Since my headcannon tattoo scene was such a big hit, I decided to procrastinate in French today and describe exactly how Dean stiched up Cas' wing holes. This is totally and completly and utterly un-cannon because Dean would never ever ever EVER be this chick-flicky, but I was in a fluffy mood so who cares(: Enjoy!
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Castiel arrived on the steps of the bunker cold, wet, bloodied, and absolutely broken. When Dean retched open the door, the ex-angel weakly sobbed a single Dean before falling into the hunter's arms, unconscious. The man had half carried, half dragged his wrecked friend to a guest room and stripped him of his wet clothes before tucking him under the covers.
Sam came and went every few hours, bringing food or water that his brother barely touched. He guarded the motionless form of Cas as loyally as he would Sam. This is compensation, he told his brother gravely. For all those times he watched over me. To Dean's relief, Sammy didn't protest. Only shook his head and told the other to eat something before leaving the two in peace.
The older Winchester cleaned and bound the shallow slice across Castiel's neck and iced his bruises like one would care for a priceless work of blown glass. Gingerly. Tenderly. He whispered soft words into the dark, comforting words, even though he knew his friend couldn't hear him. Every few minutes, the hunter would gently caress Cas' face to determine how high his fever was before dabbing at his hot, flushed skin with a damp cloth.
As the hours steadily ticked on by, Dean started to worry. It was like a black hole in the bottom of his stomach, twisting and growing and eating everything inside him but the concern he felt for Castiel. He feared that his friend would never wake up from his fitful sleep. That he was waste away until his heart stopped beating and his lungs stopped breathing and he was just another empty shell in the hunter's memory. Just another snippet to add to the never ending reel of nightmares that was Dean Winchester's life.
Two days later, Castiel woke up screaming at the top of his lungs.
"Gone!" he screeched as palmed over his shoulders with frantic, needy grasps. "They're gone!"
"Cas!" Dean hissed, grabbed his friend's wrists. "What's gone?"
But the fallen angel was ignorant to his friend's efforts and rocked himself softly, tears welling in his panicked, glassy eyes and dripping down his face as he murmured the same word over and over and over.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Dean could do nothing but wrap his arms around Cas' shoulders to stop him from rocking and let the salty tears drip down his chest.
Castiel fell asleep in his arms.
The next day when he awoke, he turned his tear crusted face to Dean and blinked wearily at him from under eyelashes stuck together in salty, clumping patterns.
"Gone," he breathed.
"What's gone?" Dean whispered just as softly.
"I'm nothing," Cas whimpered. "They're gone."
In response to the hunter's question, he turned around to show the man two huge gaping holes where his shoulder blades poked out of the skin. Dried blood was crusted down his back in a sickening cracking design, and tiny mangled feathers were mixed in among the peeling redness.
Gone.
The Winchester' stomach clenched and dropped to the floorboards. Bile rose in the back of his throat as he looked at the wounds, a pearl of blood dripping down from the left one as he watched.
"Wait right there," Dean demanded, and left the room. When he came back, he was carrying a suture kit and a bowl of warm water.
The Winchester slowly mopped the blood from the fallen angel's pale back and plucked the feathers off his flesh. One of them was as long as Dean's hand and as thick as his palm, colored midnight brown with almost indistinguishable flecks of black. Hues of dark blue were woven into the plume and shone brightly if the glow from the single bare light bulb illumining the room hit it just so.
He tucked it into his pocket and continued working.
When the blood was gone, Dean tentatively sewed the gashes shut. Each stitch he made was precise and calculated to bring as little pain to Castiel as possible, but he still emitted a whimper every time the fish hook pierced his sensitive, newly human skin.
When the holes were sewn shut, the hunter washed his hands of the blood and laid his friend down on his stomach to apply antiseptic to the wounds.
"I'm nothing," Castiel repeated. His face was blank, void of all emotions, but sorrow swirled among the startling blue of his eyes. He turned those cheerless orbs up to the man before him and repeated: "Nothing."
"No, you're everything," Dean insisted sternly, and the tips of his fingers caressed Castiel's cheek just a little to long as he brushed a tear away.
That night, Cas fell asleep with the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips.