Archive of Our Own

It has been one month since Castiel rose from the Empty. Thirty-four days, six hours, twelve minutes, and thirty-eight seconds, to be exact. In that time, Castiel has accomplished approximately one thing: rotting in bed.

The actual revival was far less of a spectacle than he’d expected (hoped). He’d grown used to the nothing of the Empty over his past stays there. He’d accepted the neverending reel of his greatest flaws and errors, because no matter what, he could comfort himself with the knowledge that it was all for Dean. All for Dean .

He’d never experienced a moment of regret for his decision. As the Empty’s tendrils reached for him, drowned him in the dark expanse of void, he allowed himself the last few moments to look at Dean. He was radiant, even with the tears brimming in his eyes and the shock of devastation resting on his features like a veil. The rapid, wet exhales he let out. He would be crushed, but Dean was strong. He could move on. Cas could witness his beloved one final time, hold the memory to his heart for eternity. Echo it to himself in the Empty.

Castiel has no regrets with his death. He had no expectation that Dean would feel the same. That was okay. His love could go unrequited, so long as Dean knew he had it. So long as Dean could carry on, save the world. Save his son, save his brother and Eileen and Claire and everyone they’ve cared for.

Now that he’s back, he has some regrets.

The thing about a deathbed love confession is that it takes place on the deathbed for a reason. It’s easy to share one’s most private thoughts with the expectation that they will never have to face the consequences of it. Cas could let Dean know he was loved, that he’d give everything for him thousands of times more if he could, but he could offer him nothing more than a final sacrifice. He’d been lucky to escape the Empty as many times as he had, and without God on their side, he’d accepted that luck had run out.

Except it hadn’t.

Because Cas opened his eyes eleven months later to green. Teary, beaming like the sun, relief and gratitude in the iris and soul. They’d done it.

The first few moments of life after a prolonged death are always blurry. He’d felt off-kilter, fatigued but more awake than ever. He smelled a dog in the room, which was definitely a new development. He could hear the breathy laugh of Sam from somewhere behind him, the firm grasp of Dean’s hands on his coat. The lurching agony of his back that made him yank away. There was a brief glimpse of horror in Dean’s eyes before he seemed to understand, expression shifting to awe.

“Hey— sorry about that.” Dean stepped back. This was wrong, Cas knew. Something was wrong. He missed the grounding presence of Dean, the smell of his deodorant and worry and the pounding of his heart against Castiel’s chest. Dean didn’t look at Cas. He stared somewhere past him. Castiel followed his gaze.

Wings.

He’d fled as quickly as he could manage.

***

From that point on, Castiel’s reacquired life was spent similarly. He’d locked himself in his bedroom and thought. Thought of the fact that his wings were visible, corporeal, and looked like shit. They’d been skeletal after his official fall. The wax and wane of his grace with the lack of care had left them damaged beyond repair. It turns out that having most of one’s essence burnt in a spell to evict one’s family from Heaven has negative effects on wing health. Bouts of stolen grace, the waning power of Heaven itself, and general stress associated with the man he loved despising him while God fought to end everything he’d protected had culminated in some fairly disgusting wings.

Castiel has worked against his hubris, he’d long-since recognized it as a flaw and had worked to remove most of it from his system. Still, there’s a new level of humiliation associated with his family seeing him so low. He feels a tug of nausea at the knowledge that Sam and Dean have seen him like this. Damaged. Wrong.

He’s entertained the thought of fleeing while they sleep, but it’s difficult to find a window where both brothers are taking their respective four hours. Plus, he’s sure that the dog he’s noticed would be able to alert them to his escape. Considering that Sam checks in once a day to see how he’s doing, and that Dean occasionally leans against his door in a silent, drunken stupor, he’s certain that he’d only hurt them more.

Dean.

That’s the other reason he’s cowering in his bedroom. Back to that deathbed love confession— he has to address that now. And Dean hadn’t reciprocated. And Castiel maybe feels like throwing up when he thinks about how Dean is surely suppressing that. He appreciates the effort to leave his memory untainted, but he doesn’t think he can look him in the eye without either breaking down or kissing him. Neither of which Dean would appreciate.

It’s a cowardly decision, to rot alone in his room just to avoid humiliation, but he thinks he’s earned it. Besides, it’s not like there’s much to surface for. Sam has offered him updates in the form of brief recaps of his day, questions about how Castiel is doing. He’s learned that Chuck is depowered. Jack has taken the mantle of God. That’s an entirely new rabbit hole that has brought Cas to tears several times, and one that he tries to avoid thinking too hard about. Jack is busy and knows that Castiel is alive, but not necessarily well. He’s the only one who has actually seen Castiel since.

He pops in about once a week, tells Cas about what he’s been up to. He’s been doing an incredible job of rebuilding Heaven. Castiel has felt that tether between his grace and its host gradually strengthening. He feels the warmth in his chest at seeing his son, appreciates the complete lack of judgment when Jack stirs him from where he cowers under his sheets. Cas always takes the chance to hold him, to remind him that he’s doing well. To offer little bits of guidance where he sees fit. He’s found that he’s a poor leader, but Jack has a chance. Jack hasn’t been raised perfectly, but he’s known enough love to bring that to his achievements. As bittersweet as it is, the universe is in good hands.

Sam has also told him about how they’d defeated Chuck. About how everyone was gone, but they’d found a way to drain him of his power. They’d left him human and alive. Cas is indescribably glad that they’d survived the ordeal. That his family was able to outsmart God himself. That his sacrifice had not been in vain.

Cas has noticed that Sam avoids talking about Dean, at least in length. He wouldn’t be surprised if Dean has told him about the confession, maybe that Dean isn’t ready to see him either. He only stops by when he’s drunk, after all. He says nothing. Castiel thinks that he might be trying to go unnoticed. Castiel always hears the echoes of his bare feet or slippers on the floor outside. The quiet bob of his throat as he hesitates whether he should stay. The slide of his robe down his door. His steady breaths. The faint scent of beer and whiskey from those breaths. He hasn’t said anything yet.

It seems to be another night where Dean stops by. Castiel can recognize his walking pattern, the way he lands lighter on the leg hosting his bad knee. The cautiousness of his steps, like one day Castiel will actually open the door. Today, though, he seems more stable than usual. Maybe sober. This time, Castiel can hear that he doesn’t sit. He knocks.

