Work Text:
Angels don’t usually physically fly places. They warp, or teleport, or ‘appear,’ whatever people wanted to call it. In Heaven, an Angel can do it as they please with little consequence. A warping Angel could be punished if they were doing so in disobedience, of course, but the actual act of warping didn’t hurt them.
Earth is not Heaven. Angels are not made to remain on Earth. Every teleport chips their true form like human pottery, expending parts of themself to propel across the planet. It eats away at their Grace until they can retreat to Heaven and recollect themself.
Castiel cannot retreat to Heaven.
This realization had lead to him attempting to… ration his abilities. To keep himself as powerful as possible for as long as possible. He does not know what happens when an Angel’s Grace burns out, or when their true form shatters, but he is not keen on finding out.
So, instead of teleporting, he had flown.
Which meant using his wings, which meant using his damaged form, which meant—
Castiel hits the ground hard.
He tears through turf, his momentum dragging him forward— one wing lurches, trying to catch him, the other lands awkwardly below him and snaps— he tumbles, agony lancing through him—
—ow.
He rolls to a stop.
For a long moment, Castiel just lays there. The stars stare down at him. His chest burns; he can’t get a full breath in, air knocked out by the fall.
He rolls onto his side, taking weight from his splintered wing. He’s making noises; thin whimpers escaping him on every exhale. He hurts. It fucking hurts. Castiel gasps, choking on a sob.
Well. So much for flying.
…
Dean cleans blood from a well-loved blade, humming along with the alarm clock's radio. He takes a swig, tosses his empty bottle, and turns to get a new one—
—and reaches for his gun instead, aiming at the bundle of feathers on his motel bed.
There's... a bird... on his bed. A giant-ass bird. Dean stares at it down the barrel of a pistol. How the hell did a giant bird get in here? Why the hell did a giant bird get in here.
"I didn't mean to interrupt. I needed a moment to recover."
Dean stares at the pair of wings, folded over what seems to be Castiel. He doesn't lower his gun. There's a handful of giant black feathers resting on the sheets.
"That means don't shoot."
"Just 'cause I call you feathers," Dean starts, pursing his lips.
Castiel shifts, motel mattress creaking. He turns awkwardly to his stomach, right wing hanging limply against the bed. It twitches and Cass' face pinches, hissing. His whole body shudders.
"You can see them?"
"Yeah, I can see 'em, Cass, you've got wings the size of— New freakin' Jersey!" Dean marches over, gesturing. "Y'know, I don't usually spring for feather pillows." He reaches out to poke one—
"Shit!" Castiel jolts, choking. He shoots upright (he's got ear wings, too?!) and hisses, "Don't touch that, Dean."
Dean bites his lips to keep from chuckling. "Sensitive?"
"Broken."
Oh, well, now Dean feels like an asshole. He staggers backward to grab bandages from his bag, chewing his lip. "Didn't know you could break bones."
"I can't, usually." When Dean turns back around, Castiel is staring at him, eyes narrowed. His ear-wings have curled forward to hide most of his face. It's... kind of cute. "Angels aren't meant to stay on Earth this long. I'll be fine, I just..." Cass grimaces. "Need a moment."
"Is this one of those... vessel... connection things?" Dean inches closer, gesturing. He sits at the edge of the bed and tries not to jostle too much.
Castiel flexes his wing and winces, taking it in his hands. His wrists, too, have small clusters of feathers on them. Dean can see the break, the bone offset enough to be visible even from a distance. He grimaces in sympathy.
"No," Cass responds, taking Dean's offered bandages. He scowls at the wrap and then at his wing and then at the wrap again before finally starting. "It is not related to my... earlier poor judgement. Ow. This is just a— side effect of being on Earth."
"Uh-huh," Dean mumbles. He's not an expert on bird care, but he's pretty sure that's not what someone's supposed to do with a busted wing. Maybe Angel wings work differently. "I don't think you can... not be on Earth." Dean purses his lips, considering. If Cass can't get back to Heaven to get his mojo back...
"Are you... are you gonna be okay?"
Castiel doesn't respond.