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“Do you want me to preen you?”
Castiel watched as Dean’s wings—rock pigeon, but dappled impressively with clean white—puffed up as he whirled around. His feathers laid flat again at the sight of the angel. “You have got to stop doing that,” he snapped.
Castiel said nothing. Then, simply: “Your feathers are dirty.”
“You think?” Dean shook out his wings indignantly. “I haven’t exactly had the time to preen lately.”
Castiel tilted his head. “But you have time to preen Sam?”
Dean fell silent. His eyes flicked to his younger brother, curled up in his makeshift nest on the rickety motel bed. Sam’s red-winged blackbird wings were pulled tight around himself, and black feathers littered the blanket he slept on. Just seconds ago Dean had been combing his fingers through Sam’s feathers, carefully and methodically moving them back into place. Castiel didn’t understand why he refused to allow himself the same luxury.
“Somebody’s got to do it,” Dean said gruffly. “The kid’ll probably pluck all his feathers out if I leave his wings alone.”
Castiel blinked, confused, and then cast a pointed look at the state of Dean’s own wings. “It seems like you’ve been doing the same thing.”
Dean took a slow, deep breath in. “Cas. Enough. I’m tired. How do angels even preen, anyway? I would have thought you guys didn’t have to, seeing as you’re all so perfect and whatever—“
“We don’t,” Castiel said matter-of-factly, which made Dean scowl for some reason. “I had to pick it up while in this vessel.”
“Well, that’s reassuring. Stay away from my wings, then, would you?”
Wordlessly and unhurriedly, Castiel strode across the room to loom over Dean’s bed. The blankets were already shaped into a haphazard nest, lined by a smattering of gray-and-white feathers along with a few of Sam’s black ones, but it was far from a real nest. Not that pigeons were known for their architectural abilities anyway.
“Now what are you up to?” Dean demanded. He slowly unfurled his wings, but made no move to chase Castiel away.
Castiel decided not to mention the pigeon thing, as he had a feeling Dean might not react too well to that. Instead, he gently began to run his hands through his own wings, searching for a loose feather.
Avian wings were different from angel wings, that was for certain. Although they both shared feathers, Castiel had never shed a single one, much less ever had to preen, in his true form.
His vessel’s barn owl feathers were soft, and his flight was almost completely silent, much to Castiel’s relief. They were still uncomfortably far from his true wings, but at least he hadn’t ended up as a seagull or something.
It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for: a loose covert that he pulled out with ease. Castiel felt Dean’s sharp gaze on him as he laid it gently atop the makeshift nest.
Much to Castiel’s surprise, Dean didn’t protest. He stayed silent even as Castiel placed another feather, and then another.
Suddenly Dean lunged in his direction, flaring his wings and making a few entirely nonthreatening cooing sounds. Castiel didn’t completely understand avian behavior, and as a whole he thought it was kind of dumb, but he backed off anyway.
As he did, Dean’s wings drooped, and Castiel could have sworn he looked a little guilty.
“You’re not in any position to refuse my help, Dean,” Castiel told him reasonably.
Dean let out another irritated coo, but even he saw the logic in Castiel’s words. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. Do what you want.”
Dean settled into his nest, perching haphazardly on the side of the bed. He stretched out one rounded wing to give Castiel, who was apparently still standing too close, a light slap.
Giving Dean a wide berth, Castiel skirted around his nest to come up behind him and study his wings.
They were beautiful, Castiel had to admit. Maybe not so intricately patterned as his own barn owl wings, but still, the white spotting made for a rather pleasing effect that was unusual among the plumage of pigeons. His long flight feathers were pure as a dove’s, but the middle of his wings were splotched with stereotypical pigeon light gray. Two bands of black stretched across the gray area on each wing, cutting off entirely the moment they met white feathers.
As Castiel had observed, Dean’s wings were mussed to heaven. Clumps of dirt and even dried blood that he had inexplicably refused to clean out marred the snowiness of his white feathers, and almost everywhere Castiel looked he found yet another feather ruffled and out of place. The angel drew in a deep breath. He’d become decent enough at preening himself, but Dean had been practicing since the day he first began to fledge, and preening was a ritual of utmost importance amongst avians. There was no telling how Dean would react if Castiel made some sort of wrong move.
Regardless, Castiel threw himself into the work of smoothing out Dean’s feathers. The pigeon made a little rumbling coo of displeasure in his throat when Castiel first touched him, stirring up something unfamiliar that made the angel’s own feathers ruffle. Sympathy, maybe?
“When’s the last time someone did this for you?” Castiel asked quietly.
Dean scoffed. “What do you care? You’re an angel. You don’t know the first thing about preening.”
“Clearly you don’t, either.” With one quick movement, Castiel plucked out another damaged feather. He added it to the growing pile and frowned.
“I can fly just fine, can’t I? That’s all that matters,” Dean spat. His feathers fluffed up in annoyance, and Castiel took the opportunity to run his hands through the soft down underneath and search for any smaller loose plumes he might have missed.
With every light brush of Castiel’s fingers, more dry gray or white feathers dislodged themselves and spiraled down to stick on the thin motel sheets. They’d barely even been attached in the first place—Dean was dropping feathers left and right out of stress.
By the time Castiel was finished picking out all the damaged ones, Dean had several obvious spots of bare skin across his wings. Castiel winced, hoping he wouldn’t be too upset about that.
Even Dean’s healthy feathers were messy and out of place. Castiel turned his attention to those next, frowning at the sheer amount of barbules that were separated from one another. It was a wonder Dean could even fly.
“How does this even happen?” Castiel muttered, half-to-himself. Despite having a set of his own now, avian wings were still a mystery to him.
Dean snorted. “Oh, I don’t know. Getting chased every-godforsaken-where by demons and monsters and now your heavenly buddies?”
Castiel plucked out a bit of dried blood that took an entire feather with it, and Dean flinched. “No. I mean, how do you let it get this bad?”
“Didn’t you ask that already? I told you, I don’t have time.”
“You feel like you don’t deserve it.”
Dean didn’t respond, but Castiel felt his wings shed a tiny bit of their tension under his touch.