“Cas?” He asks through the door. Castiel’s heart pounds of its own volition, his vessel reacting to Dean’s presence. He’s incredibly glad that Dean lacks the keenness of senses he does, he doesn’t know how he’d carry on if Dean could hear all of those subconscious reactions to his presence.

Castiel doesn’t respond to that question, but does get up. He makes his way to the door, if only to be closer to him. He isn’t ready to speak to him. Dean waits patiently for a few beats, a hopeful tap to his anxious foot before he lets out a breath and continues.

“I miss you, man,” He admits. The statement echoes through his grace. Castiel doesn’t know why he’s making it a prayer, he can hear it normally, after all, but he listens raptly.

“I miss you so much. I— I fought so hard, Cas. To fix things, to bring you back. And you’re here and you won’t— I haven’t seen you. Sam tells me that you talk to him sometimes. That Jack comes in to visit. I… I don’t know what I did wrong, but I can apologize. Just tell me, and I’ll fix it. I swear,” Dean’s got a waver to his voice that wrings through Cas’ grace, makes his wings twitch. He feels the guilt that he pushes through the prayer. The fear, the strength it takes for him to open up. Castiel understands those emotions intimately.

“Please, Cas,” Dean pleads, nothing more than a whisper. And he waits.

And Cas says nothing.

Dean lets out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. He takes in an exhale, wet like he’s been crying, and he starts to walk away. Castiel is weak.

He unlocks the door.

The click of the lock echoes through the hall. Dean’s steps halt. Castiel strongly considers locking the door again. Instead, he returns to his bed and pulls a blanket over his shoulders. If he’s going to face Dean, he’s not going to subject him to witnessing his wings any further.

“Was… was that your way of telling me I can come in?” Dean asks. He’s cautious, understandably so. Castiel doesn’t want to speak, but he’s made it this far and might as well offer Dean something to work with.

“Yes,” He responds. His voice is hoarse from disuse— he hasn’t spoken to Jack in five days, after all, but it’s loud enough that Dean brings in a sharp inhale. Castiel hears as his fingers contact the doorknob, the shake before he turns it. The door slowly opens, light flooding in through the crack.

Dean is as bright as ever. If there’s one thing he truly enjoys about being an angel, it’s the privilege to witness Dean Winchester’s soul. To watch how it shimmers and vibrates and reaches around him. It rests deep in his core now, resigned and withdrawn. Castiel is hit with another pang of guilt, right in his gut, at causing that. He doesn’t know if he’s made the right decision. He doesn’t think he’ll ever know if he’s made the right decision.

A small part of him says that any decision that involves being around Dean is the correct one. Cas wishes that part would just shut up.

“Hi,” Dean offers warily. He moves no further than the doorway. Castiel wants to get up, wants to bring him over so they can sit together, but he’s back to that inescapable urge to kiss him. Or kick him out and continue to wallow in self-pity. Or just hope the Empty swallows him again so he can avoid this conversation.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says instead. He keeps his hands folded in his lap, keeps his face neutral. The weight of the sheet is nauseating on his sore wings, but it’s not like there’s much he can do about that.

“You’ve… done a pretty good job at hiding out. We’ve been pretty worried,” Dean states carefully. It’s gnawing at Castiel to see him choose his words so carefully, to see the caution in his eyes as he flicks them around the room.

“You’ve known where I’ve been,” He says. It sounds like an accusation— not his intention, and he catches the way Dean seems to recoil at that. Dean isn’t to blame. He can’t let him think he’s to blame.

“I haven’t been particularly… accommodating, however,” He amends. Dean seems to relax, warmth flooding his soul. Castiel wishes he could feel it.

“You haven’t,” Dean agrees. He’s got a teasing edge to his voice, and Castiel can’t help but allow himself to smile at that. To let Dean know that he’s still appreciated. That Cas still cares for him, that he doesn’t want to be so damaged that he has to shut him out. Dean still stands back, and Castiel scoots further to the head of the bed. Makes space for Dean, should he choose to take it. Dean follows the motion with his eyes but doesn’t move.

“I’m… sorry I haven’t checked in sooner. I figured you were mad at me.”

Dean chooses every word carefully, like he’s stepping through an active minefield. Like he’s afraid of cracking Castiel further, like he isn’t already on the verge of falling apart on his own. It’s kind of him. Dean has always been so kind.

“I’m not,” Castiel reassures him. Dean visibly sags with relief, and Castiel reminds himself that he hasn’t earned this. That he should be the one (figuratively or literally) on his knees, begging for his forgiveness. Begging for that unearned kindness. It’s not like Cas has offered much of it in the past month.

“Cool. Awesome. Good— good to hear,” Dean says, “So… not mad at me. Are you mad at… Sam, then?”

Cas shakes his head.

“Okay. Uh— are you… afraid of something?”

Castiel is afraid of many things. The direction this conversation is going is high on that list. Still, he shakes his head again. 

“Then… why?” Dean questions. He looks so lost. He’s standing in the doorway and Castiel can see his concern. Castiel can’t answer that for him, though, so he just looks away. It’s easier. He assumes Dean has a pretty good guess, anyway.

Instead of broaching that loaded topic, Dean finally enters the room. He takes wary steps over, stops in front of Castiel.

“It’s been so long since I saw you. I forgot you had wings now,” Dean sits down beside him. The bed dips and Castiel wants so badly to lean against him. Finish that hug he’d stopped a month ago. Feel his body heat, his skin and hair.

“I’ve always had wings,” Castiel says instead. Dean smiles tenderly.

“Sure, but… I can see ‘em now. When you’re not hiding them from me. Wait— is that… angel nudity?”

“Nudity is a human concept. Every other creature exists in a nude state,” Castiel explains.

“You’re still as nerdy as ever,” He teases, reaches out to lightly bump Castiel’s shoulder with his knuckles. It takes more effort than he’d like to admit to not start crying with that. It’s so good to feel him, even through the layers of his clothes. It’s so good that he’s trying to act normal, that maybe Castiel doesn’t have to talk about his confession. Maybe they can ignore it and continue to be friends. Maybe.

“I’m glad to hear that hasn’t changed.”

“That doesn’t answer my question about why you’re hiding them, though.”

