Chapter Text
“It’s nice,” Sam says over lunch, then clarifies when Dean looks at him, confused, “Your guys’ place. It’s nice.”
It was nice. It was a little brick house built in the 40s, which meant it was basically a two-story box. The lot was pretty big though, and most of it was being consumed by Castiel’s “garden”, which was basically a floral wilderness. Dean didn’t mind; it made Cas happy, it looked nice, if haphazard, and he didn’t have to mow much. He had an angel in his bed, it didn't matter if the room they were in was small.
Thanks. He signs, then drops his hand into his lap. Sam’s still got that pinched look to him from the hospital.
He feels stupid half the time. He’d popped out of Hell ready to raise some. He’s been through multiple apocalypses. Now they’ve got a whole new life available to them, a chance at normal he’s never had, no monsters, no hunting, no goddamned FBI, courtesy of Jack, and he can’t fucking talk or act like a human being. Eileen’s been teaching him sign language when they video chat, but since his arm is fucky, he’s not the best at it either.
Speaking still feels most of the time like he’s trying to drag himself up a hill of jagged rocks. Of course, there’s times and folks worth the pain of it, but it’s a relief that Castiel doesn’t expect him to. He knows the angel misses Dean talking from the way Cas lights up whenever he manages to spit out a mangled sentence.
Turns out the bond does work both ways, but Castiel is much better at controlling what he broadcasts. If they’re touching there’s no way Dean can hide what he’s feeling, and Castiel still tends to pick up on his frequency if they’re close. If Dean wants to wallow in self-deprecation, he needs to get out of the house. Sometimes a man just needs to mope a little bit and get it out of his system.
He’s still nervous being out of sight of the angel. He’s not sure that’ll ever change, but he knows he’s got to get better at it. At least Eileen is up at the house while he and Sam are in town, and he can reassure himself that she’ll keep an eye on Cas.
He sighs and starts picking at his fries again. They really are good. As he looks up, he spots a teenager staring at them in the reflection of the diner window. Which, unfortunately, isn’t unusual; he’s been stared at plenty by the locals (who probably think he’s some kind of simpleton and that Cas is a saint). However, this girl is looking like she wants to bore through his skull with her eyes. What the heck is her deal? He thought Jack took care of this sort of thing.
He taps the table out of sight to get Sam’s attention, and once he has it, he motions with his eyes for Sam to look.
Sam, of course, picks up on his concerns quickly. He frowns, “Maybe we should head out.”
Sorry. Dean signs.
“It’s not your fault,” Sam waves down the waiter, “Check, please.”
He steals the check before Dean can grab it, passing off his card immediately. Tip scribbled, they pack up and go.
“I feel like I’ve seen her before,” Sam says under his breath, “I don’t know.”
Dean’s on alert as they stroll through town; Sam is too. They won’t go directly back to the house just yet, in case they really do have cause to be worried. Old habits die hard, after all.
As they’re cutting through the local park, Dean hears feet pounding up the path behind them, and he half-turns to spot the teen charging up the pathway with a jar of green liquid in her hands, raised above her head.
Dean doesn’t even think, just instinctively moves in front of his brother and takes the majority of the jar’s contents to his face and chest. Sam gets spattered with the excess. It doesn’t burn or hurt or anything at all. It just smells vaguely like grass. For a second, Dean thinks maybe they’re just the target of some shitty prank, but then he doubles over, feeling panic swoop through his stomach. Sam darts past him and grabs the girl before she can run away.
“Are you okay?” Sam asks frantically.
Feel bad. Dean manages to sign, since elaboration is a little bit beyond him right now. Castiel’s upset about something, really upset, since Dean’s picking it up all the way downtown.
“What the hell was that for?” Sam berates the teen. She tries to jerk her arm away and ends up scattering the contents of her half-opened backpack across the sidewalk. A thick, leather bound book falls to the ground and opens to what looks like a page full of spell instructions and runic circles.
