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Cas had been gone for days, and the entire time Dean had been trying to forget why he’d left in the first place.
He and Sam had been on a hunt. There was a witch in Charming Acres, Arkansas, who was going dark side and hurting people along the way. She’d told them her victims were grotesque abominations, that she could see the ugly, twisted faces they hid so easily behind their human masks. She said it was only a matter of time before they committed horrible acts of violence, or worse.
“Well,” Dean had said, standing over her, “that ain’t for you to judge. And the fact you went all Minority Report on innocent people means we’ve got to come to some sort of agreement here.”
Through desperate, convincing tears, she promised the hunters she’d give up witchcraft, magic, all of it. Dean paced as he listened to her. She was young, new to the occult, and didn’t seem totally corrupted by her powers. He figured she needed a timeout and probably a therapist—which was saying a whole hell of a lot coming from him.
But he believed her, or wanted to. As a rule, he avoided ganking witches and only considered it as a last resort when it was clear they couldn’t be saved. And even then, it was never an easy decision. Witches were human. Looked human. Monsters were always easier to kill when their outsides were as ugly as their insides.
As he and Sam gathered up all of her books, ingredients, and other witchy crap, Cas appeared. The quiet rustling that accompanied his arrival drew her attention, and suddenly the crying stopped and her wet face contorted into something gnarled and hate-filled.
“Another one,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at him. “I can see your true form. Monster. I wonder if the hunters would still want you if they could see what you really are.”
Before Dean or Sam could get to her, she whispered something under her breath and Cas was surrounded by the dark, thickening smoke of a curse. Dean raced to reach her before she could finish the spell and managed to put her down with a blade that slipped easily between her ribs. He felt something like regret as he did it, but there wasn’t any time to worry about her when he heard Cas cry out and hit the floor the same time her body did.
Dean stood to make his way over to him through the still-thick smoke, and when it started to clear, he stopped short at what he saw.
Cas was lying on the carpeted floor where he’d collapsed onto his side. His face was pulled tight with pain and the back of his trench coat was torn into pieces—spread out behind him were two enormous, inky-black wings. They were so dark they seemed to swallow the light around them, but the feathers still flashed and shone independently of any light source in the room.
Dean was frozen in place. He wasn’t sure if by fear or… his mind was blank. He couldn’t process what he was seeing, this part of Castiel. He’d never had to. The casually thrown-around way Cas would describe the size of his angelic form, or the fact he’d been hanging out for a year in multidimensional wavelengths of whatever the hell it was, that was easy for Dean to ignore—it was all just… words.
The rest of it, the sudden appearances and disappearances, the blinding blue light that shone from his eyes and under his skin, that stuff was just Cas and not that far removed from things he and Sammy considered all in a day’s work. Beyond the intimidating shadows he’d seen the night they’d first met, Dean was almost entirely in the dark about Cas’ other life. His actual life, Dean reminded himself. All the shit with you is just a side project.
Sam was standing across the room looking equally as paralyzed. They shared a look, eyes wide, jaws dropped, until Cas started to stir and rotated his shoulders with a groan.
“Cas—” Dean said, unsure of what to say next, but needing to say something. It was just all too fucking weird and the silence was making it worse.
Cas stood slowly, looking down, but not at the floor. It was like he was running diagnostics, checking to see if there were any connectivity issues between the angel stuff and the vessel stuff.
Well, Dean was looking at two pretty big friggin’ issues.
“Ow,” Cas said, his voice deeper than his usual gravel. “That was very unpleasant.”
“What the hell just happened?” Dean asked, unsure of whether or not he was angry or worried. “And what the hell are those?” He gestured wildly to the two wings protruding from Cas’ raw-looking back.
“That curse. I believe the witch tried to bring my angelic form into this plane of existence. To… expose me.”
“And that’s the result?” Sam asked. He sounded worried, and Dean shot him a dirty look when those puppy dog eyes landed on him instead of on Cas. He wasn’t the one Sam should be concerned about.
“Yes. She wasn’t able to complete the incantation. Even for a witch many times more powerful than her, it would be impossible.”
“So, get rid of them,” Dean snapped.
“I’m trying. But they seem to be,” Cas paused, looking over his shoulder at his new appendages, “stuck.”
Dean rubbed his hands over his face. “Great.”
“It’s certainly odd, but I don’t understand why you have such an aversion to them.”
Because they’re a pretty big friggin’ reminder of every part of you that’s totally inaccessible to me.
“They’re not exactly subtle,” he said instead. “You can’t go out in public like that—you look like a Halloween store reject.”
Dean turned away when Cas’ face dropped.
“I have wings, Dean. You may not be able to see them, but they’re very much a part of who I am.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to see them, okay?” He was looking at the wall, at the bag of the witch’s things they’d started to pack away, anywhere but at Cas.