Castiel has made it this far, and Dean is offering him a fresh conversational topic to cover. Instead of pushing Dean away with his love, maybe he can just humiliate himself with his wings and they can move on. Find a spell to put them away and pretend like things are normal.

“They’re damaged. Unpleasant to look at. I won’t make you deal with that eyesore.”

“Cas, nothing about you is an eyesore. I’m sure they’re awesome,” Dean prods. Castiel shakes his head.

“They’ve healed over the years, but they’re… painful. Non-functional,” He explains. It’s easier if Dean doesn’t see them. But then again, he might be able to scare him off enough to process a little longer. Maybe find a way to hide them before he has to face him again.

“Painful?” Dean asks pointedly. His brow is furrowed and he looks tempted to just yank the sheet off of Cas to assess the damage. Cas wouldn’t be surprised if he did. He just nods to confirm that.

“You know…” Dean trails off for a moment, hesitates in following up on that. Castiel sees the moment when he just decides to commit to it, he squares his shoulders and steels Cas with a determined look. It’s endearing, the way his soul pulses excitedly with the idea. With the affection it still feels toward Cas. It’s a miracle that Dean doesn’t hate him.

Dean shifts to face him fully, “I can help with that. I mean, Sammy and I’ve been dressing wounds for years . You could’ve just stopped by the infirmary if you were keeping yourself locked away because of that. You don’t gotta pull a Rapunzel just to hide your hair,” He smiles.

Dean has no idea what he’s offering. Or maybe he does, but he doesn’t understand what it means . Dressing Castiel’s wounds is fine, but his wings… are different. Angels preen themselves. Occasionally, angels will preen each other. Even more rarely, an angel will allow a human spouse or partner to preen them. He’s only ever heard of it occurring once— with Akobel and Lily Sunder. It’s kept between family and loved ones. He should explain that to Dean, let him know that it’s alright that he doesn’t feel the same. That Castiel will manage on his own, but he appreciates the gesture. 

Dean has no obligations toward Castiel. Cas intended for his sacrifice to be selfless— he wanted nothing in return. All he received was the peace of a decade-old burden lifted from his shoulders. Not that he’d ever consider his love for Dean to be a burden, but hiding it certainly was. Dean owes him nothing.

“It’s alright, Dean. Thank you.”

“No, Cas. It ain’t alright . You’re telling me you’ve been in pain for this last month and you haven’t done anything about it? I’m not gonna let you wallow in here while you’re hurting.”

“Then I’ll dress my wounds. I’ll just need bandages.”

Dean’s face falls at that, and Castiel wonders what he’s done wrong. Dean puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes the muscle and tendon there.

“Let me do this for you. Please ,” He pleads emphatically. And with Dean staring in his eyes, asking for the chance to help him, Castiel can’t help but feel a little selfish. Preening is done between couples, sure, but also family. And Dean… has at least shown that he sees Castiel as family. Like a brother. Sam had mentioned that they’d added his name to the family carvings on their table, and Castiel supposes that’s as much acceptance as he can hope for.

“Okay,” He offers weakly in response. Because he is weak, but it’s worthwhile for the way Dean lights up. His soul shakes with excitement, and Castiel suspects that part of his motivation might also just be that he’s excited to finally see Castiel’s wings. It’s a little flattering, but he’s sure the illusion will be shattered as soon as he takes a good look at them.

“Sweet,” Dean grins, “Okay, what do I need? Bandages, what else?”

Castiel details a list. Water and rags to clean the blood. Bandages to wrap the wounds. A trash can for loose feathers. He’ll allow Dean to manage the injuries and that should please him enough to alleviate his bad mood. Maybe Castiel will be able to hide his wings more easily when they don’t feel like they’ve been skinned and charred. Dean hurries out of the room, and Castiel waits.

He’ll always wait for him.

***

Dean dumps many more supplies than requested onto the bed. He has the rags, bucket, and bandages, sure, but there’s more. Castiel spots what seems to be an antibiotic ointment, which is silly. His wounds can’t be infected. Dean has also collected an aloe vera gel, some kind of numbing cream, a small pile of towels, scissors, and a comb. Castiel doesn’t have the heart to tell him that most of that will be useless.

“All geared up. So… how d’you wanna do this?” Dean sits at the edge of his bed and watches him intently. He’s more excited than Castiel has seen him in… a long time.

“I’ll sit,” Castiel says. He hesitates before turning his back to Dean, the sheet still draped over him like a cape. It’s a vulnerable position, even moreso with his wings, but he trusts Dean. He’s glad they don’t have to look at each other through it. As much as Castiel enjoys watching his soul, he’s not sure he could handle seeing it while Dean is actively touching his wings.

Dean tenderly grabs the fabric draped over him and Cas’ breath hitches as he pulls it away. It hurts, sure, but it’s more exposing than anything. The sheet slides off, and his wings are revealed.

His wings at least have flesh again, more than just bone. The muscle and tendons have regrown, the wings are adorned with patches of ratty feathers and scabs and burns. He doubts they’ll ever heal. Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and they sit in a silence absent of their breaths for a few beats. Dean doesn’t comment on how hideous the wings are, on how painful they must look, on why Castiel has made no effort to nurture them back to health. 

Instead, he says, “You should take your coat off. It’s bloody, we should clean that up before it stains.”

It’s so tender that Castiel does allow a pained sound to escape his throat. Dean winces his apology, assumes he’s hurt him, and Cas takes a second to compose himself. His clothes are torn-through with the appearance of his wings, and he’s sure they’ll need to be cut to get them out. At least, without his grace.

Since Castiel has been revived, he’s been reconnected to Heaven. He knows it’s Jack’s doing and he knows he’s more powerful than he's been in a long while, but he’s had no chance to exercise that power until now. He’d normally snap or wave his hand to indicate to Dean that he’s about to use his grace, but he skips the theatrics. He thinks, and his upper layers are gone.

Dean lets out a gasp at that, presumably from the shock of his shirts disappearing, but otherwise doesn’t comment. It takes a few seconds before Castiel feels him start to shift and rummage through his supplies. Castiel waits patiently as he prepares a rag.

“Anywhere I should start?” Dean asks. He’s so considerate. He’s so kind, so caring. He’s already doing so much for Castiel, and he can’t think of how he might repay him for that.

