching straight down, and his neck thanks him.
As soon as he properly buries his hands in the tender muscle, Cas groans with some hybrid mixture of protest and satisfaction. “Dean, stop, stop—”
“Too much?” Dean gives him a reprieve, thumbs roving idly in gentle, tracing circles. “You just gotta soldier through it. I can't leave it like this now, I've got an itch to scratch.”
“I know,” Cas sighs. His irritation is mitigated by the way he pushes back into Dean's touch. “Don't do it so hard.”
“Sure,” Dean says, then delves deep into his shoulder blades with no restraint.
He bears his whole weight down, knowing Cas can take it. It punches a soft breath out of Cas beneath him, but he doesn't say to stop. From there, Dean works his hands into the muscle with much better leverage, and it only takes a few minutes for Cas to stop wriggling and biting back complaints. He mellows out into a loose, pliable shape beneath Dean's hands, like clay not yet fired in the kiln. In fact, Dean is almost convinced Cas is asleep when it happens.
First, both of the lamps flicker at once, sparking and humming brighter. They flare like a living, breathing thing.
Then the hair on the back of Dean's neck stands up, prickling like static.
One minute, he's smoothing his palms over Castiel's back, glancing over at the lights in concern, wondering if it's even possible that there's a demonic presence— the next, the room is plunged into pitch blackness.
To his credit, Dean reacts fast. His hand flies to where he knows Cas keeps a spare weapon in his bedside drawers, even blinded as he is. It means that he makes direct contact with something soft and feathery, startling back with a dignified shout.
“Dean,” Cas says, sounding immensely strained.
It's then that the lights surge back to life with a weak flutter, and Dean goes still.
Below Cas’ scapula, just between the two shoulder blades, two sprawling, dark wings are protruding from his back. The feathers are sleek and long, angled into neat cuts in such a way that they resemble a dagger's edge, and they gleam under the lamplight. Deep, onyx black, but shimmering with a ripple like deep seawater mirroring the night sky.
As Dean watches, the wings lift and stretch, upper feathers ruffling like a dog raises its hackles in defense. But there's no amount of shyness that could hide a wingspan so large; the longest feathers are draped across the entire room, wall to wall. They're huge. They take up all of his vision.
“Woah,” Dean says, short and rough as though held at gunpoint, still rebooting his brain back from danger mode.
“I apologise,” Cas says stiffly from beneath him. “I did not mean for this to happen.”
“No, it's fine,” Dean says, clearing his throat to speak. “I mean— Jesus. Holy shit. They're real?”
“They… can be. Physical manifestation is not typically compliant with a human vessel. They rather get in the way of things. I'll try to—”
“They're beautiful, Cas,” Dean finds himself murmuring, as if in a trance, still studying the shifting light patterns in each feather.
The wings twitch and shiver at the sound of his voice, stirring the air warmly over his bare arms. Although Cas still has his face down and turned away, Dean can imagine his exact expression just by his feathery body language. It's an uncomfortable, bashful glance away; a tilt to his mouth that suggests a frown, but can't quite hold it in place.
“Is it because you were relaxed?” Dean prods, after it becomes clear Cas isn't saying anything.
“I'm… I'm not sure. I suppose my thinking about it encouraged them to manifest,” Cas says into his arm, apologetic.
“Is it comfortable?”
They look more comfortable, spread out across the bedroom like this. Dean's gaze trails over the vast expanse of them, fanning out like Cas’ wild hair. As still as they are now, he remembers the way they'd risen and folded outward, like a long-sleeping limb being stretched out after an all-night drive.
“They're damaged. From my Falling, and all that followed,” Cas says, which isn't necessarily an answer.
“Your shoulders?” Dean tries.
Another faint, rippling tremor from Cas’ wings. He rolls his shoulders back like he's seeking out Dean's hands again— since the startle he'd had, Dean has kept his hands hovering in the air, uncertain whether he should touch. It takes a moment for Cas to give his explanation, like he's picking each word with caution.
“There is… a correlation,” Cas mumbles, voice rough. “I have adapted to my vessel, but I will always be contained. When I'm under stress, signs of fatigue start to appear. They may be stronger where I feel the weight of my true form.”
“They don't really look like this,” Dean says, not really a question, eyes wandering of their own accord.
“No. But this is what your human mind can comprehend.”