“Look, it was just a shitty prank, sorry, so why don’t we forget this ever happened and you, I dunno, go get a froyo or something? Or whatever old people eat.”
“Yeah, no,” Sam snatches the book before she can retrieve it, flipping it open, “Where the hell did you get a grimoire from?”
“I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, but magic’s not real. I got it at the library. You know, that place with all the fiction ,” she says mockingly.
“Uh-huh, try again,” Sam raises an eyebrow, “I used to fight werewolves. I know a spellbook when I see one.”
The girl sags in Sam’s grip, “Fine. Let me go.”
Sam maneuvers her over to a picnic table and drops her down on the seat. She rubs her wrist and scowls, “I wasn’t trying– Look, last year, a bunch of people showed up, a bunch of, like, tourists; they were all staying down at the campsite by the lake. They looked human, but they weren’t. People went missing, and they didn’t ever find most of the bodies. Probably ‘cause they were eating the ones they weren’t using like puppets.”
Her gaze goes distant, “They almost got me too, but a couple guys showed up out of nowhere and saved me. Then they up and disappeared pretty much the next day. I found the book in my dad’s attic. I think it belonged to my grandma; I just wanted to make sure the same thing wasn’t happening again.”
Dean and Sam share a look; it certainly sounds like both monsters and hunters have passed through, but who knows if it was anyone or anything they were familiar with from her vague description.
“And you thought we might not be human?”
“I’ve been seeing him around town with his friend for a while. He,” she jabs a finger at Dean, “doesn’t talk and is always hanging off that guy with the fucked up shadow. Excuse me for being suspicious.”
“And you,” she narrows her eyes, turning her finger on Sam, “you just smell weird. When I ran into you at the coffee shop, I almost puked. Then I find out your friends with shadow guy’s minion over here? Obviously, something was up.”
“There’s suspicious, and then there’s getting a spellbook and cursing random strangers because you think they smell weird ,” Sam says, exasperated and a bit hurt, “It’s a little bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?”
“Most of ‘em don’t even work now, anyway,” she mutters sullenly.
Sam, who’d been nose-deep in the appendix and seen the entire subsection of curses that made various body parts literally rot off, gives her a look. She has the grace to look sheepish.
“It wasn’t even a real curse,” she continues, scraping the toe of her shoe through the dirt, “It was a revelation spell, ya know, to reveal if you were a monster. It didn’t even do anything to you since you’re human apparently . What’s with your friend anyway?”
“He’s my brother. And he’s not a monster,” Sam says, “He’s got depression.”
Dean glares at Sam and tries to kick him in his shin. Sam dances out of the way, “Well, what? It’s true.”
“Well, now I feel like a dick, thanks,” the teen says mulishly.
Dean tries to kick Sam again. Sam grabs his face and shoves him away, nearly tipping him over.
The girl stares at the two of them incredulously, “Can I have my book back now? I promise I’ll stay out of your guys’ hair.”
“I don’t think you need this, if this is how you were using it,” Sam says, “What if we had been monsters? Where would you be right now? Dead.”
“I’m not stupid. I had a plan,” the girl says matter-of-factly. She tilts her bag exaggeratedly towards the two of them, revealing a pistol.
“Why do you have a gun?” Dean is starting to tune Sam out. This isn’t nearly the level of ridiculous their lives used to get up to. A haphazard murder plot by a teenage girl who thinks they were monsters doesn’t even make the top ten stupidest situations Dean has been in.
The girl looks at them both flatly.
“Ok, stupid question, I get it. But I’m being serious right now. Look,” Sam says flatly, “I know you have no reason to believe me, but you don’t need to worry about monsters anymore. Please don’t try to handle things yourself if you think something’s wrong. And don’t do witchcraft.”
“You’re right. I don’t believe you.”
Sam sighs, running his free hand through his hair, “I can give you a number for, uh, the hunter network, it’s all people like those guys who saved you. Will you just…call them if you’re concerned about anything? Leave it to the professionals. And return that gun to…wherever or whoever you took it from.”
