[FIC] Into Existence (PG-13) for Mysticfalls
Gift type: Fanfic
Title: Into Existence
Recipient: mysticfalls
Author: twodromance
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, falling!Cas and a touch of angst
Spoilers: nothing too specific beyond 5x01
Summary: Dean zaps a demon with his hand. Castiel has some explaining to do.
Author notes: ≈2,500 words. My brain's slightly twisted (and much too short) take on the prompt "When Castiel brings Dean back from hell and restores his body, Dean gets some angel grace. And later Castiel has to teach Dean how to use his new found angel powers. Bonus if it involves wings."
It happens on a Thursday.
The irony of this doesn't escape Castiel but he doesn't dare comment on it. Not while there's terror dawning in Dean's eyes, impossibly wide and fixed on the crumpled body at his feet. Ruby's knife is still in his right hand, knuckles white around the handle. His left hand is hovering in front of him with fingers extended like he's afraid to pull them back in.
Considering he's just killed a demon with a simple touch to the forehead, Castiel can't say he blames him.
No, definitely not the time to start waxing celestially poetic.
"Dean-"
"Sammy," Dean snaps, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "Don't."
Castiel turns his attention to the younger Winchester, all long limbs and massive body pressed up against a wall at the opposite end of the room. His mind is racing, assuming the worst; Castiel shuts off the broadcast with a thought but he can't avoid reading the fear on Sam's face. He's staring at his brother with his jaw clenched tight, veins popping and hands twitching into fists at his sides, and suddenly Castiel is aware that this isn't going to end well unless he speaks up fast.
"You are not possessed," he announces. And then, for Sam's benefit: "This is not the effect of any demonic influence, Sam."
When Dean looks up his face is unnaturally pale. Castiel watches him bring his hand in toward his chest, turning it over in the air, flipping his palm up to the sky. He examines it with brows knit in a sort of suspicious confusion and Castiel decides that he should have put a lot more thought into how he'd handle this situation before having it thrown in his face. The nervous knot in the pit of his stomach is, without a doubt, all his own.
"What?" Dean finally asks, question directed at no one in particular. He spins around to face Castiel and the color has returned to his cheeks twofold. His free hand points to the heap of human on the floor. "What the hell just happened, Cas? How did I do that?" Now his voice is shaky. Scared, but not angry. Not yet.
Castiel straightens and pulls in a long breath. Unnecessary, but it gives him an extra fraction of a second to consider his words. Then he sighs. "My Grace," he admits, because really -- who is he kidding? There's no way to soften this blow. "Your entire being is infused with it."
Dean's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and he crosses his arms over his chest. "Bullshit."
"It's true, Dean."
"If it is, why didn't you mention it -- oh, I dunno, when you dug me up?"
Castiel lets his shoulders slump and his eyes flit off to the side. He doesn't have to see Dean to know that the hunter's gaze is boring holes straight through his skull, searching for answers with such intensity that the angel wonders if he's managed a glimpse of his true form: all that liquid light and supposed good behind borrowed bone. His body shudders, but no words come.
"So Dean is part angel." It's a statement, not a question, and Sam's expression is growing even more uneasy. He's settling into a defensive stance at Dean's side.
"In a sense." Castiel closes his eyes as he finds his tongue. "The amount actually necessary to raise you should not have been able to... manifest itself, not in any noticeable way. It should have continued to lie dormant, as it has been, until your death."
The confession is met with silence and Castiel slowly looks back up. Sam and Dean are exchanging glances in that knowing, almost telepathic way that reminds him so much of his own brothers. For reasons he's not quite sure how to interpret, Castiel gets the feeling that this might be easier to do if he and Dean were alone. It's not an option, of course. Just a feeling.
He's having a lot of those lately.
"Well, it's manifesting," Dean points out helpfully, derailing his train of thought, "and you don't seem all that surprised, Cas."
"No." He lifts his chin, eyes locking with Dean's. If he's going to come clean he certainly isn't going to allow either of them to think that he's ashamed. "I'm surprised that it's happening now," he clarifies. "Since the first few months passed without incident I assumed that we had, I suppose, dodged the proverbial bullet."
Dean snorts and there's a hint of nervous laughter behind it. "So, what?" he asks before Castiel can continue. "Is this just going to flare up every now and then like a bad case of angel herpes?" Sam pulls a face and Dean shrugs. "It's a legitimate question!"
