Supernatural Fanfiction
Pairings: Dean / Castiel
Wing-centric fic.
Summary: For the space of a heartbeat, the silence feels like silk; and then, all at once, it shatters under the noise of wings unfurling, and Dean is utterly blown away.
Wing wĭng
noun
Any of various paired movable organs of flight, such as the modified forelimb of a bird or bat or one of the membranous organs extending from the thorax of an insect. (A similar structure with which gods, angels, demons, etc.,are conceived to be provided for the purpose of flying.)
The first time Dean asked Castiel if he could show them his wings, the hunter's elbows had been resting on the greased surface of a diner table. Sam was slumped lost in thought on the opposite seat, one hand typing distractedly at his laptop. His beer bottle sat long-forgotten between them, while Dean's clinked, empty, back onto the table.
Castiel watches Dean's slightly drunken smile, his own face silent and unmoving. The dim orange light above them catches in the subtle lines than fan out from the corners of Dean's eyes, lashes leaving smudged shadows on the thin skin underneath.
The carefully-planned diner stakeout having proved unfruitful, their motley trio now sits, reduced to waiting dryly until Sam's magic fingers dig up new leads from the inter-web.
The words seem foreign as they fall from between the angel's chapped lips, muffled by the clink of cutlery, shuffling voices, and the soft scratch of a radio.
"I'm not sure that would be wise…Dean." His words are carefully chosen but hesitant.
The elder Winchester gives a casual shrug, manner relaxed by the alcohol coursing languidly through his veins. Too relaxed now to question Castiel's reluctance. The silence makes Castiel uncomfortable, and he tries his best to explain, in mere words.
"Angels cannot simply show their wings to those who ask. There's…a reason, why we keep them hidden from all eyes other than those of our kin." Dean watches him, eyes unjudging and sleepy, and he continues. "They are, simply put, the part of our grace that cannot be confined to a human vessel. They are vulnerable, exposed, and …raw, I suppose. And too much for any human body to contain. Our souls are too connected to our wings; the least we can do is keep them hidden from sight, tucked away as much as we can in another dimension." His lips press into a thin line. "It takes great trust to reveal them."
Eyes darting up, he observes Dean. The hunter nods, eyebrows giving an upward quirk. "Whatever suits you, feather-boy. No pressure, just curious."
Dean doesn't remember asking the next morning, and he doesn't bring it up again.
Castiel's wings had always been there, from the very beginning. Dean had only glimpsed an inkling of their existence once, in the form of a ghostly shadow, unfurling across the splintered walls of the barn in which Castiel had first appeared to them. Darting in and out of sight, too faint to leave anything more than a whisper of a memory. But they had always been there; passing like ghosts through objects and people, now and then curling around Dean and flickering just far enough into their dimension to shield him from shards of flying glass. Castiel doesn't even wince at the pain.
Of course, there had been other instances in which evidence of angels' wings were seen, though only in their death. Burned angrily as charred silhouettes into linoleum or asphalt, splayed ugly and lifeless under limp bodies that once housed only a human soul. The edges too sharp, too skeletal. It was just not the same.
A few weeks later the mismatched crew sits in Bobby's living room, eyes glued to the television program that Sam had insisted on watching. Something on Discovery Channel about space; typical geeky stuff that the younger brother is fond of. Dean is utterly disinterested but too comfortable to move, nursing a cold can of cheap, watery beer. Castiel perches on the other end of the ratty old couch, brows furrowed and observing the television with dubious interest. Galaxies meander across the screen and reflect in the angel's eyes.
Sam's noisy stretch and announcement that he's going off to bed is lazily acknowledged with a tilt of Dean's head, the younger having won the privilege of sleeping on the bed as decided by a quick and unsurprising round of rock-paper-scissors. ("Really, Dean? Again with the scissors?") With Bobby long since asleep, and only one guest bed that can barely house Sam's hulking 6'4'' frame, Dean is reduced catching his Zs on the couch.
Sam trudges off, and the night settles softly around them on padded claws.
Cas' breathing is soft and even as his eyes remain fixated on the screen, feigning interest in the pixelated astral bodies that drift and bloom out of focus. Somewhere in the silence a narrator drones out scripted lines about celestial clusters.
Dean watches the angel, watches the way the soft tan trench coat is draped around shoulders that seem too slim even under the bulk of clothes. The vivid, cloudy blue of Castiel's eyes are broken by the small square of the television's reflection in them, colors flickering across in reverse miniature.
When Castiel turns to meet his gaze, Dean barely notices. He'd long since grown accustomed to the angel's unnerving habit of not observing the rules of personal space, and the bouts of eye contact that last just a little too long to be considered comfortable. The angel's penchant for social awkwardness had grown on all of them.
"Dean." The word is more of an acknowledgement than a statement, and Dean half-waits for the angel to ask something about the confusing electric box that spews out sounds and images, or to announce that he has to leave to get back to his heavenly duties. But those eyes remain on him, brows furrowed with sudden concentration. A long-forgotten question hangs in the air between them.
