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Cas watched the Winchester brothers fondly, smiling and enjoying themselves for once while they pelted balls of ice at each other. What an odd way to enjoy oneself indeed. Suddenly, Sam dropped to the ground and started moving his arms and legs awkwardly.
As quickly as he possible, Cas darted to his side, afraid for his well being. What possibly could have taken him down that way? What was he doing? Why did Dean only roll his eyes, instead of also running to his brother's aid?
"Are you alright Sam?" Cas asked, peered at him in panic, and searched for any sign of injury.
"What? Cas, I'm fine," Sam laughed in disregard, as though Cas' concern was ridiculous, then started slowly moving his arms and legs again.
"What are you doing? Why are you doing that?" Cas pressed and shook his head a little as he tried to understand. What could Sam gain from flailing about on the ground?
"What do you - Cas, I'm - I'm making snow angels," Sam said, almost hesitantly, and the way he pressed his lips together indicated he regretted having to say the word "angels" in his presence. It stung, but he would be fine. Sam got up slowly, as though not to ruin his masterpiece, and showed Cas his "angel".
"Oh," Cas responded and gazed at it, too busy trying to figure out what about the dent in the snow resembled an angel. He supposed it looks akin to some of the caricature-like ornaments that Sam had hung from the Christmas tree inside the bunker that were also meant to be "angels". Sam scratched the back of his neck and darted his eyes back to the snow. "I can teach you how to make one," he offered, gesturing a hand weakly toward it. Cas only looked at him in answer, and curious eyes followed Sam as he laid back down. He made the same movements as before, and brought his arms up and down to his sides. Then he opened and closed his legs at the hip in unison.
Cas moved away a couple of feet away and plopped into the snow beside his friend, but far enough so as not to hit him, and copied his movements. He put his arms and legs up and down, and up and down, and up and down again. Our of the corner of his eye Sam got assaulted with snowballs once more, then stood to create his own and sling them back at Dean. This continued for about ten more minutes, all the while Cas stayed rooted to the spot. Despite the fact that he had cleared the snow beneath his limbs, he kept moving, and at some point his coat had begun to rub against the bare ground. His thoughts bit at the back of his head, almost as harshly as the cold beneath him.
Soon enough the boys finished their fun, and started to head back inside, tired of running around without purpose. They called back to him in the doorway to the bunker, wondering if he was done "playing in the snow". Cas stood, ignoring this to look at his imprint in the grass. He frowned at the shape of the wings - messy, uneven, crude. He had only spent mere minutes on them and they were so unlike those he used to have.
God had so carefully crafted them. Each angel's wings were meticulously made. One by one, each feather was etched and strewn together with a fresh love and tender mind. Years were spent on them, eons of human time. Cas stared at his own creation, consumed by nostalgia for a time in which God truly cared.
These wings before him were minute made, and he smugly thought that they would never be beautiful, never like his used to be. The wings here, formed of hardened water that had been touched by so many, so many times before, were downright sloppy. His wings had been untouchable, pure in their visage, and could only perceived when he wanted them to be so. After the inital shame that he could not perfect the fake ones here, he realized maybe he didn't want to, because what God had once bestowed upon him was far more special. Cas could never create something so perfect, but he supposed that it was the way it should be. No matter how betrayed he felt, he couldn't imagine anyone surpassing God, especially not himself. He still had his faith.
Time passed and he stands entirely still here. He didn't move when his fingers went numb, or his face felt frozen, or his legs stiffened. He couldn't look away. They were so simple, so haphazard - but they were tangible. These wings in front of him, close enough to touch if were he to fall to his knees, were nothing but a shoddy a second hand of his Lord.
His knees wobbled. Maybe he was made to crumble. Cas was broken from his reverie as he heard the bunker door swing open, and hadn't even noticed that the door had closed again. "Cas! Jesus, you've been standing there for an hour! Come inside, Sam got spiced egg nog!" Dean called to him over the whirling wind, a tug at the corner of his lips. He felt chilled in the bones of this mortal prison, a chill his wings could never feel.
He turned around and walked back toward the bunker, noticing that he had begun experiencing this pain. His human flesh was new and too sensitive to withstand the weather. Snow flakes started to fill the space of the sloppy abomination he'd made, and as the wind continued to whip against his back, the sound of phantom feathers rustling rang in his head. He pretended he it not.