Castiel's expression softens. He's pretty sure this feeling is called 'relief'.
- - - - -
The drive back to the motel promptly turns into Dean's personal Q&A session with the angel. Castiel suggests the word 'interrogation' early on but Dean scoffs and insists that it's nothing of the sort.
"So, this one's important," he says, perking up. "Can I fly?"
"No, Dean."
"Not even that popping in-and-out thing you do?"
"No."
"Angelic telekinesis?"
"There's a slight possibility."
"Dude, awesome."
With Sam at the wheel Dean has managed to twist around in the passenger seat, seat belt digging into the collar of his jacket and one arm draped over the headrest. He's focused so completely on Castiel that he's missing most of Sam's highly-appropriate eye rolling.
"Okay, okay," he clears his throat, "more importantly: will I be able to waste Lucifer?"
"Dean," Sam huffs.
"What?"
A slight tilt of Castiel's head, and then: "You know that Lucifer is not a demon."
"Yeah, I know, but angels can kill angels, right?"
"You're not an angel, Dean."
"So that means no."
"That means no."
Dean frowns. "Well can I eavesdrop on the rest of those assholes?"
"Doubtful."
"Please, please tell me I can at least give Zachariah stomach cancer. That son of a bitch, I swear to God-"
"You would only be inflicting it upon his vessel," Castiel interrupts, "and besides, he would heal it instantaneously. Still, the answer is no."
"Right." Dean frowns. A few long seconds pass and then he opens his mouth again, hesitates, and snaps it shut without a word, turning around to face the road. "Right."
The final question remains unspoken but a faint smile pulls at one corner of Castiel's mouth.
- - - - -
By the time they pull into the parking lot Sam is mostly convinced that his brother is harmless. Dean has dubbed his new-found superpowers 'pretty freakin' lame, man' and Castiel has assured both of them (several times, in fact) that, no, he's not in danger of becoming addicted to angel blood. Castiel had actually scrunched up his nose at that one. The gesture elicited a laugh from Dean and a regretful look from Sam that almost made Castiel feel sorry for him.
Dean unlocks the door to the room and ushers him in, then hangs back to stage-whisper something to Sam right beyond the threshold. He does his best to tune them out, remembering that Dean's teachings on personal space had mentioned not listening to other people's private thoughts and conversations. It's the small things that make humans feel more comfortable, he had explained, and so Castiel makes an honest effort.
The door finally swings shut and Castiel turns around at the click. Sam isn't there.
"He had some errands to run," Dean offers, maybe a little too quickly. "Geek stuff. I told him to bring back Chinese, though."
"Oh." Castiel replies, then shrugs. His arms hang stiff at his sides. "Okay."
A faint smile creeps across Dean's face and he reaches around to rub the back of his neck. Three long strides and then he's across the room, dropping down onto the edge of the mattress. The old springs give a muffled creak under his weight. "C'mere, Cas."
He does as he's told, moving between the two beds to sit across from Dean. He notes that this bed is neatly made, comforter pulled up and smoothed out with pillows arranged neatly at the headboard. This must be Sam's bed.
"What else did you want to tell me?"
Castiel starts and lifts his head, tipping his chin back. "You're becoming more observant, Dean Winchester."
"And you're becoming more human. Makes it a hell of a lot easier to tell when you're hiding something." There's no accusation in his tone, but Castiel detects a hint of sadness. Maybe affection.
A few moments pass while he considers this. Dean shifts and the mattress squeaks.
Castiel sighs again.
"When I resurrected you," he begins, pausing briefly while the hunter's eyes lock onto his own, "Dean -- it was not an easy process. I had to rebuild you. I had to weave you back into existence, one fiber at a time. That kind of task requires more than just standard angel 'mojo.'"
"Your Grace," Dean nods, leaning back on his elbows.
"Yes. My orders were to find you and raise you. Supposedly, this would be accomplished by allowing your soul to pass through my being. That contact with the Grace would provide enough strength for your soul to reattach itself to your flesh, and over time it would fade away to nothingness. But then I actually found you..."
His voice catches unexpectedly and Dean raises one eyebrow. Castiel shakes his head and looks down at his lap.
"There are no words for what I saw. What I felt. Fields of flame and the most beautiful soul I had ever seen, broken and bloodied and ripped apart in ways that I did not know were possible.