For the space of a heartbeat, the silence feels like silk; and then, all at once, it shatters under the noise of wings unfurling, and Dean is utterly blown away.
Light and dark seem to converge, turning the air around them into a restless sizzle of energy. Shapes, twisted at first, burst forth from between Castiel's shoulder blades, smudging everything around them into unremarkable forms that fade and lose importance.
Castiel's wings. The words barely register in Dean's mind as he struggles to keep up, to take everything in, eyes wide.
Like ink dropped into water, the wings bloom in stages; the soft crackle of hollow bones, layers of muscle, ligaments and skin rippling under inky feathers that shiver into existence strand by breathless strand. Fully manifested, they arch upwards, unfolded tensely at the joints, strong flight feathers lying across each other in smooth planes and layers as they reach toward the ceiling, bending and brushing gently across accumulated dust.
Silence stands out loud and stark against sudden stifling sharpness, sights and sounds melding together. For a brief moment time seems to stand still, what little light around them sifting drowsily through gaps in the feathers, blurred beams illuminating the swirling plumes of dust that float downward.
They are bigger than Dean had ever dared to imagine, barely fully stretched out and cruelly crammed by the limits of the room, filling the space around them completely. A sun rolls across the TV screen that is all but completely obscured, causing a thin whisper of fire-colored light to dance across the edges of the feathers.
They're not white, Dean realizes with a jolt, eyes dancing across their reverent form. All of a sudden the notion of angels having white wings seems laughable, absurd, and he cannot imagine how anyone could ever assign such a color to these beings. No, Castiel's wings are not white. Streaks and flashes of colors dance across a black inkier than the depths of the ocean itself, barely-there shades of blue, copper and iridescent oil slick.
Castiel sits hunched forward ever so slightly, the added weight putting a strain on his - no, Jimmy Novak's body. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean wonders if this is partly the reason why angels hide their wings, the solid weight being an unnecessary burden on their vessels' backs. A note of pain flits across the angel's features, gone as quickly as it had appeared, and Dean notices the deep bloom of blood spreading steadily from where the back of the trench coat had ripped. Underneath, the skin is bloodied and raw, cracked open by the stress of the sudden existence of two extra limbs.
Castiel's eyes have fallen shut, lashes a dark blur underneath eyelids the color of a healed bruise. Dean's hand reaches up, slowly, to brush delicately across the downy feathers on the inside base of one wing, where there is less smooth organization and more wayward fluff. The slightest of shivers run through the angel. It reminds him of the time dad had found a fledgling, and gave it to him and Sam to play with. Their small hands had passed curiously over the soft down, marveling at how it barely registered to their nerves. But while the fledgling had chirped and squirmed until they placed it back into its nest, Castiel remains still.
Emboldened and fascinated, he scoots forward and moves his hands further up the wing, pressing just firmly enough to feel the powerful planes of muscle stemming outward from Castiel's back. Calloused skin passes across sleek feathers, leaving a faint rustling and a trail of warmth in their wake. Just gently enough to not ruffle the feathers the wrong way, he lets a hand shift upwards, to grip across the top of the wing, at the joint that corresponds to a human wrist. The shape of the bone underneath is revealed to him, all at once fragile yet strong yet solid.
Castiel is watching him now, eyes dark and unreadable. His posture exudes a kind of cautious calm, much like that of a wild animal that is instinctually afraid yet knows that it can trust. At the pressure from Dean's hand, the wing joints collapse and fold, enveloping them in a cocoon. The silken rustle is magnified by the closed space, shutting out all else.
Dean loses track of the amount of time the passes, trying to memorize every detail presented to him. His fingers swim, digging deep into the thick layers of feathers, grasping and trying to understand. He is vaguely reminded of the time he had first asked Castiel to reveal his wings, and mentally berates himself. Not something so fragile, not like that; not to all those people. There is something unspoken and sacred about this. Reverence crashes down upon him, violently reminding him of what Castiel really is, what Castiel is capable of doing.
Words scurry across his memory, words in Castiel's voice; a voice like honey poured over burning gravel.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."
And, once again:
"Who are you?"
"Castiel."
"What are you?"
"I'm an angel of the Lord."
The smell of a burnt-out lightbulb, the glimpse of wings against a barn door. Dean had laughed to himself back when Castiel had worded his existence outside of a vessel as being a "multi-dimensional wavelength of celestial intent". Now, it's not so hard to imagine the amount of power contained, just barely, inside this frail human form.
When Castiel breaks the spell, shifts and takes the wings back into hiding into a dimension just beyond Dean's reach, the noise is soft and familiar. Dean has heard it countless times, during the angel's unnerving habits of appearing and leaving without due notice, always accompanied by a thudding sound of wings.
For a second, Dean's fingers card across empty air before he lowers his hands back onto his lap. Lungs push out a shaky breath that he isn't aware he had been holding.
Time and space flows back between them, and everything comes back into stark reality; yet at the same time something is gone, hidden once more, leaving behind nothing but a lone feather swaying slowly onto the ground, a fading scent of blood, and the endless blue of Castiel's eyes.
-END-