This is the first of a set of drabbles I wrote in Creative Writing at school. Mostly Cas POV. Enjoy!
With a thought I can fly. Open my wings and soar. I like flying, soaring, floating. I am free when I fly, no ground beneath my feet, only the open sky around me. The wind runs fingers through my hair, rustles the feathers of my wings. I love my wings. Black, blue, brown, purple, like a bruise. Two giant soft bruises protruding from my back. I can flap them, propel myself higher. I can glide in a slipstream, or plummet to the ground before snapping them open and halting my momentum. The others laugh at my wings, but what do they know? Their wings are white, silver, gold, tan, far too bright. Their wings have no character, no life, nothing. Their wings follow the rules, they're monotone. They have no soul, they're objects, tools for flight. My wings are my best friends, they keep me in the sky, they help me. Flying keeps me free, my wings keep me safe.
I've only ever shared my wings once with someone outside my brothers and sisters. They called them beautiful, majestic, amazing, perfect, all without saying a word. Without gestures. They conveyed everything with eyes, eyes that spelled love. Those eyes can tell me anything. And when they fly with me in my arms, those eyes become my eyes. They tell me what they see, where to go, when to dive. When I fly, I feel free, and those eyes become mine.
Those eyes become freedom.