He doesn’t talk about it—what would he say?
“Morning, Cas, how are you?” “Oh, y’know, my metaphysical being is pressing several hundred tons worth of weight down on my shoulders and my wings are calcifying and I’m going out of my mind with pain, the usual.”
Even fantasizing it, he can see the other person’s eyes glaze over as they heave an impatient sigh. No one wants to hear him complain about how his worm-eaten marble heart is too heavy for him to carry without his Grace, how his mortal vessel’s body wasn’t meant to bear it without those big beautiful powerful wings and that mighty steel ribcage. They’re gone now, of course, wings becoming brittle and shattering to pieces at the slightest touch; the bars of his chest snapped, popped clean off, one by one, clattering in the trail of debris his decaying angelic body left behind him, until all that was left was that horrible stone monolith.
Well. That’s not entirely true. He still has one pair of wings left, the ones he had shown to Dean through thunder and the flash of lightning, but they’re too occupied holding up that big, terrible, cracked, crumbling heart of his. The hollow flightless bones are petrified, another set of fossils imprinted into the hunk of marble. His mobility is shot. Now he’s just waiting around for the nerves to finally die so he can ignore the fact he ever had wings at all.
But nobody wants to hear about that. They’d rather he talk about the universal unconscious, about connecting the spiritual and the carnal in lavish orgies. The “fun parts” version of being a fallen angel.
He’s tempted to take a buzz saw to between his shoulders.
