I wanted to just describe them because I enjoy describing them way, way too much and I'm pretty sure you guys get sick of all the metaphorical stuff I throw around. So here, have some more.
In other news, I have only two these to say about episode 17. Cop out. Cop out and fan appeasement. Sir, I am disappoint. I mean, don't get me wrong, I am quite pleased that Cas came back and, good heavens, that episode was nothing but Destiel, but it just felt like...it felt like they'd written themselves into a corner and Cas was the only way to get it out. So they brought him back and then promptly left him behind. He'd better come back again because I friggin' CHEERED when Dean pulled the trench coat out of the back of the car. Because that meant he'd kept it with, he'd taken it out of the Impala and kept it with him the entire time. That and Lucifer were the best parts of that episode. Bring Gabriel back too and I might start enjoying it again.
There. I threw in my two cents. Now enjoy this one shot.
Like Heaven on Earth
If he has to relate them to something, he can't do it in one word. There isn't a single word or even a single paragraph that can describe them and everything they are; sound, sensation, taste, smell, presence. But when Sam asks, he just says they're awesome. What he means, though, goes something like this in his head:
The first thing he always seems to notice are the colors.
The first impression is always of rainbows but it's not rainbows because there are more colors than the universe knows what to do with. And compared to that, a rainbow seems like a black and white scribble across the sky. And they never stay the same, they shift and roll and swirl like ripples or waves, tangling together and breaking apart and somehow still staying in the same shape. He has seen every color on God's green earth and beyond in them and he loves the way the colors seep into a room, sink into every corner, paint the walls and drip off edges.
With the color comes the light.
It pulses and flares, a heartbeat through the colors, it radiates from every curve and hangs in the air in sparkling spheres. It trails across the walls in iridescent streaks of silver and gold and flickers with each movement like a billion stars captured in a single space.
When they spread wide, there's the impression of galaxies and stars and supernovas and black holes and sunlight and melting glass and shattering crystal and he understands what Jimmy meant when he said it was like being chained to a comet.
But he loves it, riding that comet.
He sinks into pools of melted gold and sapphire blue glass crushed so finely that it's powder. Blue from the bluest sky there ever was slides down the muscles of his arms, the delicate burgundy-pink of cherry blossoms pools at the base of his neck, emeralds cast in sunlight scatter at his feet, the burning red-orange-yellow of fire runs down his cheek and brushes lips, diamonds trapped in a sweet molasses of velvet crimson and taffy sea green drip between the muscles of his chest, and he catches rich fractures of topaz and amethyst and early morning mist between his fingers.
But there's not just sight to it all, there's also touch and smell and, hell, there's taste too.
They feel like a thousand drums beating against his skin, thrumming through his entire body, just off beat of his heart enough to send him shuddering. They buzz and tremble against his fingertips, alive and beating with energy and life and power.
When they wrap around him, they are the warmth of a mother's embrace, they are the firmness of a father's hand, they are the gentle brush of the lips of a lover, they are the whisper of sweet nothings on a summer night, they are the heat of the sun on a perfect day, they are the coolness of ice in the glass after a hard day's work. They are silk and flower petals, they are smoothly polished wood and the gentle curve of a glass bottle, they are diamonds, they are more delicate than a thin shred of crystal on the rim of a wine glass and more powerful than even the strongest metal on earth.
They are both old and new, forever young and the most ancient things on the face of the planet.
When he buries his face in them, which he likes to do after a particularly bad day, it is like taking a breath of air so fresh it was as though God had created it in that very second just for him. They smell of pine trees in the crisp winter night, of freshly cut grass, of the sea from a long way off, of spring rain just around the corner, of melted steel and frozen things and sunlight on concrete and, occasionally, of blood.
They are sweet apple juice and fresh berries, they are an ozone bite at the back of his teeth, they are raindrops from Heaven, they are sweetness and spice and bitterness and delight layered in cinnamon and pepper with just a hint of nutmeg. They are burnt and charred, they are fresh and soft and delicious, they are the rarest and finest of all wines and the simplest and most common glass of tap water. They are crushed herbs, they are too much salt and too little sugar, they are the last, stale piece of bread that nobody wants, and they are the sweetest candy ever to come from Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.
That is when they are alone together, caught in bliss and flesh and light and sweat and color and kisses.
When there is anger, when there is defense, when there is fighting, they are different. Everything changes when the sword comes into his hand and there is blood to be spilt and justice to be done and lives to save.
The colors become furious, boiling thunderclouds of black, gray, and bruise blue and purple tinged in ghostly green. Lightning of bright violet, neon cerulean, and blinding white fork through them and he's sometimes reminded of the way Raphael's had manifested. But these are infinitely more impressive. Massive displays of power that fill the room, thunder rolling around in a single space, galaxies exploding within clouds of iron black, supernovas captured in black holes all churned together in a storm that makes him shiver with a thrill he can never place.
When they are filled with anger and protectiveness, they are like standing in the eye of a hurricane. He's only stood by them once and the lightning flickering across his skin is better than any Magic Fingers bed.
But that is when there is anger too great to be contained.
Usually they areā¦
They are sunlight and moonlight and starlight and the green of the grass on the other side of the fence. They are galaxies and stars and planets and nebulas and black holes and the way the sun reflects off the surface of the water and the rippling patterns it makes on the soft sand below. They are ice and diamonds and rubies and the heart of the sun burning a thousand times, dying a thousand times, and then bursting to life again. They are the light of every dying star, of every flying comet, of every glimmer that ever existed in the whole of the universe. They are also the shadows in the corner behind the door, they are the night on the other side of the window, they are the blackness beyond the curtains, and they are the darkest darkness that ever existed anywhere. They are soft and they are crystal and they are warm and they are steel and they are glass and they are a summer breeze and they are lightning and they are acid and they are time and space and light and color all packed into one glorious visage.
And they are his.
And they are theirs.
So when Dean simply tells Sam that Castiel's wings are awesome, what he means is this:
"They are my everything. They are my paradise. They are my safety and my sword. They are my Heaven on Earth."
