[2: action]

[out_of_minutes]

[Backdated to the same night as the Christmas party, right after the festivities. Entry labeled action, but there's probably accidental video of this too for the sake of enabling more interaction.]

Castiel enters his and Dean's shared room. Uses the door for once, rather than traveling by unseen flight. Dean is with him; wouldn't let Cas

Comments

[dashboardlite]

This is the worst it's been so far. Dean can't remember if it was this bad last night, or the night before, but it's like he's got a fever and the only solution is more Castiel. It's physically starting to hurt, and he hopes it's going away soon because he really doesn't know how much longer he can handle the closeness. He hasn't left Castiel's side since they walked out of the ballroom.

Loosening the bowtie around his neck so it hangs flat, Dean shuffles into the 'motel' room after Cas, kicking the door shut behind them and turning just in time to get a mouthful of feathers as the angel bumps into his Christmas tree (Hell yes, it's better than Charlie Brown's) and spontaneously sprouts wings again.

Dean flails for a moment before regaining his balance and steadying himself on the room divider, one hand clinging to cheap chipboard, the other buried in a wing. A very...very soft wing. It's then that Dean fully comprehends his previous desire earlier in the evening to run a hand through those feathers, because they feel exactly

[out_of_minutes]

The dazedness must be lingering, because it takes a moment before Cas notices Dean. Touching his wings. It feels... strange. Not unpleasant, but invasive, somehow. There's more to the feeling than just the bit of tug where the feathers he's grasping are rooted in thin flesh.

He tugs the wing a bit, catching Dean's attention, leveling a flat glare at him. Stop that, says the glare.

[dashboardlite]

He feels a slight pull, and in immediate retaliation pulls back, lifting his head to look at Castiel. The angel looks pissed.

Ha. Yeah, right. Like Dean's giving up now after waiting this long to touch the stupid things. "Oh, get over it," He mumbles, reaching out to run the fingers of his other hand along the ridge of feather-covered bone protruding from one of Castiel's shoulderblades. "Don't be such a baby, Cas."

[out_of_minutes]

"I do not perceive any way in which I am being infantile," Cas replies.

Dean, on the other hand, is acting like a selfish five-year-old with a new toy he doesn't want to share.

And Castiel has recovered enough to mentally tuck the wings away again, so he does, sending them back to the plane in which they more properly belong. One moment they're solid, the next their outline shimmers a bit and begins to fade, and then they're gone, the back of his jacket rumpled as ever but otherwise unmarred.