“It might be easiest to start at the ends. Those feathers are the strongest, you won’t have to worry much about damaging them.”

Dean nods behind him and Castiel’s only indication is the sound of the soft hairs at the base of his neck rubbing against his collar with the motion. He puts a hand on Castiel’s back as a warning, just over his shoulder, and takes a wing in his hand. The contact sends an electric jolt through Cas, his grace jumps and his wing twitches hard enough to make Dean let go.

“Did that hurt?” Dean asks. Castiel shakes his head. Dean hesitates before bringing the rag to his feathers.

It takes a few minutes of rubbing and wetting the wing before Dean finally seems to clean the first few primary feathers. He doesn’t have many left and he’s glad that none seem to be coming out. He can smell the blood as it’s re-moistened and saturates the rag. Dean makes no comments and moves over.

He steadies Castiel’s right wing with a firm grasp to the cleaned flesh. There’s no injuries there, at least, so it’s a safe anchor for him to work with. His swipes at the feathers, his touch gentle enough to avoid causing unnecessary pain, but strong enough to actually cleanse him. Castiel trusts him. He’d let Dean caress his grace, if he’d ask. It’s still strangely intimate to have Dean so close, to let him work quietly to put him back together. He wonders if Dean’s soul felt like this when he raised him from Hell.

Dean continues through the primaries, follows the bottom edge of his wing to the secondaries before he works his way up. That’s where some of the more painful wounds are located, and Castiel can’t help but gasp when the rough texture of the rag brushes against the sore skin. Dean had grabbed the softest cloths they owned, but it’s still a lot to deal with.

“Hey, you’re doing good, Cas,” Dean reassures him as he works at a particularly caked-in patch of blood and feather dust, “I know this hurts, but it’s going good. You’re gonna be good as new, okay?”

“Okay,” Cas echoes quietly. Dean is doing a good job. A very good job. Cas hasn’t earned the praise, but he remembers that he can offer it in return. Dean finally loosens the coagulated blood and runs it out of his feathers.

“You’re a natural at this, Dean. Thank you,” Castiel reaches back to touch him. He brushes his fingertips against Dean’s knee and squeezes the cap lightly. Cas can feel the radiating warmth as Dean’s face heats with a blush and smiles at that. Praise is hard for Dean to accept, Castiel decides he should offer it more often.

“Just trying to make you feel better,” Dean brushes the compliment off and resumes his work. Castiel allows himself to relax into the rhythmic motion of Dean’s steady wipes and brushes against his wings. He feels a few feathers come loose and out, but Dean just lets them pile up. He can feel Dean pull the shells off of new feathers and the sensation tickles, but he holds still to avoid interrupting his focus. When Dean finishes with the back of the first wing, he instructs Cas to turn around so he can more easily access the front.

Cas hesitates to turn, but allows Dean to maneuver him and quietly spreads his wing. It’s far easier to move now, no blood sticking feathers together and pulling them out when he moves too abruptly. The front is far faster than the back, since most of the feathers are already cleaned. Castiel watches as Dean works, stares at the way his tongue is caught between his teeth and peeks out between his lips. His concentration is endearing. He’d assumed that the face-to-face contact would be overwhelming, but he just feels peaceful.

“I appreciate you doing this,” Castiel eventually says. Dean glances up briefly at Cas’ face and nods, cheeks going pink. The hair around his ears and neck is damp with sweat. Castiel reaches out for his shoulder, just for the added contact. If Dean is grooming his wings, he might as well allow himself to indulge in some simpler touches. It might help him avoid doing anything stupid, after all.

“Don’t sweat it, buddy. Makes me feel better to help with that. I worry about you,” Dean says earnestly, and Castiel feels stripped raw with how honest Dean has been. He’d normally deflect, make some stupid joke and allow Castiel to attempt to read between the lines. Now, he’s just… saying things. It’s a lot. Dean seems to notice Castiel’s surprise and switches back to something more familiar.

“Besides, who else can say they get to fondle some angel wings? My best friend is a giant bird,” He jokes. Castiel rolls his eyes fondly and squeezes his shoulder. When Dean finishes with the front of his first wing, he takes a step back to inspect his handiwork. Castiel spreads the wing wide. It’s still patchy and raw, but it’s clean of any blood. The unhealthy feathers are long-since discarded, leaving just the undamaged ones. It’s not perfect, but it’s… good. He feels good.

“We’re halfway there,” Dean chimes with an air guitar. Castiel takes a moment before he recognizes the song.

“Bon Jovi?” He inquires. Dean lights up like a Christmas tree.

“I’ve cultured you, Cas,” He laughs with a dramatic hand on his heart. He hasn’t seemed so carefree in a few years, and there isn’t anything Castiel can do but smile along with him. Dean seems happy. He’s pleased that Castiel feels better, that he’s interested in Dean. Cas wonders how Dean had never caught on to his love for him. Even now, it feels like it’s bursting out of him, like it leaks from his smile and glows around him. It feels impossible to miss.

Castiel is… he’s happy. It’s not like the bittersweet relief of telling Dean he loved him, it’s easy as breathing. He loves him. He can think that. Maybe Dean doesn’t feel the same, but Dean is still his friend. He can still be with him, even if its not in the way he wants. He can live like that. He can live a life where Dean knows he’s loved, and where he won’t push Castiel away for it. He can pour every ounce of love and affection he feels toward Dean, and if every day is like this? He can be happy.

He can be happy.

Dean looks Castiel in the eyes for a few moments before he flushes a vibrant red and clears his throat. He makes his way to the other wing to avoid Cas’ gaze, but that’s okay. Cas lets his cleaned wing go limp to air dry and watches Dean. He loves him.

Dean rinses the rag and gets busy loosening the blood and grime between his feathers. He takes a minute to get back into it, but his tongue peeks out again when he does. He’s so careful that he doesn’t hurt Cas. Castiel loves him.

He thinks that maybe it isn’t so bad to face him during this moment. A lot of the motions are painful, sure, but he can watch the steady pulse of his soul, the contractions of the muscles in his arms and the thump of his heart. The way his breaths catch when he looks at Cas’ face or chest, likely from embarrassment. He’s still comfortable, if a little thrown-off. It’s likely because Castiel is staring at him. It just makes him more compelling to observe.