"Can you imagine what it's like to exist for millenia without ever experiencing emotion?" And he's not really speaking to Dean now, just speaking because it needs to be said aloud; he needs to hear himself say it. "Despair -- that was my first. It was excruciating, Dean, and I didn't understand. I thought that maybe I was dying. But when I finally realized what was happening I knew that I could not send you back in that state. Not with all of that pain and hatred still coursing through you, eating away at your soul from the inside."
Through the hum of silence Castiel swears he can hear Dean's heartbeat. His speeds up in reply. The next words are important so he pronounces each one with care.
"I did everything in my power to purge your soul of Hell. I healed what was there to heal and then I filled the holes and patched the tears with the purest matter in all the Heavens, the life force of the Host itself. That was the true beginning of my downfall, Dean. That was my first crime, but I would do it again without a second thought."
Another minute ticks away quietly. Castiel lifts his head. Across from him Dean is hunched over, elbows propped on his thighs and hands cupped over his face. He can see moisture on the long lashes that fan out over his freckled cheeks. "Cas," Dean says, and his voice is low and hoarse. He drops his hands to his lap, rolls his shoulders back, clears his throat. "Cas, I don't-"
"I know." He watches Dean watch the carpet, watches the muscles work in his jaw.
"It's okay." He leans forward and slides off the bed, settling onto his knees in front of him.
There's another hitched breath and round, green eyes staring into blue as Castiel takes Dean's face between his hands. His cheeks flush violently and Castiel can feel the heat soak into the rough skin of his palms. He brushes the pads of his thumbs over high cheekbones and lets his own lips part to mirror Dean's.
"You haven't asked me your last question," he breathes.
Dean shivers. "You cheated."
"A little."
"You're a dick."
That same small smile is tugging at Castiel's lips again. "Do you trust me?"
"Seriously? You're seriously asking me that, after the whole f-"
"Dean. Please."
His gaze never falters. "With my life."
Castiel's mouth finally splits into a true smile that widens the moment Dean smiles back at him. His human heart threatens to burst in his chest. "Thank you."
There are no spells or rituals, no Enochian carvings or blood-spattered sigils. There's a light under his skin, though -- it pools behind his eyes and slides through his limbs, heavy and warm. He knows the exact moment it rises within Dean because there's a sudden, choked gasping sound and frantic hands reaching out to curl their fingers into the sleeves of his trench coat. Pupils constrict and teeth clench behind taut lips but he doesn't look away, doesn't even blink.
"Dean." Castiel stretches up a little higher until their foreheads touch. "Dean, you're safe."
"I know," he groans, but trembling arms become trembling shoulders and he digs his fingers a little harder into Castiel.
"I'm here," the angel whispers, and when Dean's eyes roll back in his head Castiel thinks, Almost. He closes his eyes and leans up.
There's a small explosion of color across the back of his eyelids when he presses their lips together for the first time. Dean's mouth is white hot, obscenely familiar and overwhelmingly new and he doesn't know what he's doing, just that it's good. It's good and it's right and it's working, because Dean's hands finally relax and then he's dragging them up the length of Castiel's arms. They come to rest on his shoulders with a firm squeeze. His mouth responds, too, movements soft and tortuously slow, and Castiel pulls back in surprise when a low moan works its way up his throat.
His eyes snap open and Dean is smiling. Flecks of white and gold are splashed across his face and Castiel follows them up, past arched brows and wild hair into to the charged space above them. "Look," he says.
Dean does, and Castiel wonders what he sees.
What he sees is truth: brilliant arcs of energy that sprout from between Dean's shoulder blades and fill the room with colors no longer recognized on the earthly plane. The wings swirl and pulse and remind him of all that he's lost.
Dean, with his mouth hanging open and his eyes shining, gently pulls them both to their feet. Castiel starts to lower his hands but hesitates when he notices that Dean's are still clamped onto his shoulders. He wraps his fingers around the hunter's wrists instead and they stand there, heads tilted back, until Dean's voice returns.
"Are these mine?" He raises one hand, tentatively stroking the nearest band of light. It warps and bends toward his touch.
"Yes," Castiel replies with a nod. "Mostly. I helped."
Dean grins again and dips his head, brushing a kiss across Castiel's lower lip. The room brightens, just for a second, and erases the shadows from their skin. The wings flare and fold back and remind Castiel of all that he's gained.