“...Fine,” the girl says, “But if you’re wrong about any of this, just remember. I know where you live. And if I die, I will come back and haunt you.”
Neither Dean nor Sam bother mentioning that Jack has gotten rid of ghosts. Explaining that they personally know God is probably a bit too much for anyone to swallow.
As she stalks off, Sam blows out a breath, “That could’ve gone better. You think you guys should move? Some pretty dire threats she was making.”
Dean snorts. They both stand there for a second, off kilter from the interaction. All Dean had wanted was to get lunch with his brother. His shirt is probably ruined.
Dean shakes himself, turning to leave, Sam taking his place at his side, still carrying the book.
Don’t do witchcraft, Dean mouths, rocking his head back and forth in mockery.
“Man, shut up,” Sam blusters, “You know what I meant.”
Dean pantomimes zipping his lips. Sam shoves his good shoulder.
Need to go home , Dean signs, speeding up to a brisk walk.
“What’s the rush?”
Something wrong with C-A-S, He spells out. He can still feel him. He’s not in danger, and it doesn’t seem like he’s hurt, but he feels like he’s catastrophizing, so Dean’s gotta go find him.
“Alright, alright,” Sam says, “Maybe I was wrong about this being a nice place to live though.”
Dean sticks out his tongue, making a face. It’s still a nice place to live. One possibly-murderous teen and prior monster attack notwithstanding.
Sam was quiet for a bit, “...Do I really smell weird?”
S-T-I-N-K, Dean makes sure Sam watches as he slowly fingerspells it out, and Sam tries to grab his face again. Dean takes off down the path at a sprint.
*******
Dean knocks on the side of the doorway as he enters his house, hoping he’s wrong and Cas is just worrying about something silly and mundane. Sam is close behind, “Guys? You in here?”
Eileen’s up and perched on the kitchen counter. She looks up in mild alarm as the brothers enter.
There’s this great, enormous bird-worm-mannequin thing spread out over the tile, wrapped around the table and chairs. It puffs up, looking like a feather boa, and skitters frantically out of the kitchen, with a sound like china tumbling through a dishwasher. It thumps up the stairs, and a door slams shut on the second story, rattling the walls.
“What the hell was that?” Sam exclaims.
“That was Cas,” Eileen frowns, sliding back onto the floor.
“ That was Cas?”
Is C-A-S ok? Dean cuts Sam off.
Eileen bites her lip, ”I mean, physically? He’s unhurt?”
So emotionally hurt, then. That explains a bit about what Dean’s been feeling. The angel must’ve been thrown for a loop spontaneously transforming.
“We don’t know what happened,” Eileen continues, “I mean, we were just sitting at the kitchen table, when poof! He was…like you saw.”
Dean frowns.
“He’s like some kind of fucked up bird-centipede,” Sam says.
Eileen opens her mouth, shakes her head, and shuts it again with a grimace, apparently at a loss.
Dean socks him in the arm, “Do-on’t be, be-a dick.”
“I’m not trying to be!” Sam says, too exasperated to be excited by Dean talking, “I’m just calling it like it is.”
Eileen looks them both up and down, focusing on Dean’s shirt, “Why are you green by the way?”
“W-witch,” Dean says succinctly.
“Wait, you guys got attacked by a witch?” she asks incredulously, “In this town?”
“Attacked is a strong word,” Sam says, “She was just a kid. It wasn’t even a curse, it was a…”
Dean has already taken the book out of his hands. At least it has an appendix. It’s handwritten, and the penmanship is awful, cramped and tiny. Dean squints. Sam steals it back, already on the same page as Dean.
“Reeeeeevel-a-tion spell,” Sam flips through the book, “Right…”
It’s a good thing Sam can read fast. His eyes flicker across the page.
“It’s from full moon to full moon. I think to give whoever casts it enough time to hunt the target without them being able to disguise themselves,” Sam says, “So. If this is why Cas is messed up, then about a month from now it should wear off. Probably.”