And shit, if Dean doesn't feel woefully human right now. He's a pebble in an ocean. A pinprick at the foot of a mountainous valley. Such a strong sense of wonder surges through him that his hands are reaching before he can stop them, resting again on the small of Cas’ back, just below where the wings lie.
“Does it feel better? Having them out like this?”
Cas keeps his head down, face hidden, tense beneath his hands. “It's inconsequential. I can take them away if I focus for a moment.”
“Leave ‘em,” Dean says, forcefully casual. He's wary of Cas’ discomfort, bordering on shame. “Not hurting anybody. Kinda badass, actually. Can't believe you've just been hiding these babies from me for years, what gives?”
At this, Cas lifts his head just enough to meet his eyes. It registers to Dean then, belatedly, that this is Cas he's looking at. This is his dorky little guy in a trenchcoat. With wings. Beautiful, mesmerising wings. And they're coming out of two long slashes in his borrowed band t-shirt.
Also, Dean is still sitting on top of the guy. He flexes his hands, feeling antsy, and Cas breathes in sharply as the touch brushes his back. There's insecurity in his eyes, so heartfelt and so blue, but there's also a strained sort of fondness, like Dean just told him something much more groundbreaking than what he did.
“I thought they would seem strange to you,” Cas says, gaze darting over Dean's face like he's warily cataloguing every twitch.
“Well, they're definitely not weirding me out.” Dean fights back a smile, not wanting Cas to think he's laughing at him. “It's not everyday your weak mortal mind gets to comprehend shit like this. Like, kaboosh. That's my head exploding.”
A smile breaks over Cas’ face, and his wings ruffle as though a breeze is passing through the plumage. He drops his head back down on the pillow to stop craning his neck back at Dean, and his shoulders rise like he's breathing out a laugh that Dean can't see.
“These things’ve got a mind of their own,” Dean says, light and teasing.
“They are a part of me. It's not any different than your arms,” Cas mumbles.
“Can you move them?”
Obligingly, Cas lifts one wing up in a great, sweeping motion. It unfolds in a series of shifting mechanisms, dancing with light like fireflies over dark water, raising like a shoulder does when an arm is held above the head. From where Dean's sitting, it seems to cage him in like a waterfall, obscuring half of the room on one side.
“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out, possibly for the second time.
“Yes, it is,” Cas delivers with utterly flat sincerity.
“Shut up.” Dean grins, and pokes him in the side. The raised wing twitches like it's going to bat him away, then stills with apparent control. “‘They strong?”
“I imagine so. I haven't used them for anything in this form.”
“You can feel shit with them?”
“Yes.”
It seems strange that Cas knows the answer to that with such unerring certainty, until Dean remembers his initial startle when the wings appeared. The lights had been out, but his fingers had definitely brushed against something soft, and Cas had said his name in that warning tone. Like, hey, that's a piece of me you're poking. Or maybe something more serious.
“It hurt if I touch ‘em?” Dean checks, sliding his hand back up Cas’ back and resting it on his own knees instead. “Or is it like, some kind of angel taboo to let a human pet you?”
“I'm not an animal,” Cas says, sounding put-out about it. He hesitates for a long moment, breathing deeply in and out. “No, it doesn't hurt. It would be very… familiar. Something I would let you or Sam do, but not a stranger.”
Dean thinks about this, then jokes, “Like when I let you steal the fries right off my plate?”
“You don't let me do that without kicking me first.”
“Food stealing tax. Gotta pay it.”
Cas huffs out an amused sound, then lowers the wing he'd been showing him and lets it relax against the mattress. It drapes over the side like a satin curtain. Dean watches the roving, flexing motion of Cas’ shoulder muscles as they move with the new appendage, and slowly drags his hand up to Cas’ shoulder blade again.
“This okay?” Dean asks, because Cas has gone very still. Small feathers tickle the back of Dean's hand, but he keeps his hand firmly in skin-warm t-shirt territory.
“Yes,” Cas says, stiltedly. “I— I don't know. It's different like this. I haven't been close to any of my kin for a very long time, and I don't…”
The depth of the deprivation Cas has been suffering becomes apparent to Dean then, as he considers all of the broken relationships between Cas and his angel siblings. He'd lost that connection, that closeness, and fallen into line with a group of humans who couldn't breach the barrier between divine and mortal comprehension. Even now, this manifestation is only a replica of the real thing, and Cas has never known the warmth of a hug to this part of him. Just like he learned other human affections, he has yet to learn this one. Yet to understand what it feels like.