Castiel would tear his grace out for Dean if it could bring him warmth, he thinks. He could remove his grace and grow old with him. He could cut his wings off, sever the new tether to Heaven. Dean could ask, and he’d do it. He’d do anything he asked, but Dean isn’t that selfish. Even if Castiel wishes he was. Dean makes smaller requests.

“Can you turn towards me a little more?” He asks instead. Castiel complies without question. Dean laughs a little about that, and Cas raises his eyebrows.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Dean shakes his head like it’ll dispel the thought. He eventually continues, “It’s… okay. It’s just… sometimes I forget you’re an angel. Like now, it’s easy to forget. But then I remember that I’m cleaning your wings ,” He grins.

“And you’re doing a very good job at it,” Castiel tacks on, only to see the flush that Dean takes on. He’s been blushing a lot. Cas wants to see it more.

“Yeah, yeah. Shower me in compliments when I’m done,” Dean says and returns to focusing. He feels the minute tugs of feathers and brushes of cloth over skin. He has the passing though that he wishes Dean would just touch him without the cloth in the way. Castiel is lucky enough that actual skin-to-skin/feather contact has been minimal, because he’s not sure he’d be able to keep his thoughts very appropriate with that.

When Dean finishes with the front of his second wing, he asks Castiel to lay on his stomach. Cas folds his arms to use as a pillow and spreads his wing for Dean to touch, keeping it limp so he can manipulate it easily. Dean is confident, especially now that Castiel has adjusted enough to the pain to keep all wincing to a minimum. He’s finishing with the primaries when he finally speaks again.

“Your wings are really pretty, Cas,” He mumbles, almost like a thought he’s let slip. Castiel feels heat rise to his vessel’s cheeks and glances back at Dean, who’s straddling his lower back. Dean’s holding his weight up instead of sitting on him, but Castiel wonders how he’s just now noticing the warmth of his thighs. That is suddenly at the forefront of his mind. Dean is on top of him. He can be normal about that. He definitely can.

“They’re ruined. I don’t see much beauty in that,” Castiel responds, because talking about his fucked up wings at least makes sure his vessel won’t have any unwieldy reactions . Because Dean is still on top of him and touching his wings and that’s a lot to receive from someone he hasn’t seen in a month.

“I’m ruined too, and you think I’m pretty,” Dean jokes back. Which is even more , because Castiel does think he’s pretty, but it’s not something they discuss. There’s been a few times where Cas has attempted to comment on Dean’s beauty, and it’s typically deflected. He’s learned that it’s not a normal behavior, not something friends should really do. Just like with personal space. And then he backtracks, because ruined?

“I’ve never thought of you as ruined, Dean,” Castiel looks back at him, makes sure he meets his eye, “You’ve given so much, but it’s never taken from you. You burn as bright as the day I pulled you from Hell.”

Dean offers a half shrug but has no argument. Cas is okay to let him stew with that. He focuses again on the feeling of Dean’s hand on his back. He’s using it to hold Castiel still as he works close to where his wings connect to the rest of his body since Castiel can’t help but twitch with each motion. It’s sensitive, but he can push through. 

When Dean seems pleased, he sits on Castiel’s thighs. Cas finds it significantly harder to push through.

Dean is a heavy weight on the backs of his legs. He’s sitting very dangerously close to his ass, which is bringing many mixed feelings up. His body is warm and the fabric of his pajama pants slips against Castiel’s slacks. He’s sure Dean’s thighs are struggling with the position, and he has to take a second to take a few deep breaths through his nose.

Dean is on top of him. Still. Staring at his wings. And he knows he loves him. And he’s just doing all of this to be a good friend.

Castiel wonders if he’d be sentenced to Hell, as a human. Because he’s fairly certain that he is having thoughts he should not be having about his best friend. His straight best friend. Who is not also in love with him. Who is sitting on him.

“When’d you get so ripped, dude?” Dean asks, “I remember you being a lot more wiry.”

Castiel has noticed that his vessel has changed over the years. He’s assumed it’s a mix of his brief stint as a human and his waning powers, it’s likely harder for his grace to prevent the natural changes that come with the years passing in a human body. It’s nothing he doesn’t mind, but he has had to alter his clothes a few times. He supposes he’s built some muscle from his runs with Sam and the frequent hunts.

“I… believe that was a gradual process,” Castiel explains. Dean lets out a breathy laugh at that and places a warm palm to the dip of his spine. It’s wholly unnecessary. Castiel huffs out a heavy breath with it. He can feel Dean shift his position, the pull of the muscles of his thighs as he sits more comfortably. His soul sends a buzzing green glow to Castiel’s grace. He is fairly certain his vessel is reacting to the situation.

“Hey, I’m not gonna complain. Not often I don’t see you… covered up. Figured you were still lean,” Dean says. Castiel isn’t strange for thinking that it’s unusual to ponder what someone looks like without their clothes, right? He’s fairly certain he’s been taught that’s firmly outside of “friend” territory. But it’s unlikely that Dean intends that, sometimes he words things poorly. Castiel words things poorly most of the time, he has no room to judge.

Dean shifts further, and the fabric of Castiel’s slacks pulls on his hips. He feels an especially warm spot just under the waist, and he can’t help but freeze.

Because that’s oil.

This is a very bad time to have to explain anything about preening oil to Dean. He’d allowed Dean to clean his wings with the knowledge that it would just be to deal with his wounds. He’s sure Dean is going to get up and dress everything and leave, and Castiel can live with that. It’s not technically preening, it’s just… friendly cleaning. He cannot deny that it’s preening if he lets Dean see that his traitorous body is interpreting that way. He didn’t have a preening gland before. He doesn’t know why he does now. He’s not a fan.

Of course, Castiel isn’t lucky enough to go unnoticed, because as Dean attempts to slip off of him, his hand catches on the back of his pants. And he freezes. A mysterious wet spot on the back of his slacks likely seems strange, and it is, and now he’s going to have to explain it. Castiel can hear the shift of fabric as Dean pulls his hand away to examine his fingers. There’s more shifting, and a sniff. And Castiel vaguely wishes he could fuse with the mattress.

“Did… you just smell the oil?” Castiel asks. He really shouldn’t get confirmation, because he’s not going to handle confirmation very well. He can live a blissfully ignorant life without the knowledge that Dean is sniffing him .