“And if it isn’t?” Eileen asks, beating Dean to it.
Sam shrugs helplessly, “Ask Jack maybe? If he answers? I dunno if Rowena is taking calls anymore.”
Maybe Cas has a better idea, or will have one if he’s told what they know. No matter what though, Dean needs to get up there and talk to him. Dean can feel his upset churning in his stomach.
I’ll go check on him, he tells them.
He takes the stairs two at a time, Sam following, and Eileen lurking at the bottom of the stairs.
Castiel’s holed himself up in their bedroom. Dean knocks on the door.
“Cas?” Dean’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat.
“Don’t come in!” Castiel sounds frantic. He also sounds like he’s freaking autotuned or something because it’s like half-a-dozen Castiels are all speaking at once behind the door. Sam and Dean exchange a worried look.
“You gonna head in there?” Sam asks in an undertone. There’s not really a point to the secrecy, Dean thinks, Castiel can most likely hear them just fine.
Dean nods.
No locks. Dean signs. Peaceful life and all that. He hadn’t even thought about adding locks to their bedroom door.
When he turns the knob though he can’t open it. Cas must be plastered against the other side.
“Cas,” he rattles the knob, “Le-et me in. Please.”
There’s a long pause, then he hears that same ceramic shifting behind the door. When he tries again, it opens inward easily. He heads inside, carefully shutting the door quickly behind him on Sam.
Cas is way too big to be trying to hide under the bed, even all curled up the way he is. The mattress is bulging up over the frame, and the springs are creaking as they strain over Castiel’s body. The blankets they keep all folded at the end slide off with a whoosh. Dean’s not even sure how he’s managed to compress himself under there. By rights he should be spilling across the floor.
“Cas,” Dean groans as he gets down on the carpet, leaning on his good arm and trying to figure out just where Cas stashed his head. The underside of the bed is just a wall of feathers. He lays down on his stomach, wedges his arm under the frame, and tugs as the mass of Castiel’s body, trying to dislodge him. He’s awfully glad Cas can’t just teleport willy-nilly anymore.
Eventually he unearths an arm, white as porcelain and just as hard to the touch. When he turns over the hand, there’s a giant eye right in the middle of the palm. The pupil darts this way and that in a panic before Castiel just gives up and closes it, like if he can’t see Dean then he isn’t there, and it feels a little bit like hauling a dog out from its hiding spot when it’s done wrong, if the dog was about fifteen feet long and shaped like a noodle.
Dean feels his back and arm twinge. Despite how big he is and how solid he feels, Castiel isn’t all that heavy. He finally gets a loop free from the bed, wraps his arms around, and starts heaving him out. Castiel decides to help this process along by going absolutely limp, the bastard. Dean flops the section of Castiel he’s uncovered onto the bed and starts pulling one of the sides up and out, like trying to find the end of a string only he’s hoping for a face. He’s on the right track, he thinks. He’s pulling up a whole section with multiple pairs of arms, and Castiel has crossed them over his underside protectively, though a couple palms turn outward to peek at him through fingers. Not all the hands have eyes. Some are empty, and others have thin, lipless mouths. When Dean catches Castiel grumbling to himself, he sees they’re full of fangs. He finally manages to drag Castiel’s head out from under the bed.
He’s got a giant pile of feathery coils on the mattress with several pairs of rumpled wings. Castiel has three faces on noodly necks, one cat, one human, one sharp-beaked bird, in that order, with some kind of metal halo bolted to the back of his middle head and several tiny wings framing the sides. The faces look like masks, all pale and hard and unmoving, with even Castiel’s hair molded into marble, though three pairs of bright eyes all look at him with trepidation through the pallid stone.
“Cas,” Dean says, somewhere between concerned and admonishing.
“I don’t know what happened,” Castiel blurts out, unknowingly echoing Eileen, and he sounds like a choir, “We were in the kitchen, and then–”
Dean clears his throat, gears himself up to speak, “G-g-got hit w-with uh– s-spell. T-think the b-bond did thissss.”