Title: Into Existence
Recipient: mysticfalls
Author: twodromance
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, falling!Cas and a touch of angst
Spoilers: nothing too specific beyond 5x01
Summary: Dean zaps a demon with his hand. Castiel has some explaining to do.
Author notes: ≈2,500 words. My brain's slightly twisted (and much too short) take on the prompt "When Castiel brings Dean back from hell and restores his body, Dean gets some angel grace. And later Castiel has to teach Dean how to use his new found angel powers. Bonus if it involves wings."
It happens on a Thursday.
The irony of this doesn't escape Castiel but he doesn't dare comment on it. Not while there's terror dawning in Dean's eyes, impossibly wide and fixed on the crumpled body at his feet. Ruby's knife is still in his right hand, knuckles white around the handle. His left hand is hovering in front of him with fingers extended like he's afraid to pull them back in.
Considering he's just killed a demon with a simple touch to the forehead, Castiel can't say he blames him.
No, definitely not the time to start waxing celestially poetic.
"Dean-"
"Sammy," Dean snaps, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "Don't."
Castiel turns his attention to the younger Winchester, all long limbs and massive body pressed up against a wall at the opposite end of the room. His mind is racing, assuming the worst; Castiel shuts off the broadcast with a thought but he can't avoid reading the fear on Sam's face. He's staring at his brother with his jaw clenched tight, veins popping and hands twitching into fists at his sides, and suddenly Castiel is aware that this isn't going to end well unless he speaks up fast.
"You are not possessed," he announces. And then, for Sam's benefit: "This is not the effect of any demonic influence, Sam."
When Dean looks up his face is unnaturally pale. Castiel watches him bring his hand in toward his chest, turning it over in the air, flipping his palm up to the sky. He examines it with brows knit in a sort of suspicious confusion and Castiel decides that he should have put a lot more thought into how he'd handle this situation before having it thrown in his face. The nervous knot in the pit of his stomach is, without a doubt, all his own.
"What?" Dean finally asks, question directed at no one in particular. He spins around to face Castiel and the color has returned to his cheeks twofold. His free hand points to the heap of human on the floor. "What the hell just happened, Cas? How did I do that?" Now his voice is shaky. Scared, but not angry. Not yet.
Castiel straightens and pulls in a long breath. Unnecessary, but it gives him an extra fraction of a second to consider his words. Then he sighs. "My Grace," he admits, because really -- who is he kidding? There's no way to soften this blow. "Your entire being is infused with it."
Dean's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and he crosses his arms over his chest. "Bullshit."
"It's true, Dean."
"If it is, why didn't you mention it -- oh, I dunno, when you dug me up?"
Castiel lets his shoulders slump and his eyes flit off to the side. He doesn't have to see Dean to know that the hunter's gaze is boring holes straight through his skull, searching for answers with such intensity that the angel wonders if he's managed a glimpse of his true form: all that liquid light and supposed good behind borrowed bone. His body shudders, but no words come.
"So Dean is part angel." It's a statement, not a question, and Sam's expression is growing even more uneasy. He's settling into a defensive stance at Dean's side.
"In a sense." Castiel closes his eyes as he finds his tongue. "The amount actually necessary to raise you should not have been able to... manifest itself, not in any noticeable way. It should have continued to lie dormant, as it has been, until your death."
The confession is met with silence and Castiel slowly looks back up. Sam and Dean are exchanging glances in that knowing, almost telepathic way that reminds him so much of his own brothers. For reasons he's not quite sure how to interpret, Castiel gets the feeling that this might be easier to do if he and Dean were alone. It's not an option, of course. Just a feeling.
He's having a lot of those lately.
"Well, it's manifesting," Dean points out helpfully, derailing his train of thought, "and you don't seem all that surprised, Cas."
"No." He lifts his chin, eyes locking with Dean's. If he's going to come clean he certainly isn't going to allow either of them to think that he's ashamed. "I'm surprised that it's happening now," he clarifies. "Since the first few months passed without incident I assumed that we had, I suppose, dodged the proverbial bullet."
Dean snorts and there's a hint of nervous laughter behind it. "So, what?" he asks before Castiel can continue. "Is this just going to flare up every now and then like a bad case of angel herpes?" Sam pulls a face and Dean shrugs. "It's a legitimate question!"
