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Dean is walking through the library dictating a spell to Sam as Sam types furiously away on his keyboard. The text is in Hebrew and now that Dean's an angel, he can translate the words quicker than Sam can (take that, Sammy!). As he paces back and forth, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to ease some of the tension that he's been carrying around for the past three days, Cas appears in the library behind Dean.
"Hey, Cas," Dean says over his shoulder not turning around and Sam looks up from his computer at Castiel and grins.
Castiel offers no return greeting but looks down to the floor where Dean's wings are dragging behind him. They're sagging from his back sad and droopy looking, gathering dust as they trail along the floor after him.
"Dean, your wings are dragging," Castiel points out as if Dean can't feel the tug between his shoulder blades every time he moves. Castiel bends down and takes a handful of Dean's feathers in his arms, hauling them up off the ground and pushing them over Dean's shoulder so they're safe from being stepped on. Some of the tension eases out of Dean's upper back and he continues his pace across the room, translating text as he goes. Sam, who can't see Dean's wings, just shakes his head and tunes back into Dean's translations.
A few minutes later, Dean's wings slide off his shoulders and to the floor again, Castiel watching them as they go like a cat observing a piece of dust. Sam hears the rustle of feathers and looks up. Dean stops walking and Castiel studies the feathers in a heap at Dean's feet before grasping at an idea and looking up to Dean.
"Dean, are you unable to hold your wings up?" he asks.
Dean's face goes red then and he puts the book up in front of it, translating louder and evading Castiel's question.
Dean. Castiel's quiet rumble sounds in Dean's head and Dean stops translating and stills. The first time Castiel had spoken to him inside his head, Dean had nearly choked on his cheeseburger (which Castiel had told him he could eat even though he no longer felt hunger) he'd pushed a thought back at Cas and since then they'd been communicating telepathically more often than not. It was, if Dean had to admit, kind of awesome. Especially when Sam was in the room. Dean would use those opportunities to push dirty images into Castiel's head and grin his best shit-eating grin while Cas would squirm in an attempt to keep his composure.
Yeah Cas? Dean asks back silently.
Why do you tow your wings behind you instead of carry them on your back?
Dean finds a very interesting tile on the ground and doesn't respond.
Dean. Cas prods again, gentle and consoling. Please talk to me. You look uncomfortable.
They're fucking heavy, Cas. Dean finally mutters, pushing the thought into Cas's head, grateful Sam can't hear.
Castiel huffs a small laugh at that and Dean meets his eyes. They're warm and sympathetic which Dean both loves and hates.
Don't look at me like that, Cas. Dean requests because he doesn't want sympathy. He chose this, he said yes, now it's his burden to bear and he'll bare it like a man, dammit.
You could have told me, Dean. I can help you.
Dean's feathers ripple then, ever so slightly. He's still trying to figure out how to make them bend to his will but so far, they still move of their own accord. Regardless, they too seem to perk up at the idea that Castiel can make things a little easier.
Yeah? Dean implores with a hopeful grin. Castiel nods back at him.
Yes.
They're drawn from their silent conversation by the grate of Sam clearing his throat. "You guys are having conversations in your heads again, aren't you?" he asks rhetorically.
Castiel offers a guiltless shrug and Sam smiles a small smile, shaking his head.
"Sorry Sammy," Dean offers.
"It's fine. I'm actually gonna head out. I'm meeting Garth for lunch in a bit so," he gesticulates at them as he closes his laptop, "carry on with the sweet nothings." He stands and carries his laptop out of the room.
Dean calls after him, "they weren't sweet nothings, Sam! We were discussing manly stuff! Cars and guns and grrr," Dean growls for good measure.
"Sure, Dean!" Sam's response comes from down the hall.
Dean looks back down at the book, marking his spot and then places it back on the shelf.
"Come Dean, I think it's time you had your wings groomed," Castiel says with a quirk of his lips. Dean looks up at him, eyebrows raised, lips parted.
"Groomed? You didn't say anything about being groomed!" And maybe it's not really that big of a deal, but it sounds weird and makes Dean think of monkeys picking fleas off of each other.
"It's nothing like that, Dean," Castiel interrupts, reading the other angel's thoughts, "Just trust me. If I make you uncomfortable, we can stop."
Dean doesn't budge so Castiel sends him an image of Dean, shirtless, on his stomach with Castiel straddling his hips, kneading out the knots in his back and stroking long deft fingers through his feathers. Suddenly Dean's very interested in grooming and he doesn't protest one bit as Castiel hooks an arm around his waist and flies them into Dean's bedroom.
Castiel closes and locks the door, states, "this may take awhile," and then instructs Dean to take his clothes off.
"Do angels always groom each other naked?" Dean questions as he strips down to nothing but his navy blue boxer briefs. Castiel's lips twitch ever so slightly.
"Not particularly," is his only explanation as he slips out of his trench and suit coat laying them over the chair at Dean's desk and rolling up his sleeves. He toes out of his shoes like he's seen Dean do a thousand times and waits for Dean to lay on the bed like he'd shown him telepathically in the library.
Carefully pushing Dean's haggard wings out of the way, Castiel climbs atop Dean and rests his knees on either side of Dean's hips. He arranges Dean's wings so that they lay on either side of him, fanning out across the bed and spilling down onto the ground, fields of white down carpeting the ground. Dean lets out a sigh of relief he didn't know was building and notes how much better he already feels with the pulling weight off his back.
Castiel begins rubbing at the wing joints in-between his shoulder blades with the heel of his hand and Dean practically keens underneath him as his muscles loosen and turn pliant.
"You're going to damage your wing joints if you don't carry your wings properly," Castiel explains, his voice a steady calm against Dean's nerves. He digs his fingers beneath Dean's shoulder blades and rubs methodically until the muscles there loosen as well.
"They don't listen to me," Dean admits, his face shoved into the pillow, a tiny trail of drool leaking from his mouth. He slurps it back up shamelessly and lets out a contended, "ah," as Castiel moves his hands up to the base of his neck, his agile fingers working out kinks as they go.
"They're a part of you now, Dean, you will learn to control them. And if you carry them properly, they won't be so heavy. In time you'll get used to their weight and eventually you and I can fly together."
"No flying," Dean mutters, his eyelids drifting closed, his body a supple mound of muscle beneath Cas's fingers.
"Flying is wonderful, Dean," Castiel informs him and he bends down to place a gentle kiss between Dean's shoulder blades right where his newly obtained appendages now start. Dean grunts at him but other than that, does not respond.
When Castiel is satisfied with the work he's done on Dean's back, he moves his fingers through the feathers at the base of Dean's wings. “The scapulars” Castiel calls them, are smaller and more sensitive and when Castiel's fingers stroke along between them, grazing lightly at the skin beneath, Dean sucks in his breath, tenses beneath the touch. Castiel says nothing and moves to rub at the muscle beneath the down.
Dean lets out a low moan into his pillow.
Castiel get's through a few more strokes before Dean can’t handle it anymore. His body is singing with arousal, his wings flaring out at his sides. Cas reaches down to continue but Dean is bucking him off, rolling over, tangling his wings as he goes and grabbing Castiel, pulling him down on top of him. Dean’s body is tight once more, dick at attention and if he'd known it felt that good he would have agreed to grooming a long time ago.
"Dean," Castiel protests weakly against Dean's lips, "your wings."
"Forget about the damn wings, Cas, just shut up and kiss me."
Castiel obliges.
A few more lights blow out, but Dean doesn’t even need to ask this time whose fault it is. He’ll take the blame gladly.