He trails off, final sibilant stubbornly hanging on, then swallows, “S-s-sam thi-inks, a month. La-astss a month.”
Sorry. He thinks, I don’t know why you’re upset, but I’m sorry because it’s my fault.
He shapes an S with his hand, circles it over his sternum. Sorry. Sorry.
He puts his hand on Castiel’s side, smoothing the feathers down, and when Castiel doesn’t object, wraps his arms as best he can around him in a hug. Castiel shifts and, with a silken sound, snakes his whole body around Dean in turn, pulling him up onto the bed.
It’s like being wound up in a super long body-pillow, although Castiel’s feathers are an otherworldly kind of soft. His skin moves easily on his body, all loose like a cat’s, and under the thin layer of fat is very firm muscle. He smells like hot metal and a little bit like oranges for some reason, which is an upgrade because, besides his wing oil, Castiel usually smells like nothing at all. He’s super warm, like a fresh hot water bottle. Dean lets his head fall forward against Castiel’s long flank, and rubs his cheek against him. Castiel’s feathers get finer and smaller the closer they get to his stomach until they’re practically plush fur. Chinchillas have nothing on this guy.
“W-why are you s-scared?” Dean asks.
“I… This body– It’s somewhat like a translation of my true form, but…also not. And my vessel, I’m stuck in it, in here. This isn’t what I’m supposed to look like.”
“I th-thi-ink you loo-kuh cool,” Dean says quietly, petting under one of Castiel’s smaller wings. The little blue and gold eyes scattered all along his body won’t meet his.
“I look better than this,” Castiel mourns from a mouth somewhere to his left. The ring around the middle of his tail clanks as he lashes it in consternation. Despite his clear dismay, when he tightens his coils around Dean, it’s gentle, like an all encompassing hug, “I’m…I’m so corporeal . It’s not right.”
Dean doesn’t think he has enough words saved up to start listing all the things he likes about Castiel, current look and otherwise. He keeps petting, ruffling up the feathers, hoping that all that emotion he’s surely leaking out of his palms gets the point across.
Castiel is really pretty, in a weird alien way. His feathers are like a raven’s, black with an iridescent sheen, and the rings that are incorporated at various points along the length of his body are bright, bright gold. His eyes are very interesting too, blue cat eyes with a shining golden slit pupil. When Castiel relaxes a bit under Dean’s hands and his pupils expand, they’re like little suns in a summer sky. Dean can kinda get why Sam freaked out about the arms. They’re hard and jointed like a doll (or, yeah, Sam, like a bug), and embedded with all those extra eyes or mouths, but more importantly, they’re Castiel’s hands, even if he’s got several times more than usual. It’s like his middle head; it’s his vessel’s turned effigy, but it’s the face Dean’s loved for what must be years now.
Maybe it’s different when he’s full sized and existing in more than four dimensions. Maybe this really is hideous by angel standards. It’s not like Dean’ll know otherwise until he finally kicks it. Even if Jack hadn’t banned fully manifesting, he likes his eyes not boiled out of his head, thank you very much. As far as Dean’s concerned (and he thinks this very hard as he scratches Castiel’s back), Castiel is the best fucking angel that asshole Chuck ever made. And he loves him.
“It’ssss just for a, a month,” Dean says instead, because it’s shorter, feeling pretty proud he only got a little stuck on that sentence. He kinda wants to take a nap, all wrapped up in the world’s largest, softest living space heater.
Castiel’s feelings hang around him like storm clouds, and they’re the kind that make Dean feel like he swallowed a stone. He squeezes the heavy coil in his lap with his petting arm, not sure if it’s torso or tail or neck given how looped up Castiel is.
“I know you love me. But I also know that me being in a man’s body was…difficult for you. I was hoping that, when I did show you my true form, it would be,” Castiel shrugs, the wave of motion coasting down his whole body, “beautiful.”