It's worse than realising Cas hadn't ever been hugged before. Because this isn't some absence felt by his vessel, but by his true self. Dean wants to pull him in and hold him tight like he's going to disappear; press every warm flare of happiness and peace and safety into his skin.
“Shit, Cas,” Dean says, voice falling weak and gentle, barely grazing the air. “You should've said something.”
“I could not. It simply never occurred to me before now,” Cas mutters.
“Are they stiff from being all cooped up in there? Like your shoulders?”
“It did feel good to stretch them out. They do not feel cramped so much as… new. My shoulders feel sore and weighed down, but the wings are only tender.”
“Can't really get at those shoulders now, big guy.” Dean surveys the space around the wings, the soft flanks of Cas’ sides and the nape of his neck. The bone of his shoulder blades, prominent lines that disappear beneath onyx feathers.
In one careful movement, Cas lowers his wings down from where they'd been laid over his upper arms, resting them closer to his ribs. They draw further together over his spine, and alongside Dean's knees where they fall on either side of Cas’ hips. Dean's flannel pyjama bottoms are ridden up his calves enough that the feathers tickle his bare legs.
Taking advantage of the room freed up, Dean plants his hands at the top of Cas's shoulders. His thumbs dig in and rub firm circles into the loosening muscle, finding it much easier after his previous administrations.
“That's worse than before,” Cas breathes out, tightly, with a pained noise as Dean rolls out the tension. “It burns.”
“Yeah, well, it's gonna feel tender. Told you I shouldn't stop halfway through.”
After a couple minutes of this, with Cas sinking into the bed again and breathing steadily, Dean brushes a hand over the arch of the wing where it starts.
It's some half-formed thought of comforting Cas after digging his fingers into a tough spot, like rubbing your own arm after bumping into something. Dean is looking at the torn fabric around the base of the wings, wondering whether Cas can mojo it back together, wondering how the black feathers merge with Cas’ sun-warm skin. He does it idly, without thinking.
When Dean realises, he freezes, trailing his fingers down and away. “Cas? Sorry, should've asked. You good? Feel bad?”
“It feels good,” Cas says quietly, like he can't quite believe it himself. He shifts and readjusts his arms beneath the pillow, turning his head to the other side. “If you like, you can… keep going. I will tell you to stop if I need you to.”
“Got it.” Dean runs his fingers through the softness, stroking along the grain. Flickers of colour, shining green, blue, purple, flow through the midnight black and chase his touch. “How's this?”
“Good,” Cas murmurs sleepily.
“What's it feel like for you?” Dean smooths over a long, delicate feather, and it seems to caress the back of his hand in return. Sleek and so soft. “Feels pretty damn awesome on my end. I could seriously get used to this.”
Cas seems to consider the feeling before he answers, “It is similar to your hands running through my hair. Or lightly along my shoulders, like you're fixing my coat for me. You are being very gentle.”
“Yeah, well,” Dean says, without any idea of what's coming out of his mouth next. “Don't wanna scare you off.”
“You're doing well.”
Just hearing it makes Dean irrationally pleased. He's glad Cas is lying face down away from him, because it means he can't see whatever the fuck his face is doing right now. Burning with heat, mostly. At the idea of being gentle. Of doing it well. Like it's a natural thing, a guarantee.
“This turned into a free spa day for you,” Dean says, with the jibe and bite of a joke.
“Thank you,” Cas answers, with wholehearted sincerity. “I did not know I needed this until you gave it, without hesitation. You are better at this than you give yourself credit for, Dean.”
The warm, sleepy way Cas is speaking is doing something to Dean's heart. Wringing it out for dry and shaking it up and down, maybe. He swallows hard, sinks his fingers into a soft bed of feathers, and listens to the contented sigh Cas breathes into the pillow at the touch. It feels intimate now, this exchange, in a way the harsh push and pull of muscles wasn't. Working out an injury, kneading at a pain, that made sense— this, this is unfamiliar. Tender. Untried.
It's just that he's taken so much from Cas. Stolen from him. Dragged him down into the dirt and grit of humanity to roll around beside him, Dean Winchester, who took up the blade in Hell and goes through life clawing and tearing at everything he touches, leaving deep grooves in all that leaves him.