“I thought you were bleeding! Where the hell is the oil coming from?” He asks. Castiel turns his head so his face is buried in the sheets, shielded by his arms. And he’s normal. He’s very capable of acting normal. He’s acted normal for over a decade. He does not need to introduce Dean to any more ‘freaky angel crap.’

“Me,” Castiel answers, voice muffled by his bedding. Dean gets the gist. He tugs at the back of Castiel’s pants.

He’s sure Dean can see the small bump taking residence at the bottom of the small of his back. He’s sure there’s oil pooled there, which is also humiliating. It’s a natural function. He’s sure it was some kind of manifestation that followed the evolution of birds, and birds are happy to let family preen them. And mates. And he’s going to try to stop thinking so hard.

“Oookay,” Dean exhales, “I— uh… do I wanna know why you’re oily?”

Castiel should lie. He should come up with something that won’t lead to Dean being disgusted with angel biology. He’s a shitty liar.

“You’ve been touching my wings,” Castiel chews on his bottom lip before he just decides to be honest. Dean has dealt with him for the past hour, so maybe he’ll just offer him a towel to clean up so they can move on. “It’s not intentional. Or anything… unsanitary. We sometimes use it on our feathers, it keeps them healthy. You just… tricked my grace into thinking I’m being preened, and that’s the result.”

Dean is silent for a few moments. Castiel is afraid that this is when Dean might realize that he’s far more aroused than he should be. Or that he’s going to draw the line at angelic bodily fluids. He would not blame him.

“You want me to use it?” Dean asks instead. The answer is a very resounding yes, but Castiel is hesitant. Again, that means preening, and preening could mean romance, and Dean has made it clear that he does not want romance. Not with Castiel. Dean is doing this to be a good friend, and Cas is trying to avoid getting his rocks off on it. He should stop this. They can finish this quickly and Castiel can hide until he’s no longer in an endless feedback loop of mortification.

“I… I haven’t been entirely honest,” Castiel says. Dean freezes, and he rushes to relieve him of that stress. “It’s nothing dangerous, I just— I’d like if you… understood. What you’re doing. To me.”

Castiel turns his head to look at Dean, who has his brows furrowed. He’s beautiful. He’s so beautiful.

“Okay. I… wanna understand what I’m doing too. It’s not anything bad, right?”

“No, of course not.” Castiel shakes his head, “It’s… I’ve let you clean my wings and handle my wounds. If you do anything more, it’s… there’s deeper implications.”

Dean thinks for a moment before he flushes a dark red. Castiel is still a little pleased at that, Dean looks good like that. His ears always go pink first.

“Is the oil a sex thing?”

“No—” Castiel quickly says. It can be. He should really stop thinking about that.

“Okay,” Dean looks… not relieved, but a little less stressed. Castiel wishes he could read his mind, but he respects his privacy. He’s just left in the dark, and that’s okay. Dean tells him what he needs to know.

“It’s called preening,” Castiel explains, “Birds do it. It’s the maintenance of wings. It’s usually just… removing old feathers, uncapping new feathers. And there’s oil, which… keeps wings healthy and waterproof. Angels can do it as well, you’ve seen some of that. It’s just… an intimate act. Not always romantic—” He reassures Dean, “You’re… a dear friend, Dean. And I trust you. But I don’t think it’s fair if you don’t understand what you’re doing.”

Dean rests a reassuring hand on his back, over his left ribs. His fingers twitch as he feels the give of the skin there.

“Okay. So it’s like a back rub. Like— couples do it, but you can be friends who do it,” He explains, “Cas. We’ve been through so much shit. I mean, you’ve died for me at least five times now. You think a back rub is too far?”

“No— I think… I don’t think this is the most intimate we could be,” He begins, and that’s a rough start that he has to immediately course-correct, “I think that holding your soul in my grace was far more intimate than that. In Hell. I think that… wanting to give my life along with yours, when you planned to make yourself a bomb, was more intimate than that. Giving my life for you was more intimate than that.”

As Castiel lets those words rest heavy in the air between them, he realizes that his course-correction was likely somehow worse than his off-color introduction. And he should really stop talking. Dean seems… bewildered, especially because Castiel is sure he’s just as red as Dean is, but he doesn’t take it for the mess of an explanation it was.

“Okay. Yeah. You get it,” Dean squeaks out. It’s the closest they’ve gotten to talking about Castiel’s confession, and his wings twitch with anticipation. Because it’s out in the open now. It’s between them, still, but it’s left the dungeon. It’s left that moment, with Billy banging on the door and Sam and Jack miles away. It’s breached his memories, where he’s held the final image of Dean’s teary eyes and quivering soul to his own heart. It’s heavy and it’s present, but it’s not as stifling as he’d expect.

“You can ignore the oil,” Castiel murmurs. One last out, should Dean take it.

There’s no hesitation this time. Castiel feels Dean’s rough fingertips collect the pool of oil in the small of his back. He brings it to the first wing he’d cleaned.

“How do I do this?” Dean asks.

“Coat each feather from base to tip,” Castiel instructs. Dean swallows, shifts his position, but does as he says. The touch is electric, just like the first. Castiel simultaneously flinches away and relaxes into it, into the ridges of his fingerprints as they brush against skin and feather. Dean is so careful, his movements steady. Reverent. He doesn’t move on until the primary is fully coated. The second is the longest, and Dean carefully runs his finger from where it grows from his skin to where the edge would cut through the air. When he carefully grabs the flesh of his wing to hold him still, Castiel’s entire body jerks.

It was easy to ignore the manhandling when he was in so much more pain, but with his wings loosened and healed, the touches are a lot. Overwhelming, dizzying. His slacks are getting uncomfortably tight, and he’s incredibly glad he’s laying down. Dean doesn’t need to see anything. He won’t know about the effect he’s having on Castiel.

Dean’s ministrations continue down the wing, and Cas can’t help but squirm through most of it. There’s so much built up— in him, between them, he can’t not move. It’s strange, to be so controlled by his vessel, but it’s welcomed. As long as he avoids moving his hips, he isn’t exacerbating anything unfortunate.

When Dean reaches the base of his wing, there’s not much oil left. He runs his fingers over his skin before he brings them to the downy feathers.