Ok, yeah, he’s been a dick. Honestly, now that he’s over forty and has had all his many illusions shattered about his parents, he does kinda get why Chuck probably had to step in and get them together. He can’t see Mary falling of her own accord for a guy like John Winchester. He wishes he’d been able to shake off his dad’s influence earlier, but given the shitshow his life has always been, it wasn’t like he’d had the time for introspecting. It’s not an excuse though, he’s been an adult for…twenty to sixty years, maybe more, it’s hard to tell with all the time shenanigans sometimes.
“It’sssss…not your fault I’manidiot,” Dean rushes it all out, lest he get stuck on some stupid consonant and stutter for half a paragraph.
He swallows, throat dry, and wets his lips; he starts talking slowly, choosing easy words, and does his best to cut the stutter, “I like. W-women. And men. Al…ways thought. You were pretty. Still-still pretty now.”
“You don’t have to lie, Dean,” Castiel ducks his heads towards the mattress, and his largest set of wings hunch over his long necks, “As you said, it should be temporary. I’ll be back to normal soon enough.”
“No-ot ly-lying,” Dean flicks a ring in admonishment, and it sings like a bell, “Can feel me.”
“This can’t be what you expected.”
“I kn-ew you were-an angel,” Dean rolls his eyes. He doesn’t know how he’s gonna condense this down so he doesn’t get stuck halfway, but Castiel’s not as slick as he thinks he is. Just because he couldn’t see everything, didn’t mean he was blind. While with Jack’s restrictions he isn’t exactly blowing out the electrical grid if he gets too excited, little signs of Castiel’s distinct inhumanness happen all the time. It’s kind of why they’re in this mess to start with. Castiel’s always been something beyond comprehension stuffed in a meat suit, “A-alwaysss f-f-figured you luh-ooked f-f-fancy.”
“Fancy?”
“Yeah,” God, talking through a stutter was a pain in the ass. Really limited his word choice if he didn’t want to take a century to finish a single thought.
“Oh,” Honestly, Castiel deserves a prize for dealing with his uncommunicative ass. Dean hopes that was a good ‘Oh’. He rubs his thumb around the metal base of the ring where it met flesh. A hand, one of the blank ones, sneaks out from under the tangle of coils as Castiel rolls his body around him, and twines its fingers with his. Dean resettles as Castiel figures out where he wants to be, loops up behind his back, loops over his lap, one hand in his and the other buried in fluff. He couldn’t even move if he wanted to. The bed creaks ominously as Castiel pulls his heads up towards the top, the cat settling on Dean’s right shoulder, the bird on the left, and his vessel’s up by the side of Dean’s head, pillowed on one of his loops.
This isn’t really killing the desire to nap. Dean’s basically being cradled by the best memory foam ever conceived, and, as he’s constantly reminded, Castiel runs hot. Even if he hadn’t constantly been operating at the energy level of your average grandfather ever since the hospital, he’d be succumbing to Castiel’s soporific effects. He runs his free hand across a wing and slow-blinks at the wall, head tilting to knock gently against the marble Castiel’s. The little wings that emerge from where Castiel normally has ears flutter against Dean’s cheek, and they tickle.
“Are you…falling asleep?” Castiel asks quietly, incredulously.
“Y-you’re warm,” Dean slurs, thinking the words he can’t say, I trust you. I love you.
“Oh,” Castiel says again, the word echoing from his multiple mouths, and he nuzzles all his faces against Dean.
*******
Sam drummed his fingers on the kitchen table, “They’ve been up there a while.”
“Well, no one’s yelling,” Eileen says, sensibly, “And neither of them has stormed off. They’re probably fine.”
“I should check on them.”
“Sam,” Eileen half-scolds, “I really doubt they’ve gotten into trouble up there."
She follows him up the stairs anyway. The door is still closed.
“What if they’re, you know?” Eileen wiggles her eyebrows.
“I don’t hear anything,” Sam doesn’t want to think about his brother having sex at all, especially with a celestial worm-on-a-string, even if that worm is Castiel. Still, some discretion is advised, quiet or not.