He's the farthest thing from an angel. He's a corrupting force. Just by knowing him, just by staying, Cas suffered a change he could never come back from— he lost his life, his family, his home. Himself. All for what? Whatever sense of feeble freedom Dean could give him? It's worse knowing that he couldn't stop it if he tried; couldn't tell Cas to leave, couldn't let him go. His teeth sank deep into him, sullying his holy skin with blood, and he can never ever take it back.
So maybe this is all there is. Maybe he doesn't have much to offer but kindness in the wake of terrible violence. For every snarled word and bruising hit, Dean brushes his fingertips over Cas’ skin, tracing the fine hairs at his neck in gentle circles. The wings that he tore apart and dirtied, he caresses now with a reverent touch, finding where the muscle twitches and smoothing out the tension, trailing through feathers like water.
“They don't seem damaged,” Dean says quietly, afraid to break the peace.
Cas shifts, rolling his shoulders under Dean's hands. His wings flutter along an inner seam like they're wriggling too. “They should be fuller. Aglow with grace. And they are healed now, compared to when they burned. I… feel the damage more than you can see it. This helps.”
This helps. Dean moves the heat of his hands over the warmth of Cas’ skin, the exposed back of his neck, the breadth of shoulder half-hidden under his shirt. Just touching, without any real pressure, because he wants to and Cas is letting him. He thinks about how simple this is. How easy. How he'd only had to offer, and Cas had accepted it. Welcomed it.
“Cas,” Dean says, and then falters, heart pounding.
“Yes, Dean.”
“You don't know what I was gonna ask.”
Cas makes a small, sleepy noise of dissent. “I trust you.”
Slowly, like he's trying not to stir so much as an eyelash with his breath, Dean leans down and presses a kiss to the back of Cas’ neck.
A breeze blows through the room as Cas’ wings lift and flutter. They brush against Dean's sides, the bare skin of his arms and legs, raising gentle goosebumps. Shining black rivers of motion, ruffling like the helpless twitch of a finger, aching to reach out. Cas’ back rises and falls as he breathes, faster than before, held taut with surprise.
Just before Dean can apologise, Cas says, “Again.”
This time, Dean doesn't have the heart to call him bossy. He lowers his hands to restless feathers, to the hollow where they meet skin, and draws his fingers over the softest, downiest part. Cas shivers at the touch. Dean bows his head towards it and breathes a hot gust of air over one wing, then kisses it too.
“Is that okay?” Dean asks, voice on the verge of trembling. His lips brush the wispy ends of a few short feather tufts as he speaks.
He doesn't have time to react. In a swift, inhuman motion, Cas has them turned over, wings sprawling and flexing outwards. They frame him like great cresting waves, dark as the endless night sky, so dark that he almost seems to glow against them. His wild hair is haloed by the lamplight behind, a ring of sunset warmth.
And Cas is staring. Eyes dark with blown pupils, finely circled in a sliver of blue. Lips parted for breath.
All throughout their exchange, Dean had the safety buffer of that gaze turned downward, pressed into a pillow. Only seeing the back of Cas’ head, the curl of hair around his ear, the sharp angle of his cheekbone. Small pieces of an incomprehensible whole. He'd surveyed the expanse of Cas’ back like a map, letting his hands seek out every corner of it, knowing every rigid line. Cas had given him that. Uninhibited access based on complete trust. Back turned, neck bared.
Now, Dean gives him this. He sinks back into the mattress, lets Cas press him down hard, surrenders himself openly to a hungry, intent gaze. He tips his head back, chin lifted, throat exposed.
It's a challenge, in part, and he sees Cas realise that. His eyes flicker over the tender, vulnerable skin of Dean's jugular, his adam's apple, and his fingertips follow.
They graze over Dean's throat so lightly that Dean has to strain to feel it, swallowing, licking his lips. He leans up into Cas’ touch, feels the press of short nails. He wants Cas to push harder, to scratch away the feather-light itch, to smooth his fingertips over the hollow of his collarbone— but he doesn't want to ask for it.
Touch me, Dean thinks, prays, every inch of him aching for it, humming in his blood, crackling like a livewire. He stares right back into the fathomless depth of Cas’ gaze, holds him there. Wonders if he can still hear prayer. Cas. Please.