“These things are nice. Soft,” Dean comments. Castiel would normally respond, but he’s fairly certain that he’s never been touched there and now his best friend who he is in love with is massaging him there. He lets a gasp escape his lips. He can feel the vessels of his body reaching to the skin, leaving him flushed. It’s hard to keep his breaths steady and he’s certain that Dean’s weight on his legs is the only thing stopping him from moving in ways that he certainly should not. He doesn’t know why it’s so much, but it is and he’s pretty much stuck in the situation.

“You doing okay down there?” Dean asks. His voice has a rough edge to it, and Castiel can’t help but wonder why. He entertains the idea that Dean might be just as bothered above him, but he guesses that he’d be able to feel it with the position they’ve situated themselves in. He can’t really tell how Dean is sitting on him, but there isn’t much that can be hidden from his angelic senses. So Castiel is just going to say he’s doing great and shut his mouth before he traumatizes Dean.

“Just fine,” He squeaks out instead. Dean raises his eyebrows.

“You… sure? You’re kind of red. I didn’t know you could get red,” Dean observes.

“I’m doing well, Dean,” He states more firmly.

“Cas, I think you’ve twitched more in the past hour than in the past decade.”

An hour? No wonder Castiel feels like a soda can fresh out of an industrial shaker. It really shouldn’t be taking that long.

“You have nothing to worry about.”

“Are you… embarrassed by this?” Dean ventures. Castiel shakes his head. “Annoyed?” Another response in the negative. Dean’s heart rate picks up.

“You… uh… have anything going on down there?” He asks and motions to Castiel’s pelvis. Cas returns his face to the pillow, where it is easier to process things. Because it’s hard enough to lie to Dean, especially when he’s certain that he’s harder than he’s ever been in his life. And that is something that Dean should not know.

“It’s—” Dean begins before breaking out into a snicker, “Hey, it happens.”

“This is a bad time for it to happen,” Castiel grumbles. He can imagine the teasing smile Dean is sporting, the same expression he loves to wear whenever he catches any human vulnerability on Cas.

“You want me to leave for a minute?”

“— No,” Castiel responds, far faster than he should. Dean laughs more at that, and Castiel should probably be beyond mortified, but he can only shoot him a glare. He’s sure he’s flushed.

“Okay. You just… want me to finish with this and let you… handle it later?”

“Can we please stop discussing this.”

“Okay—” Dean repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. He’s relaxed, still wearing an easy grin, and he leans over to inspect his handiwork. The shift in position ensures that Castiel very abruptly understands why Dean had kept squirming.

“You—” Cas begins and freezes, because it’s already strange enough to acknowledge the fact that he has an erection. He has a valid excuse, with the preening and being in love with him. So why is Dean dealing with the same predicament?

“I?” Dean asks, not yet catching his error.

“You’re teasing me for having an erection… while you also have an erection?”

Dean splutters at that, quickly sits back on his tailbone and further onto the backs of Castiel’s knees so that eye contact is impossible.

“I just told you that it happens sometimes! C’mon, this is unfair—”

“This is not unfair at all. I have an explanation. You don’t,” He argues.

“Yeah? What’s your explanation?” Dean counters.

“You have been sitting on top of me for hours to groom my wings. I can hear each beat of your heart, feel each water molecule that escapes the moisture of your breath. We’ve established that I’m in love with you, this is my first time seeing you in a month—” Cas rants before he realizes that he’s laid far too many of his cards down. 

Dean has long since resolved to staring at him in wide-eyed silence. Castiel would not blame him if he chose this minute to run for the hills. It takes a beat before Dean recovers, moves further up Castiel’s body so they can see each other’s face. He runs a hand over his mouth like he’s pondering whether he wants to go on. Then he lets out a breathless, vaguely hysterical chuckle.

“You ever consider that I’m in the same boat, Cas?” Dean finally snaps.

That is certainly not how Castiel expected this to go.

Dean takes a shuddering breath, “You never gave me the chance to respond. Not then, not now. I couldn’t focus on the fact that you love me because you fucking died, man! And— and I would’ve said something , but you hid away for a month and I had to worry about you hating my guts. And now we’re here, and this is closer than I’ve ever been to you. You’re— you’re shirtless,” He attempts desperately.

“I’m shirtless,” Castiel deadpans.

“Yes!” He squeals indignantly, “You’re shirtless and— you’re letting me touch your wings and telling me it’s something that couples do and you’re getting hard about it. And you’re pointing— you’re pointing it out, and I’m still trying to work up the balls to actually say something, but you’re distracting me—” Dean mumbles. He’s lost steam throughout the admission, and Castiel thinks he recognizes that despite the admittedly valid argument, he’s picked his fight at a very bad time.

“Are you done?” Castiel asks patiently.

Fuck you , Dean prays silently. Castiel huffs out a laugh.

“Finish with my wings. I won’t have this conversation until you’re done.”

“Fine,” Dean spits without venom.

The rest of the preening isn’t quite as charged. Dean has to actually rub the oil gland to get it to produce again, which is a very interesting sensation, but Castiel is too laser-focused on the implication that Dean loves him back to focus on that. Because he’d implied that, hadn’t he? He hadn’t had time to say anything. So he’d wanted to. And he’s aroused by the intimacy. Castiel doesn’t mean to get his hopes up, but he’s not stupid.

He’d spent years wondering if the extra something in their relationship was normal. The prolonged looks, the fact that he could so easily prefer Dean over all else. The fact that Dean would confide in him in ways he’d never confided with anyone else, including Sam. He’d considered the fact that maybe, deep down, Dean loved him back. That had been denied with his confession, and that was okay. That was okay. That hope is back, blooming in his grace and warming through his vessel. It’s stupid, he’s setting himself up for disappointment, but he’s hoping .

When Castiel’s second wing is oiled, Dean switches gears to manage his wounds. He applies the burn cream to the burns, the antibiotic ointment to the cuts and gouges, and wraps it all in gauze and bandage. He works far more efficiently than he had before, and Castiel can’t help but smile with the realization that he’s been intentionally prolonging it. That these past few hours could have been trimmed down, had Dean wanted them to. He hadn’t.

When Dean announces that he’s done, he gets up off of Castiel. Cas is proud to report that his distraction has provided the opportunity for his blood to flow to more conducive locations, so he stands without issue. In the mirror, he looks at himself.

