41. Chapter 41

"Are you ready, Dean?"

Shakily, eyes wide, Dean nodded. He was trying to pretend that none of this was bothering him, but he was pretty sure his daddy and uncle could see straight through him. He eyed the angel blade in Castiel's hand and told himself, not for the first time, that this was no different than sewing up a gash or setting a broken bone. Sometimes you had to hurt yourself a little bit to heal in the long run; that was a lesson his father had taught to him when he was young.

He twisted away, knowing that sometimes it was better - and easier - not to look at what was happening. Gabriel was kneeling on the bed beside him, and he leaned over Dean and set his hands on Dean's arms to hold him down. His grip was so strong. There was no way Dean would be able to get free. The realization kicked his heart rate up. He pressed his face into the pillows on Castiel's bed and tried not to tense up, but that was next to impossible when he sensed Castiel getting closer. The bed sank beside him as Castiel put a knee up for balance, and Dean could feel both angels staring intently at his back.

It was so quick, he barely registered the pain at first. Just pressure along his shoulder blades - pressure that logically, he knew was from the angel blade. Then there was something hot and wet flowing down his back, and Castiel's hands on his back. The pain hit then, so sharp that it took his breath away. He couldn't have screamed even if he wanted to, but tears rushed to his eyes. Dean bit his lip until it bled and dug his nails into his thighs as Castiel did - something behind him. He couldn't even identify what was being done, or what it was being done to. His brain was too scrambled, receiving brand new messages from unknown appendages, and it was overwhelming.

"Shh, Dean, shh," Gabriel whispered, still holding him down. He stooped, putting his head down on top of Dean's. "You're doing so good, kiddo. We're almost done. Just a little bit longer and your wings will be out."

Dean bit his lip harder to stifle the whimpers and tried to think about something else. Anything else. He found himself remembering the earlier days of becoming a hunter, back when he and his father had been doing everything they could to make sure that Sam stayed innocent. Something that Sam had never once thanked them for, because he'd been too pissed that he was still too young to help out. Which meant going out on hunts when Sam was in school or otherwise occupied, unless Dean wanted to have days of the silent treatment. It meant suffering in silence, never saying a word when he was exhausted or in pain but Sam was around.

He remembered one incident in particular. John was hunting a wendigo, and it was just too much for him to take down on his own. So Dean had gotten the chance to help. He'd been so frigging proud, too. Right up until he got a little too close to the wendigo and it flayed his side open like his flesh was made of hot butter. The pain had been the same: that momentary disconnect where your body knew what had happened but your mind couldn't process it. John had taken advantage of the wendigo's distracted state to torch it, and then had dragged Dean's ass back to the motel room. Being lectured while having stitches put in with no anesthetic, all while trying to remain quiet so his little brother wouldn't hear, was pretty high up on the list of crappy memories.

But he'd survived that. He would make it through this, too, and not be such a damn baby about it. All nestlings went through this, according to Gabriel. It was just a part of the process. And Dean was a hunter, no stranger to pain. He struggled to regulate his breathing, hearing John's lecture in his head all over again.

"I warned you about hunting, Dean. This is what happens when you don't keep your wits about you. You can't let them get the drop on you. Stop crying right now! It's just some stitches. You want to wake Sam up? Get him all freaked out about the sight of blood? You know he doesn't handle it well. So knock it off. Go on now, recite everything you know about wendigos. Then tell me everything you learned tonight. It'll take your mind off the pain. And if you convince me you've actually learned something, I might let you come with me again next time."

He still didn't know if he'd convinced John that he'd learned something, but his father had taken him out on the very next hunt anyway. And Dean sure as hell never got within reaching distance of a wendigo's claws again. Pain was a lesson, even if the lesson was just that sometimes you had to suffer. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding back the next wave of tears, and dug his nails into his skin harder as a distraction.

It seemed to take forever before Castiel stopped manipulating his wings. His wings. That was a fucked up sentence. But Dean couldn’t help breathing a quivery sigh of relief when the hands finally left his wings. It was strange to feel them against his back, but what was even stranger was in some ways it wasn't strange at all. Part of him had been expecting this for a long time, and now that it had happened it was more like - oh yeah, there you are. Like suddenly getting a new arm or leg, except he didn't really know how to control them yet.

Gabriel's grip on his arms finally eased, but Dean still didn't move. He stayed still and quiet while more of Castiel's wing oil was rubbed onto his back and onto his wings, which eased the pain. Weirder still was that the pain which had been so agonizing over the past few days now seemed like nothing compared to the blinding pain of having his wings actually come out. Or maybe it just wasn't that bad now. He didn't know. Already it was starting to feel like something that had happened a long time ago, instead of mere minutes.

"Dean?" Castiel said, shifting higher up the bed. "Baby, look at me."

