[ Cas visible flinches at the sound of feathers, and perhaps Castiel will even notice the telltale twitch of his fingers, as if muscle memory makes him try to flick a blade into his palm that he can no longer call forth, the reflex of a soldier expecting an attack.
Even here, even knowing he called Castiel, years of being hunted by angels before Heaven closed off have left their mark. But Cas stills his fingers by curling them into his hair for a moment.
And then he sits up, looks at Castiel. Instantly regrets it, too, as painful memories flash across his mind at the familiar sight of trench coat and tie, once so meaningless to him. He remembers the tie stuffed between his teeth as Dean had to set a bone that Cas could no longer heal. Remembers the trench coat becoming a source of warmth and eventually a blanket when he traded in suit, dress shirt and dress shoes for linen, jeans and combat boots. Eventually, they had to burn it during a particularly harsh winter. It had been caked with dirt, and there was no point wasting resources on trying to mend it, fix it, clean it.
Just like with Cas himself.
He stares at Castiel and sees little more than Jimmy Novak, although something within him chimes in discordant echo to the wavelength of Castiel's existence. He knew Castiel would feel like more, like everything Cas used to be... he just didn't expect him to feel like more than that, in ways Cas can no longer quite comprehend. He doesn't remember himself like this.
Then again, he barely remembers himself at all.
So for a moment he just stares. A tear silently rolls down a cheek that is a little more hollow than Castiel's, from eyes that are just a little more broken. His stubble is more pronounced. He's harsh angles and rough edges, dragged through the mud and then some, pitiful and broken. Frayed edges where he used to be connected to the Host, hollow where once he was vast. Wings broken and crippled, true form a silent carcass of itself.
He stares at Castiel, and he feels small, and he feels alone. ]
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Even here, even knowing he called Castiel, years of being hunted by angels before Heaven closed off have left their mark. But Cas stills his fingers by curling them into his hair for a moment.
And then he sits up, looks at Castiel. Instantly regrets it, too, as painful memories flash across his mind at the familiar sight of trench coat and tie, once so meaningless to him. He remembers the tie stuffed between his teeth as Dean had to set a bone that Cas could no longer heal. Remembers the trench coat becoming a source of warmth and eventually a blanket when he traded in suit, dress shirt and dress shoes for linen, jeans and combat boots. Eventually, they had to burn it during a particularly harsh winter. It had been caked with dirt, and there was no point wasting resources on trying to mend it, fix it, clean it.
Just like with Cas himself.
He stares at Castiel and sees little more than Jimmy Novak, although something within him chimes in discordant echo to the wavelength of Castiel's existence. He knew Castiel would feel like more, like everything Cas used to be... he just didn't expect him to feel like more than that, in ways Cas can no longer quite comprehend. He doesn't remember himself like this.
Then again, he barely remembers himself at all.
So for a moment he just stares. A tear silently rolls down a cheek that is a little more hollow than Castiel's, from eyes that are just a little more broken. His stubble is more pronounced. He's harsh angles and rough edges, dragged through the mud and then some, pitiful and broken. Frayed edges where he used to be connected to the Host, hollow where once he was vast. Wings broken and crippled, true form a silent carcass of itself.
He stares at Castiel, and he feels small, and he feels alone. ]
It's Dean...