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His wings feel as if they don’t belong anymore, tattered and fragmented on his back. They’re not human in the way that they ache, the sensation something far more metaphysical, all pulses of light along his spine, shooting sparks down to his toes. Too heavy and too absent all at once, their presence more like a void perched atop his shoulders.
Or maybe, he thinks, it’s not the wings at all. Not the way they hang helpless, barred, shedding all around him. The void, he suspects, is truly springing from the center of his very human heart.
He can’t brush this away with his fingers, can’t cure it with the flick of his wrist. He is all powerful, a spectrum of light encompassing the fury and the love of God, but he is helpless all the same.
Dean is curled up on his side, his soft grey hoodie pulled up over his ears, the fabric bunching at his hips. He excused himself with a smile, claiming too much pizza and one too many beers and exhaustion from the road. While that may have been true in a way, Cas knows his exhaustion is something that runs far deeper than that, knows that smile was a mask, knows the laughter was all for show.
His grace didn’t just restore the full scope of his angelic powers, it also restored the deep connection he and Dean shared through it for so long. He’s pretty certain it happened when they met in Hell, the act of restoring Dean’s soul from the twisted thing it had become bound them together on an atomic level. Now, for the first time in so long, he can feel it again. Can feel the venom pumping through Dean’s veins, the terror consuming his thoughts, the true nature of his despair.
Cas perches on the edge of the bed, reaches a hand out and rests it gently at the small of Dean’s back. Dean flinches at the contact for a moment, then settles into it when he recognizes who it is, knows that he is safe.
“Cas,” Dean mumbles into his pillow.
Cas wishes he could see his face, but Dean doesn’t budge. He wishes he could trace the strong line of his jaw with his fingers, kiss his lips until the fear drains right out of him.
“I’m here.” Cas rubs circles into his back, hoping that, for now, this simple comfort is enough.
Dean reaches back and catches his wrist, pulls his hand around until it rests gently on his belly. Cas gets the hint, pulling away for a moment to kick off his shoes, and before Dean can protest the loss of contact, Cas is pressing their bodies together tightly.
Cas pushes his hand up under Dean’s hoodie, runs his fingers up to his chest and nuzzles into the back of his neck. Dean sighs, content, and Cas feels him drifting off to sleep almost instantly.
His wings still feel all wrong furled up behind him, something like deadweight and false hope, but with Dean snoring gently all wrapped up in his arms, the void in his chest turns to something more akin to a flutter. Like wings he has some use for. Like flight and purpose and home.