“Here?” Cas asks, soft and low with that gravelly rumble, deep in his chest. He strokes his fingers from the underside of Dean's chin to his clavicle, all with a look of captivated fascination.
In a sudden tumble of honesty, Dean whispers back, “Go wild. Anywhere you want.”
Another wingbeat disturbs the room, ruffling Dean's hair across his brow. Cas’ hand follows immediately, brushing his hair back, fingers trailing through it and travelling over his scalp in exploration. Given permission, he seems to fall fast into tender curiosity, just as Dean did with his wings.
You have to have seen it all before, Dean thinks about saying, in some kind of depreciating, shrinking manner, abashed by the close attention. Humanity is nothing new to Cas, at this point. They've known each other for years. Cas has known him, all of him, for a long time. There can't be anything new or interesting to glean from studying his face, his throat, the crown of his head.
And yet, Cas studies him still. Dean feels warmed by his eyes alone, burgeoning with heat under every mindful caress. It's typical that he can dish it out no problem, but can't take it.
Cas has such gentle hands. Strong, worn hands, but gentle all the same. They cradle Dean's jaw, thumb over his cheekbone, and graze his lips. He lets them. Just being held like this, pinned down by the heavy weight of Cas’ stare, reminds him of another time, another place, in a cold tomb with pain blossoming over his skin.
Bloodied knuckles had brushed his face then, beaten and bruised, hammered by violence and healed an instant after, at his beckoning. His pleading. I need you, he'd said then, sure that those hands would rain down on him again. He'd clutched the sleeve of Cas’ trenchcoat with twitching fingers, half-blinded, mouth thick with his own blood. Still, he'd held on. He'd believed that Cas would come back. And, well, if he didn't, that was okay too, because Dean would take it, take it all, no matter how much it hurt.
He imagines the memory of it isn't far from Cas’ mind, too. Cas traces the edge of his brow, the crease by his eyes, right where the skin was swollen and sore, once. He does it all with a reverent concentration, brow drawn, mouth relaxed in a way that invites the firm seal of lips to his.
It isn't rushed. A part of Dean wishes it was, wishes it would crash over him like the shore, leaving him gasping for air, drowning in it. He isn't used to being so vulnerable, to letting himself be touched just for the sake of it, so painfully gentle. It stings where it shouldn't. Bristles against his rough edges. Cas doesn't say a word; he only smooths over them, sands them down with care, traces the soft shape left behind. In his hands, Dean feels breakable, precious, somehow changed.
“You are capable of such kindness,” Cas says, quietly, breaths passing between them. His eyes wander over Dean's face, drinking him in. “Such forgiveness. You still don't see yourself the way I see you. But you are beautiful, Dean. Is it truly so hard to believe?”
“I can't believe that,” Dean manages, throat working. “You're so much— more than me. I'm just… this. I don't have wings, for a start. I'm not anything special, and that's the truth. You shouldn't— shouldn't—”
“You mean more to me than that,” Cas speaks over him, soft and earnest. “And I am grateful. One day, maybe, you will come to believe me. Until then, I will stay by your side and remind you at every chance I get.”
“Good game plan,” Dean murmurs, jokingly, to cover up the burn behind his eyes. “Eternal torture from the angel on my shoulder.”
Cas quirks a small, fond smile like he understands. “I'm glad you think so. I wouldn't like to leave you now, when you've allowed me this much.”
“And what, exactly, am I allowing you?” Dean bites his lip.
“Whatever I want,” Cas echoes, as though the very concept blows his little angelic mind. He meets Dean's eyes with startling intensity. “Am I understanding you correctly?”
The last barrier crumbles with barely a touch.
“Yeah,” Dean says, breathing out shakily. “You got it in one, angel. Just ask, and it's yours. You're it for me, you hear? You're not going anywhere. I need you right here.”
“And… you want,” Cas holds eye contact as he draws a light line over Dean's throat. His hands are warm where they hover over skin, “this?”
“Yeah,” Dean sighs, melting against the bed. He drags his eyes over Cas’ powerful frame, wings spread, hair tousled by his own hand, shirt dipping to expose his pale shoulder. “I told you, free reign. Go to town. No complaints here.”
“You're very calm about this,” Cas observes.