“Hey, are you guys good?” Sam half-whispers, cautiously opening the door after knocking gently. He blinks, letting the door open wider. Eileen peeks in under his arm.
Dean’s all twisted up in dark, feathered loops, breathing slowly and deeply, with a hint of a rasp on each inhale. Castiel is a mostly featureless dark lump subsuming the bed, pale faces framing Dean’s, all those brilliant, glowing eyes closed in slumber.
Sam and Eileen back away silently and close the door.
*******
A month stuck at home isn’t the worst thing in the world; Dean spends most of his time glued to Castiel’s side, and Sam and Eileen have decided to extend their stay, so it’s not like Castiel is lonely. But the whole point of leaving the bunker was having an actual life for once, and he can’t enjoy the mundanity of it. Going to farmers markets. Window shopping. Heading to the lake. Driving the Impala. Sharing it all with Dean.
It’s only a month , Dean reminds himself when Castiel gets a little stir crazy.
With his arms all bunched up at one end of his body, the various features on most of his palms, and the lack of legs, Castiel does not have an easy time moving around. When needed he drags himself around with the hands that don't host an eye or mouth, balancing precariously on carven limbs. He can scoot around like a snake pretty well on carpets and grass, but his smooth feathers have him slip-sliding if he attempts it on hardwood or tile. He wasn’t really built to be slithering around though, and Dean was pretty sure, angel or not, it was bothering his stomach to do it. It was just as well that the predicament meant Castiel had to stay in or very close to the house, so he never has to move very far on his own. Although since Castiel doesn’t seem to weigh anywhere near how much his size suggests, Dean has no issues tossing the angel onto his shoulders and carrying him around like an oversized backpack, his long tail and wings trailing behind them.
Castiel can’t fit in the shower, or really get most of himself in the bathroom at all, which is a real shame, and he’s so long that there’s a few unfortunate incidents when he gets caught by closing doors. On movie nights, he piles himself up on the floor in front of the couch, and both he and Dean use his body as a pillow. They spend one idle afternoon rubbing down wing oil across all his feather coat, leaving Dean smelling like he rolled down a hill of flowers and Castiel shining like a blackfire opal. Dean tries to take pictures, but they never seem to come out right on his phone, like trying to take photos of the moon, all glowy and indistinct.
Mostly, they just relax. It’s what they’ve all been doing since the start of their well-earned ‘retirement’. Dean can’t help but notice Castiel getting more and more restless as they approach the full moon.
He kinda wishes that Castiel didn’t so clearly hate the way he looked like this. Yes, Dean wants the angel back to normal, for a multitude of reasons, but there’s something appealing to him like this too.
Dean knows it’s no secret to Castiel that he enjoys sleeping with him. In the biblical sense it goes without saying, but in the more innocent sense, being literally wrapped up in all the warmth and softness of his partner has Dean sleeping better than he ever has in his life. Dean’s gonna miss it.
*******
Dean had been hoping that the spell would wear off at the same time it’d been cast, for Castiel’s sake, but that didn’t seem to be the case.
They spent the day outside, Castiel carefully accepting torn chunks of sandwich from Dean passed hand-to-mouth-hand. Dean’s not quite sure what happens to the food Castiel eats since he doesn’t seem to bother with his vessel’s actual digestive system. Maybe it all goes into a black hole or gets dissipated into molecules. Maybe there’s a spot in Heaven where bits of pie and sandwich spontaneously appear. Dean could ask, but there’s something enjoyable in speculating about unimportant things.
Eileen had confirmed that, from the outside, Castiel had basically just popped into the shape he was currently in, no explosions or light show. Luckily he hadn’t been wearing his trench coat, or it would’ve been torn to shreds like the slacks and shirt he had been wearing at the time. They’re not sure if the spell’s ending will be triggered by the moon in some way, or if it’s purely time-based, so here they are, in the yard, just to be safe.