Dean didn't want to. It was easier to stay where he was, hidden away from the world, reminding himself over and over that he was a hunter and pain was part of the life. But he also knew that Castiel was stubborn and wouldn't give up that easily. Slowly, ready to freeze if anything hurt, Dean turned his head. He found himself looking into his daddy's kind face. There was so much sympathy and affection in that expression that the lump in Dean's throat got a lot bigger, and the urge to cry got even stronger. It took everything he had to hold back the tears.

Castiel inhaled sharply when he saw Dean's face. "Oh, little one. I'm sorry." He put his thumb to Dean's chin, firmly tugging Dean's bottom lip free of his teeth. Like that was the stopper keeping everything locked up, Dean heard himself make a weird sound that was a cross between a whimper and a sob. His vision started to blur as tears welled up.

And he didn’t want to cry. He wanted to handle this the way he would’ve before. But he couldn’t make it stop either. His body was completely out of his control, and that was frightening. It had been happening more and more now, and he didn’t think it was going to stop anytime soon. Sure he’d known this was going to happen, but there was a big difference between knowing something with your mind and actually having it happen. His heart was racing so hard, his hands were shaking.

“It’s okay. It’s over. You did so good, Dean, so good,” Castiel cooed, helping him to sit up and then pulling him into a hug. Dean didn’t really want to be touched, but he was trembling too hard to pull away. His chest felt tight, making breathing difficult.

“What’s wrong with him?” Gabriel said.

“He’s panicking,” Castiel said quietly. “I think it’s just been too much for him. Shh, baby boy, it’s okay. I’m right here.” He kissed Dean’s forehead and rocked him back and forth a little.

It was humiliating to need support like this after he’d spent most of his life learning how to take swings and keep going. Dean tried to gather the strength to push himself away and couldn’t, but felt dizzier for having tried. The room was spinning a little and the shaking in his hands still hadn’t abated. He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, but nothing was going in or out.

“Dean, listen to me. Listen to my voice. You’re okay. I know that was a lot for you to go through. I know it hurt. I know you’re exhausted. But I’m really proud of you. You were so strong.”

That was so at odds with what was going through Dean’s head that he opened his eyes and stared at Castiel in disbelief.

Castiel smiled sadly. “You were strong,” he repeated, touching his thumb to Dean’s bottom lip and healing the damage. “You stayed as still as you could and you didn’t try to fight me. You were really good, Dean. I know what you’re thinking. You think you should be able to go through something like that in stoic silence, and not need comfort afterwards, right?”

Sometimes Dean forgot he was living with an angel who could read his mind that easily.

“But you’re wrong, honey, and your father was wrong to teach you that. It doesn’t matter how old you are, or whether or not you’re a hunter; when you’re hurting or in pain, it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to need help from your family. You don’t have to keep quiet about it. And that goes double for little boys like you.” He wiped some of the tears from Dean’s face. “That’s why I’m here, because I care about you. Nothing could ever make me think less of you, Dean.”

Dean didn’t really think that was true, but he was so tired he couldn’t string together the words to argue about it. He didn’t want to talk, anyway: sometimes it was just easier to be quiet. He could breathe a little easier now – Castiel’s voice really was soothing – but he was familiar enough with his body to know that his legs would probably go out from under him if he tried to walk. He turned his head to try and get a look at the wings on his back.

“You want to see?” Gabriel had sat back while Castiel was calming him down. Now, he smiled at Dean and snapped his fingers.

A full length mirror materialized behind Dean, giving him a perfect view. It wasn’t at all what he had expected. Protruding from his back were two fleshy lumps about the length of his forearm. There were no feathers, and they weren’t nearly long enough to support his weight for flying. They looked gross, and his panic instantly ricocheted back up the scale.

“Dean. Dean! It’s fine, your wings are supposed to look like that,” Castiel said quickly. “Angels are altricial. That means our young are born without feathers. They’ll grow in soon. And then your wings will grow. All hatchlings and nestlings start out with wings this size; you're just a baby.”

“I don’t like them,” Dean whispered miserably. Thinking about it, Castiel was right: all the nestlings and hatchlings he’d seen had tiny wings. He didn’t know why he hadn’t put two and two together before. Somehow he’d still been expecting that his wings would be enormous and ready to take him flying as soon as they emerged. He didn’t like the thought that his wings still had a lot of growing to do.

He turned back to Castiel and froze, eyes growing wide as whatever words had been on his tongue completely disappeared. Because for the first time since his wings had come out, he was really looking at an angel – and he could see wings. The dark, glossy feathers on Castiel’s wings were beautiful and soft, and they were wrapped protectively around Dean. He stared down at them, speechless, not even daring to reach out and touch. He could see an angel’s wings.