It's not clear to Dean whether he means the wings or the newfangled intimacy, but either way the answer's the same. He's terrified of ruining things, yet buzzing with anticipation, and he's not backing down now.
“Not gonna scare me off,” Dean murmurs, and reaches up to grasp Cas’ shoulder, knuckles brushing the soft underside of his wing. He clasps his hand tightly there, tugs Cas closer over him. “I can't— I'm not good at…”
“I know,” Cas says, hand sweeping down Dean's outstretched arm, caressing. He looks into Dean's eyes, and there is only pure, unadulterated happiness in his own, wide open. “You don't have to say it.”
When Dean pulls him close, Cas falls into him trustingly.
His wings wrap around them in a heated cocoon, blocking out the light. Cas noses into the space below Dean's chin, breathing against his neck, and Dean runs his hands over him gently, anywhere he can reach. He holds him tight, and he doesn't let go. He isn't afraid to, either, because he knows: Cas isn't going anywhere.
It surprises Cas, their sudden closeness, the intensity of occupying the same space. Dean can tell by the slight intake of breath that comes from him, by the tensing of his wings as they follow after, splayed over them both. Like he's holding himself back.
This crosses a line. Recognising that doesn't make Dean any less inclined to keep crossing it. He feels alight with adrenaline, with a warm sense of rightness. He should be more nervous about this, more uncertain of how Cas will react, but somehow he knows. Maybe from the loving, careful way Cas had looked down upon him, committing every detail to memory. It was a withdrawn hunger, a step back from that last border of intimacy. To look, and touch, but not take. Curiosity more than desire.
But he'd seen the restrained longing in Cas’ gaze, and he knows what it means. Dean thinks, oh, what the hell, and pokes the bear anyway.
At the first tug he gives Cas’ feathers, gathering up a fistful of the soft, iron sheathes, Cas makes a startled sound against his neck. He bears more of his weight down, and Dean presses back into it greedily, feeling how he can't break free. Feeling crushed, anchored, grounded by Cas’ strength.
“You like that?” Dean speaks into Cas’ hair, breathing against his temple.
“Dean.”
Just the rough sound of Cas’ voice as it catches, humming against him, makes the hairs on Dean's arms stand on end. He can almost feel the snap of ozone in the air, like a storm rolling in. It's a heady feeling, to hold so much power; to be held down by so much power in turn.
Dean runs his hands through Cas’ wings, as far as he can reach, scratching with his nails and seeking the warmest, deepest grooves. They shudder reactively beneath his touch, and Cas pants against his neck, pressed in like he could merge them seamlessly together if he only tried hard enough. It takes Dean by surprise when Cas starts mouthing at the skin there, lips warm and wet against his pulse. Cas tastes him with the same curiosity he'd traced his finger ups with, slowly seeking, savouring.
“Ah, Cas,” Dean breathes, tilting his head farther back to let Cas crowd up into him, kissing at the underside of his jaw. Heat grows in his lower abdomen, firing up nerves across his skin. “You gotta— give me a second, man—”
“Why?” Cas grumbles, breath hot against Dean's ear. His other hand comes up to hold Dean firmly in place by the jaw.
“Cas,” Dean rasps, helplessly.
His hips give a slight rock upwards of their own accord, meeting Cas’ thigh. But instead of pulling away, Cas surges to meet him, knocking their legs together and flexing his wings with a dancing shimmer of colours. Cas makes another, startled noise, like it's being punched out of him, and bows his head against Dean's shoulder.
“Why?” Cas says again, rough and wanting.
“Because—” Dean can't seem to remember all of the smart reasons he had in his head. “Because, this is— the kind of shit you don't come back from. That's it, you're over. It won't— be the same, no matter what. S'posed to make sure.”
“I am sure,” Cas exhales into the column of his throat. He holds himself up with one hand, and with the other he touches Dean's chest, the curve of his bicep, the side of his ribs. “And you told me to touch you. Do you not want me to keep going?”
“Not what I said,” Dean says, trying to catch his breath.
“And now, what are you saying?” Cas pushes, insistent.
“I want you,” Dean says, feeling it spill from him with much more ease than before. “Want you to— touch me. Yeah, keep going. If you're— sure.”
“Very sure,” Cas assures him, all intent and serious.