Castiel's expression softens. He's pretty sure this feeling is called 'relief'.
- - - - -
The drive back to the motel promptly turns into Dean's personal Q&A session with the angel. Castiel suggests the word 'interrogation' early on but Dean scoffs and insists that it's nothing of the sort.
"So, this one's important," he says, perking up. "Can I fly?"
"No, Dean."
"Not even that popping in-and-out thing you do?"
"No."
"Angelic telekinesis?"
"There's a slight possibility."
"Dude, awesome."
With Sam at the wheel Dean has managed to twist around in the passenger seat, seat belt digging into the collar of his jacket and one arm draped over the headrest. He's focused so completely on Castiel that he's missing most of Sam's highly-appropriate eye rolling.
"Okay, okay," he clears his throat, "more importantly: will I be able to waste Lucifer?"
"Dean," Sam huffs.
"What?"
A slight tilt of Castiel's head, and then: "You know that Lucifer is not a demon."
"Yeah, I know, but angels can kill angels, right?"
"You're not an angel, Dean."
"So that means no."
"That means no."
Dean frowns. "Well can I eavesdrop on the rest of those assholes?"
"Doubtful."
"Please, please tell me I can at least give Zachariah stomach cancer. That son of a bitch, I swear to God-"
"You would only be inflicting it upon his vessel," Castiel interrupts, "and besides, he would heal it instantaneously. Still, the answer is no."
"Right." Dean frowns. A few long seconds pass and then he opens his mouth again, hesitates, and snaps it shut without a word, turning around to face the road. "Right."
The final question remains unspoken but a faint smile pulls at one corner of Castiel's mouth.
- - - - -
By the time they pull into the parking lot Sam is mostly convinced that his brother is harmless. Dean has dubbed his new-found superpowers 'pretty freakin' lame, man' and Castiel has assured both of them (several times, in fact) that, no, he's not in danger of becoming addicted to angel blood. Castiel had actually scrunched up his nose at that one. The gesture elicited a laugh from Dean and a regretful look from Sam that almost made Castiel feel sorry for him.
Dean unlocks the door to the room and ushers him in, then hangs back to stage-whisper something to Sam right beyond the threshold. He does his best to tune them out, remembering that Dean's teachings on personal space had mentioned not listening to other people's private thoughts and conversations. It's the small things that make humans feel more comfortable, he had explained, and so Castiel makes an honest effort.
The door finally swings shut and Castiel turns around at the click. Sam isn't there.
"He had some errands to run," Dean offers, maybe a little too quickly. "Geek stuff. I told him to bring back Chinese, though."
"Oh." Castiel replies, then shrugs. His arms hang stiff at his sides. "Okay."
A faint smile creeps across Dean's face and he reaches around to rub the back of his neck. Three long strides and then he's across the room, dropping down onto the edge of the mattress. The old springs give a muffled creak under his weight. "C'mere, Cas."
He does as he's told, moving between the two beds to sit across from Dean. He notes that this bed is neatly made, comforter pulled up and smoothed out with pillows arranged neatly at the headboard. This must be Sam's bed.
"What else did you want to tell me?"
Castiel starts and lifts his head, tipping his chin back. "You're becoming more observant, Dean Winchester."
"And you're becoming more human. Makes it a hell of a lot easier to tell when you're hiding something." There's no accusation in his tone, but Castiel detects a hint of sadness. Maybe affection.
A few moments pass while he considers this. Dean shifts and the mattress squeaks.
Castiel sighs again.
"When I resurrected you," he begins, pausing briefly while the hunter's eyes lock onto his own, "Dean -- it was not an easy process. I had to rebuild you. I had to weave you back into existence, one fiber at a time. That kind of task requires more than just standard angel 'mojo.'"
"Your Grace," Dean nods, leaning back on his elbows.
"Yes. My orders were to find you and raise you. Supposedly, this would be accomplished by allowing your soul to pass through my being. That contact with the Grace would provide enough strength for your soul to reattach itself to your flesh, and over time it would fade away to nothingness. But then I actually found you..."
His voice catches unexpectedly and Dean raises one eyebrow. Castiel shakes his head and looks down at his lap.
"There are no words for what I saw. What I felt. Fields of flame and the most beautiful soul I had ever seen, broken and bloodied and ripped apart in ways that I did not know were possible.