His hair is fuzzy from the repeated attempts to smother himself whenever he couldn’t look at Dean. He’s still flushed, but less so. His wings…

His wings are still damaged. Far from their prior glory. But Castiel can see the echo of what they once were. The healthy primaries shine in an iridescent rainbow, contrasting the black. No more brown blood mars his skin. The wounds are covered with clean white bandages, and smaller black feathers peek between. Moving them is as easy as moving any other limb. They’re not perfect, but… they’re good.

Castiel turns to face Dean, who watches him with open admiration. His expression is tender, a small smile rests on his lips and there’s none of his usual cockiness concealing it. Castiel wonders if he’s seeing love in Dean’s eyes. He remembers the final look he’d received from him, the open devastation on his face. He was happy then, but seeing Dean like this? Staring at him with such softness and awe? If the Empty could see him now, he’s sure its rage would be a permanent scar across the dimension. Cas is more at peace than he’s been in his entire life.

“Hello, Dean,” He greets quietly. Like speaking too loudly will disturb the idyllic silence of the moment. Dean smiles at that.

“Hi, Cas,” He responds in kind. Dean takes a few steps closer, stops when they’re a few feet apart.

“You’ve lost your erection,” Castiel observes with faux-innocence. Dean looks flustered for a moment before he recognizes the tease and squints at him. He playfully shoves at Castiel’s shoulder.

“Uh huh. You’re a Casanova, you’re like an aphrodisiac on me,” Dean says, but his hand doesn’t leave where it touches Castiel. He doesn’t maintain the banter. Cas hasn’t offered him the opportunity to speak in the past, so he’ll do it now. He’ll listen to anything he says, hang on to every word like it’s the last he’ll ever hear. Dean deserves at least that much.

Dean nods to himself after a few moments, steels himself and looks Castiel in the eyes.

“When you died, I was a wreck.”

Castiel can guess, but it does reintroduce the guilt he’s been so free of for the past few hours to him. It rests back in his grace like it’s paying rent. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was.

“Don’t give me that kicked puppy look,” Dean says firmly, “That’s not the point. Just— when you died, I was a mess. Drank more than I should’ve. And we got Chuck, we won, but it was… empty. Because he didn’t bring you back. And I wondered why, because— I should’ve been able to move on. But I thought about you, Cas. Constantly. I prayed to you a million times. Begged everyone I could think of for some help. Sam started to move on, and I couldn’t do it.”

Dean pauses then, and Castiel reaches for the arm still on his shoulder. He allows Dean to drop it, follows the contact from his bicep to his fingers where he grips on, maintains the connection between them. Dean’s hand is warm in his own.

“I couldn’t do it, Cas. So— I fucked up on a hunt. Not on purpose. Got myself impaled on some rebar. And I thought… ‘this ain’t the worst way to go out.’ So I told Sam to leave me there, no hospital or anything.”

Castiel stares at Dean with what he’s sure is a strange mix of horror and sorrow. Dean should have been able to move on.

“How long was this? After I died?” Castiel asks.

“Six months,” Dean chokes out, misty-eyed. Castiel squeezes his hand so he can continue. “Six months without you, and even though we won, none of it mattered. So I asked Sam to leave me there to die. He waited ‘til I blacked out, and I woke up in the hospital. Barely alive. It’s a miracle I survived.”

“It is a miracle,” Cas echoes, “You— you shouldn’t cut your life short because of me.”

“I was hoping you’d be in my Heaven,” Dean says weakly, “Because— Sam? I can see him again. He can live a long, full life with Eileen. And when he dies, I can see him in Heaven. You?” He chokes out, raises his free hand to scrub at his eyes as he lets in a shuddering breath, “You were gone forever, but maybe I could come up with some Heaven-hallucination version of you. But I lived, and Sam realized I was fucked up. And we looked for ways to bring you back.”

“And you succeeded,” Castiel says and pauses, because he’d done the same. He’d wanted someone back so badly that he’d given everything up. He can’t imagine his own deal echoed back at Dean. He can’t live in a world where they trade off sacrifices for one another. Dean seems to recognize that in his eyes— they’ve always been able to speak without words.

“I did. No catch,” Dean says, “I promise. Jack— he’s God now. Good kid. He— he helped.”

“I know,” Castiel responds gently, relief sagging through him. He intertwines their fingers.

“You know the rest of the story from there,” Dean says. His eyes are still wet, but Castiel can sense his hesitation. His attempt to back out.

“I think I’m missing a few details,” Castiel responds, a gentle invitation. 

Share more , he pleads with his eyes, tell me everything. Words or prayer. I’ll cherish every word.

I’m not ready , Dean’s gaze responds. Castiel squeezes his hand again, reassuringly.

“Nothing you say will scare me off. We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?” He asks, echoing their prior sentiment. Dean laughs lightly at that.

“Yeah. Guess the weird hard-on wasn’t enough to get you smart enough to turn-tail.”

“I’ve dealt with worse than a weird hard-on,” Castiel teases. Dean laughs, sways closer to him. This is the point where he’d normally backtrack. Say something about personal space or having too much to drink or something else. But he doesn’t.

Castiel has to look slightly up to meet Dean’s eyes. Dean closes the gap.

The first brush of their lips is dry, nothing unexpected. It’s the second contact when Dean gives in, grabs Castiel’s face and kisses him as hard as he can manage. Cas responds in kind, hands on his waist pulling them chest-to-chest as he finally feels him. Feels Dean’s heart against his own, feels his breaths against his lips. He’s breathless, dizzy and drunken as he leans in for more. Dean pulls away for a breath, and Castiel chases him. He’ll follow him everywhere.

“Cas—” Dean lets out breathlessly, “Gotta breathe. Human,” He reminds him with a gasping chuckle. Castiel rests his forehead against Dean’s and lets him catch his breath.

“You still haven’t said it,” Cas grins. He’s earned the right to harass him, at least a little. He just kissed Dean Winchester. The righteous man. The man who saved the world. His best friend. The man he’s in love with. And he needs to hear it, needs it like a drowning man needs air. He needs it.

“Do I really gotta?” Dean jokes. Castiel pulls him in for another kiss, more breathless. More teeth, just as good. His hands force Dean close, and he only relents when Dean needs another break for air.

“Say it,” He orders. Dean smiles.

“I love you too, Cas.”

He can be happy.