Castiel doesn’t turn back at sunset, or moon rise, or midnight, and that’s when Dean starts to get worried.
“We’ve still got the witching hour,” Sam says, but Dean can tell he’s getting antsy too.
The brothers transition to sitting on the porch, kicking their feet as the clock creeps towards 3AM. Castiel lays out on the lawn in view of the sky.
The moonlight glints off Castiel’s rings and turns all his feathers silver. There’s one long moment they all hold their breath as it still seems like the spell won’t wear off, but then Castiel makes a noise like a zipper unzipping and puffs up all over, going blurred around the edges like Dean’s looking at a 3d movie without glasses.
Dean’s eyes must give up on trying to parse what they’re seeing because one second Castiel was all coiled up in a ball on the grass, and the next he’s sprawled on the lawn buck ass naked and human-shaped with no in-between. Castiel looks down at himself, back up at Sam and Dean quickly, and pops out his wings, covering himself with them very demurely.
Dean runs inside to snatch the throw off the sofa and jogs back out to throw it overtop Castiel. With some maneuvering, Castiel wraps it around himself like a toga without giving Sam any more of an eyeful. Frosted by the moon, he looks like one of those stone statues in church alcoves, albeit much more whimsical. The blanket is one Eileen bought, and it’s covered in little frogs.
“Good?” Dean asks, hooking his arm.
“I’m fine,” Castiel clutches the blanket tighter, “Can we go inside please?”
“Glad you’re back to normal, Cas,” Sam holds the door for them.
Castiel’s feet are covered in dirt and so are the palms of his hands. He’s also got a very light coating of his wing oil all over his skin, now dried, so he feels sort of weird and gummy under Dean’s grip. As soon as they’re in, Dean is pulling him up the stairs to the master bath, waving off Sam’s “good night”.
They’ll just hop in for a quick shower before they go to bed.
“I missed showers,” Castiel says, getting blasted directly in the face by the showerhead. Traces of mud swirl around the drain. When Dean comes up behind him and hugs him around the waist, tucking his head over Castiel’s shoulder, the angel adds, “I missed this.”
“M-me too.”
“I appreciate everyone accommodating me this past month,” Castiel lays his hands over Dean, swaying lightly, “I’m glad we’ll be able to put this whole ordeal behind us.”
Dean hums noncommittally.
Castiel tries to twist around to squint at him, but Dean doesn’t let him, “What does that mean?”
“Y-you we-re very sssssoft,” Dean defends himself. He squeezes Castiel’s middle, “Cute.”
“I’m not cute!” But Dean can hear the smile, although Castiel follows it up by saying derisively, “I especially was not cute like that. ”
“Uh-huh,” Dean shifts his head so that he’s pressed his face between Castiel’s shoulder blades.
“I’m serious,” Castiel says, twisting around in Dean’s hold so that they’re standing chest-to-chest, “You’ll see once you’re in Heaven. That form doesn’t even come close to what I truly look like. It doesn’t even have the charm of an actual vessel.”
“Ssst-ill sss-oft, angel,” Dean teases, “My ssssoft angel worm.”
“I’ll show you soft,” Castiel growls and kisses Dean so hard he bends backwards, held up by Castiel’s arm.
Dean pulls away and cuts off his next thought with a jaw-cracking yawn.
Castiel’s face falls into a gentle smile, “It’s late.”
“And you’re tired,” he turns off the shower, “We should go to bed.”
“O-kay,” Dean yawns again.
Clean, in fresh pajamas, tucked into bed, and a little less literally wrapped up in his angel’s embrace than has been the case the past month, Dean can feel dreams beckoning him to sleep. He buries his nose in Castiel’s collar, “Love you.”
Castiel goes still, then cuddles him gently into his chest, “I love you, too.”
The words don’t send panic screaming through Dean’s psyche; instead, they warm the core of him, both his and Castiel’s emotions blurring together in a ebb and flow of affection and trust as they drift off in each other’s embrace.