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kesomon , who wanted some wing-grooming
Title: Rhythm
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Dean and Cas. Sort of gen-ish, actually.
Summary: There's a rhythm, now
Wordcount: 481
Set: Somewhere mid S5?
Disclaimer: Not mine
kesomon , who wanted some wing-groomingTitle: Rhythm
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Dean and Cas. Sort of gen-ish, actually.
Summary: There's a rhythm, now
Wordcount: 481
Set: Somewhere mid S5?
Disclaimer: Not mine
Rhythm
There's a rhythm to this. Over, under, lift and settle, smooth edge on edge. His hands move almost on their own, like they move over a gun, like the memories written into the muscles over years of hunting. Quiet, automatic. Almost soothing. He'd never have thought it.
The wings are big. He's not sure why that had surprised him, the first time, not after what he'd glimpsed when he and Cas first met. He doesn't know why their size had shocked him, when Cas pulled them ... pulled them up from somewhere, from nowhere, when one minute there'd been nothing and then ... Then they were filling the space around them. Then they were spread between them, huge and dark and oddly ... irridescent. Shimmering. And Cas had looked at them in frustration, hard-edged confusion and baffled trust, and Dean ... He hadn't understood, how they could be so big, and so fragile, and how Cas could be so fallen and afraid, and still trust him to put his hands on them ...
He'd touched them, then. He'd touched them, and smoothed the ragged edges of the feathers, the tears and snarls where Cas had been fighting, fighting for them, for such a long time, in so many ways. There'd been ... He hadn't felt ... There'd just been the rhythm, the odd rhythm that settled itself around them, and the baffled, grateful look in Castiel's eyes, and the feathers under his hands. The wings, under his hands. An angel's wings, that he touched because Cas had no-one else, and that was his fault, and there had been ... something quiet in it. Something ... whole.
There's still a rhythm, now. There's still a quiet. Because Cas has been falling a long time, and trusting a long time, because Dean has learned these wings and this touch, and because ... Because there's a rhythm between them. Because Cas holds out what remains to him, holds out something vast and fragile, and Dean touches them like he touches his guns, his equipment. Touches them like they're part of him, not Cas, like they're his, under his care, and the soldier in his angel smiles at him for it. The soldier in his angel understands the quiet, understands the rhythm, and lets him touch what is not his. Lets him hold what is not his.
He'd been surprised, when he first saw the size of them. Surprised at how vast they are. Now, he's grateful. Because the rhythm lasts for hours, this way, and the quiet holds them safe, and there can be hours, whole nights, for an angel that doesn't sleep, and a hunter that can't remember how, where there's only the learned movements of his hands, and the settling of feathers, and the trust that sits between them.
There's a rhythm, now. And for a little while, it keeps them safe. That's all that matters.
There's a rhythm to this. Over, under, lift and settle, smooth edge on edge. His hands move almost on their own, like they move over a gun, like the memories written into the muscles over years of hunting. Quiet, automatic. Almost soothing. He'd never have thought it.
The wings are big. He's not sure why that had surprised him, the first time, not after what he'd glimpsed when he and Cas first met. He doesn't know why their size had shocked him, when Cas pulled them ... pulled them up from somewhere, from nowhere, when one minute there'd been nothing and then ... Then they were filling the space around them. Then they were spread between them, huge and dark and oddly ... irridescent. Shimmering. And Cas had looked at them in frustration, hard-edged confusion and baffled trust, and Dean ... He hadn't understood, how they could be so big, and so fragile, and how Cas could be so fallen and afraid, and still trust him to put his hands on them ...
He'd touched them, then. He'd touched them, and smoothed the ragged edges of the feathers, the tears and snarls where Cas had been fighting, fighting for them, for such a long time, in so many ways. There'd been ... He hadn't felt ... There'd just been the rhythm, the odd rhythm that settled itself around them, and the baffled, grateful look in Castiel's eyes, and the feathers under his hands. The wings, under his hands. An angel's wings, that he touched because Cas had no-one else, and that was his fault, and there had been ... something quiet in it. Something ... whole.
There's still a rhythm, now. There's still a quiet. Because Cas has been falling a long time, and trusting a long time, because Dean has learned these wings and this touch, and because ... Because there's a rhythm between them. Because Cas holds out what remains to him, holds out something vast and fragile, and Dean touches them like he touches his guns, his equipment. Touches them like they're part of him, not Cas, like they're his, under his care, and the soldier in his angel smiles at him for it. The soldier in his angel understands the quiet, understands the rhythm, and lets him touch what is not his. Lets him hold what is not his.
He'd been surprised, when he first saw the size of them. Surprised at how vast they are. Now, he's grateful. Because the rhythm lasts for hours, this way, and the quiet holds them safe, and there can be hours, whole nights, for an angel that doesn't sleep, and a hunter that can't remember how, where there's only the learned movements of his hands, and the settling of feathers, and the trust that sits between them.
There's a rhythm, now. And for a little while, it keeps them safe. That's all that matters.
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