"I miss my wings," Cas sighed through the phone, eyes drifting around the motel. He knows Sam and Dean are sympathetic, but they won't understand. They can't. It's not the same as Dean losing Baby and having to substitute her with a beat up rental.
They were more than just a conventional way to get from point A to point B in space and time. Castiel's wings were a part of him since his creation; beautiful, flush with colour that only mantis shrimp could see, a powerful force beyond human understanding. A unique connection between Angels to Heaven.
And now he was missing that vital part of his identity as an angel.
One day, in between scouting for allies and helping wayward angels find security in the little community Cas has brought together, along with the help of Hannah and others hoping to return to Heaven, he comes across a small box of chalk hiding between the bed and the nightstand. No doubt left behind by the previous occupants of the motel room. It's a simple six-pack: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and a diminishing white stick.
Before he knows it, he's outside carefully sketching out wing arches and feather in the motel parking lot. His hands work nervously, fumbling over lines and colours, pressing down on the chalk to deepen the lines and enhance the colour against the dark pavement. After a bit of work he is satisfied. It's nothing close to the real majesty of his wings, but it's the best his rough, worn hands can create. Besides, it's the symbolism that matters most.
Careful not to smudge the lines of his handiwork, Castiel lays himself down on the rough pavement, shifting slightly to align his vessel (his body now) with his improvised wings. He lays there in somber, not caring that the backside of his precious trench coat is marred with chalk dust and colourful streaks. Eventually Hannah finds him before the night falls, having enough grace to keep her questions to herself.
It's not much, but until they can overthrow Metatron, they're as close to Heaven as he can get.
And now he was missing that vital part of his identity as an angel.
One day, in between scouting for allies and helping wayward angels find security in the little community Cas has brought together, along with the help of Hannah and others hoping to return to Heaven, he comes across a small box of chalk hiding between the bed and the nightstand. No doubt left behind by the previous occupants of the motel room. It's a simple six-pack: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and a diminishing white stick.
Before he knows it, he's outside carefully sketching out wing arches and feather in the motel parking lot. His hands work nervously, fumbling over lines and colours, pressing down on the chalk to deepen the lines and enhance the colour against the dark pavement. After a bit of work he is satisfied. It's nothing close to the real majesty of his wings, but it's the best his rough, worn hands can create. Besides, it's the symbolism that matters most.
Careful not to smudge the lines of his handiwork, Castiel lays himself down on the rough pavement, shifting slightly to align his vessel (his body now) with his improvised wings. He lays there in somber silence, not caring that the backside of his precious trench coat is marred with chalk dust and colourful streaks. Eventually Hannah finds him before the night falls, having enough grace to keep her questions to herself.
It's not much, but until they can overthrow Metatron, they're as close to Heaven as he can get.
