Chapter Text
Dean is enjoying a feast.
The Chinese restaurant has offered all its specialties for free after they helped get rid of a poltergeist. Dean isn't one to let go of a free meal.
Sam left early, because, quoting his words, "Everything that has their back facing the sky, it is on their menu." He'd rather enjoy a quiet salad than think about what that dish is on the table with countless legs.
Dean said he's just not knowing how to enjoy a better life.
So now it's only Cas sitting next to him, watching him gulp the tiny little bird -- named quail, apparently, according to Cas -- along with maybe another million dishes.
"God, it's delicious," Dean drinks the little bird soup, sighing with satisfaction.
The weather is getting colder now, this time of the year, and they can see the window of the restaurant slowly forming a white wall of frost. And a big bowl of warm soup pouring into his stomach is just like a gentle, warm flow of grace running through his veins. Dean feels all his cells and pores are stretching with contentment. He'll have this in his Heaven, he decides.
Cas glances in the kitchen's direction once in a while. He tries to pretend he's just glancing around the restaurant, but Dean notices. He sets down the bowl of rice.
"What are ya looking at?" he asks, still swallowing that mouthful of delicious stir-fried yellow eel, wondering if he should take everything else away to enjoy for the rest of the week.
Cas glances at the kitchen again, a little unsettled. "Nothing," he hesitates.
Dean raises his eyebrows. "Come on. Something on your mind? If it's something about my food, I'd like to know."
"Nothing wrong with your food," Cas answers quickly, biting his lower lip. Then, sighs quietly, "It's silly. Don't mind me. Really, it's nothing." He dodges Dean's eyes.
Dean lays down the clumsy chopsticks, turning to him properly. "What is it?"
Cas sighs again. "The quails are deplumated in the kitchen." He tilts his head slightly toward the kitchen, like listening to the sound from there. "And the ducks, goose, chickens, hens. They have a large backyard right next to the kitchen."
Dean blinks, confused. "Yeah, plucked before cooking, that sounds about right. So what's the problem?"
Cas lowers his eyes. "There are feathers everywhere. Fallen, stripped feathers." He glances behind his back.
It hits Dean so hard that he feels nauseous. "Oh God," he whispers, having to put a fist before his mouth to stop the retching feeling from throwing up everything he just ate.
The torn wings and feathers.
Cas's torn wings and feathers.
Those birds' feathers were being deplumed in the kitchen, waiting to be cooked. And he's enjoying the taste like a moron, while his best friend is reminded of and mourning his broken wings. Oh God.
Dean pushes all the dishes away from him, not wanting to look at any of them, especially not the dish of little quails' wing bones. He feels so bad now.
"Cas," he starts quietly, words choked in his throat. He thinks that last gulp of the bird soup might still be stuck in the middle of his throat.
"I'm sorry," he tries, feeling the words pale. He lands a hand on Cas's shoulder, gently. "We'll figure something out. I promise. We'll get your wings back. You'll fly again."