He seems captivated by every twitch and tremor from Dean's body beneath him, every sound that passes his lips. His wings are tousled like his hair, shaken up by want. Dean is hyperaware of everywhere Cas is looking, watching him, devoting it all to memory. He's never felt so desired, so fixated on, just lying in bed before. The undivided attention makes him burn.
“Cas,” Dean says, taut with emotion, and Cas tastes the sound of it straight from his lips.
It's easier than it should be, to come together in a crash of heat and need. They kiss like they're starved for it. And yet the gentleness of it is what nearly tears Dean apart; the appreciative, trailing touches that Cas imprints against his skin like there's nothing else he'd rather do.
Even when the heat dies down, there's nothing tense or difficult about it. He holds Cas close, breathing hard against his neck, and the blackout curtain of Cas’ wings curve around him in a clinging embrace. The feathers ripple in a kaleidoscope of colour when Dean finally moves, stomach growling its dissatisfaction at skipping breakfast.
“Dean,” Cas grumbles, all throaty in complaint.
“Gonna hold me hostage?” Dean says teasingly. He strokes the glistening cage of wings. “C'mon, I'm starving. I'll make you a mean PB&J.”
This offering seems to win Cas over. Seeing him with the wings as he wanders the bunker's hallways is somehow more groundbreaking than watching them stretch across one room. They drag soundlessly against the ground like a bridal train, flickering into the shadows. It stands to reason that they aren't usually manifested, because they do seem ungainly in such close quarters.
In the middle of constructing their sandwiches, Dean turns and sees Cas is lying over the table, slumped on a barstool, and the wings are nowhere to be seen.
“Going Clark Kent again?” Dean asks, aiming for casualness and missing by miles.
“They're still… there, in a sense. Just not in a way you can see,” Cas says quietly. He lifts his head from his arms to look at Dean more intently. “I feel much better. It's easier to put them away.”
“Nice. I can put Angel-Wing Masseuse on my resume.”
“You do have an innate talent.”
The hardest part is pretending that the warm sincerity in Cas’ voice doesn't make Dean burn up into a thousand flaming butterflies. There's no real reason to hide it now, but it's the principle of the thing. He slides a plate to Cas with a rough hum, dropping into the seat beside him to dig in. Just the gentle brush of their shoulders is enough.
It's actually freaking him out how little has changed between them. They've eaten an abundance of meals together, shoulder to shoulder in diner booths, sprawled across motel beds, kicked back against cold stone walls while they wait for a suspect to come outside. He's made Cas so many PB&J's he has it down to an art. Silence has always felt soft and mellow between them, like there are words transmitted through intimate glances and long stares. The only difference now is the way these things are no longer unsaid, but tangible between them. Given honest meaning.
They do fire up Die Hard on the TV, and Cas stretches over the back of the sofa until his shoulders give an audible pop. His gaze alights on Dean as he tips his head back down, a knowing smile playing at his lips.
“Scoot over,” Dean mutters, curling up beside him with the popcorn.
Cas complies only as long as it takes him to settle in, then leans all his weight against him and rests his cheek on Dean's shoulder with a sigh. He makes some half-hearted, grumbling complaint about the choice of movie, even though he's going to fall asleep ten minutes into it because he's still recharging, and Dean's heart feels so full he doesn't hear a word of it.
When Sam comes back in, smelling like the crisp pine of the outdoors, he scoffs at what's playing on the TV and darts out of reach from Dean's batting hand. He gives Cas’ dozing bed-hair a fond look, and he doesn't say anything about how Cas has his face buried into Dean.
“Did he even stay awake long enough to eat something?” Sam asks, swiping popcorn from the bowl.
“Made him a PB&J,” Dean says, warring with the urge to ask, to say something, to see if he knows.
“Looks like he's been taken good care of,” Sam says, and raises his eyebrows just a bit.
“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, a heavy exhale that purges any tension in his chest. He brushes a hand through Cas’ dark hair, soft and ruffled as his wings, and basks in the knowledge that even weakened Cas feels safe enough to fall asleep on him.
It's easy because it's Cas. They've been doing this for years, nothing's really changed except that he gets to do this now, and Sammy gets to escape with an arch look and the stolen popcorn, knowing Dean can't get up and give chase without waking Cas. Admitting defeat, Dean sinks back into the sofa with his arm going numb with pins-and-needles under Cas’ warm back. They've got nowhere to be anyway. He's fine right here.