"Can you imagine what it's like to exist for millenia without ever experiencing emotion?" And he's not really speaking to Dean now, just speaking because it needs to be said aloud; he needs to hear himself say it. "Despair -- that was my first. It was excruciating, Dean, and I didn't understand. I thought that maybe I was dying. But when I finally realized what was happening I knew that I could not send you back in that state. Not with all of that pain and hatred still coursing through you, eating away at your soul from the inside."
Through the hum of silence Castiel swears he can hear Dean's heartbeat. His speeds up in reply. The next words are important so he pronounces each one with care.
"I did everything in my power to purge your soul of Hell. I healed what was there to heal and then I filled the holes and patched the tears with the purest matter in all the Heavens, the life force of the Host itself. That was the true beginning of my downfall, Dean. That was my first crime, but I would do it again without a second thought."
Another minute ticks away quietly. Castiel lifts his head. Across from him Dean is hunched over, elbows propped on his thighs and hands cupped over his face. He can see moisture on the long lashes that fan out over his freckled cheeks. "Cas," Dean says, and his voice is low and hoarse. He drops his hands to his lap, rolls his shoulders back, clears his throat. "Cas, I don't-"
"I know." He watches Dean watch the carpet, watches the muscles work in his jaw.
"It's okay." He leans forward and slides off the bed, settling onto his knees in front of him.
There's another hitched breath and round, green eyes staring into blue as Castiel takes Dean's face between his hands. His cheeks flush violently and Castiel can feel the heat soak into the rough skin of his palms. He brushes the pads of his thumbs over high cheekbones and lets his own lips part to mirror Dean's.
"You haven't asked me your last question," he breathes.
Dean shivers. "You cheated."
"A little."
"You're a dick."
That same small smile is tugging at Castiel's lips again. "Do you trust me?"
"Seriously? You're seriously asking me that, after the whole f-"
"Dean. Please."
His gaze never falters. "With my life."
Castiel's mouth finally splits into a true smile that widens the moment Dean smiles back at him. His human heart threatens to burst in his chest. "Thank you."
There are no spells or rituals, no Enochian carvings or blood-spattered sigils. There's a light under his skin, though -- it pools behind his eyes and slides through his limbs, heavy and warm. He knows the exact moment it rises within Dean because there's a sudden, choked gasping sound and frantic hands reaching out to curl their fingers into the sleeves of his trench coat. Pupils constrict and teeth clench behind taut lips but he doesn't look away, doesn't even blink.
"Dean." Castiel stretches up a little higher until their foreheads touch. "Dean, you're safe."
"I know," he groans, but trembling arms become trembling shoulders and he digs his fingers a little harder into Castiel.
"I'm here," the angel whispers, and when Dean's eyes roll back in his head Castiel thinks, Almost. He closes his eyes and leans up.
There's a small explosion of color across the back of his eyelids when he presses their lips together for the first time. Dean's mouth is white hot, obscenely familiar and overwhelmingly new and he doesn't know what he's doing, just that it's good. It's good and it's right and it's working, because Dean's hands finally relax and then he's dragging them up the length of Castiel's arms. They come to rest on his shoulders with a firm squeeze. His mouth responds, too, movements soft and tortuously slow, and Castiel pulls back in surprise when a low moan works its way up his throat.
His eyes snap open and Dean is smiling. Flecks of white and gold are splashed across his face and Castiel follows them up, past arched brows and wild hair into to the charged space above them. "Look," he says.
Dean does, and Castiel wonders what he sees.
What he sees is truth: brilliant arcs of energy that sprout from between Dean's shoulder blades and fill the room with colors no longer recognized on the earthly plane. The wings swirl and pulse and remind him of all that he's lost.
Dean, with his mouth hanging open and his eyes shining, gently pulls them both to their feet. Castiel starts to lower his hands but hesitates when he notices that Dean's are still clamped onto his shoulders. He wraps his fingers around the hunter's wrists instead and they stand there, heads tilted back, until Dean's voice returns.
"Are these mine?" He raises one hand, tentatively stroking the nearest band of light. It warps and bends toward his touch.
"Yes," Castiel replies with a nod. "Mostly. I helped."
Dean grins again and dips his head, brushing a kiss across Castiel's lower lip. The room brightens, just for a second, and erases the shadows from their skin. The wings flare and fold back and remind Castiel of all that he's gained.