“Dean, lay off,” Sam said. “You’re being an asshole.”
“Whatever. Cas, figure your shit out. We need to go.” He grabbed his knife and slid it back into its sheath, shrugging off his brother’s glare and walking towards the door without even glancing in Cas’ direction. Without even considering the dead body lying on the floor. He just needed some air.
Outside, he took a deep breath and unclenched his fists just enough to grab the car keys out of his pocket. They dug into his palm as he paced back and forth waiting for the others. He’d never admit to sulking, but he couldn’t get the image of those black wings out of his head. They were so… big. So much bigger than he was. But managing to eclipse even that were the things he’d said to cas playing over and over again.
Sam had called him an asshole. And as the burn of his heightened feelings started to fade he was kind of starting to feel like one.
Fuck you, Sam.
The door behind him swung open and the sudden movement pulled Dean out of his thoughts. He narrowed his eyes when Sam exited the building alone.
“Where’s—”
“What the hell was that?” Sam interrupted, half-shouting as he moved into Dean’s personal space. It got Dean’s back up—if Sam wanted a fight, he’d get one.
“What the hell is this?” Dean spat back, raising his hands to push his brother away. He didn’t make contact, but Sam stood his ground as Dean backed away.
“He left, Dean.”
A dark flush burned up Dean’s throat, spreading like a rash. “That’s nothing new. Hopefully next time he shows up he’s got a few less feathers to ruffle.”
Sam scoffed and took a deep breath like he was trying to stop himself from saying something he’d regret. “You get he’s an angel, right? Wings are kinda part of the deal. I know you don’t like talking about it, but I can’t tell whether you’re more freaked out by angel Cas or human Cas.”
“Fuck you, Sam.”
“No. Fuck you, Dean. You’re always going on about how Cas is your best friend, how you need him—”
“I do not—”
“You do,” Sam said, turning away from him in frustration but whipping back around so quickly it almost made Dean dizzy. “But if anything happens that falls outside of your extremely specific expectations of him, you fly off the handle. What happened in there,” he continued, pointing up at the old house, “wasn’t his fault. But you treated him like a pariah.”
Dean clenched his jaw so tightly he was pretty sure he cracked a tooth.
He didn’t have an answer for his brother. What was there left to say? It was either keep his trap shut or admit he was wrong, so he opted for silence.
He stalked over to the Impala and climbed in without a word. Sam followed him, his body language speaking volumes.
**********
So, there he was, sitting in his room in the bunker almost a week after the case. He’d tried to reach out to Cas—eventually, he had. But the guy never answered his phone or acknowledged any of his texts. He scrolled through their chat history and sighed at the depressing wall of blue.
He threw the phone onto the mattress beside him and leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head.
Why was Cas making this so friggin’ complicated? He’d fucked up. He got it. Sam wasn’t letting him forget it. But if the guy would just answer him they could move on. He knew Cas was stubborn, but this was taking it too far. They were friends—hell, they were more than friends, they were brothers.
But not quite.
Dean sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to quiet the parts of his brain that seemed determined to drive his life into the ground even more than he already had on his own. He stared into the lamp in front of him until his eyes started to unfocus from the brightness of the light. Taking a steadying breath, looked down at his hands. Even if Cas’ phone was turned off, Dean knew he’d hear this loud and clear.
“Hey Cas,” he whispered, “I don’t know where you are, but I just—” Just what? Spit it out, Winchester. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for all the dumb shit I said before about… the wings. I actually think they’re, uh, pretty cool. And I shouldn’t have gone off like that. I shouldn’t have let you go either, but it was easier than admitting I’m a total dumbass.” It was always embarrassing talking to no one, but it was even worse when he was getting stonewalled. “Yeah,” he finished lamely. “Okay.”
He straightened his back out, hoping for—literally praying for—the rush of air that would announce Cas’ arrival.
“Hello, Dean.”
He turned towards the voice so abruptly he almost wrenched his neck.
“Hey, Cas,” he replied, standing to greet the angel. And there they were, just as Dean remembered them. The massive wings were tucked neatly behind Cas’ back but still dwarfed everything in their presence. Dean. The room. But they made Cas look larger than life and Dean’s breath caught in his throat as they twitched and rustled as he took them in.
Something flashed across Cas’ face, and he looked over his shoulder at the wings like they’d betrayed him.
But Dean ignored it, still focused on organizing his thoughts in a way that would actually make sense and help fix the stupid situation he’d gotten them into in the first place.
“You’re back.” He mentally slapped himself for starting things off in the stupidest way imaginable, but it was like there was a stopper lodged in the back of his throat.
“You prayed to me,” Cas said slowly. His eyes burned into Dean’s, like he was trying to force the words out of his mouth with nothing but the colour blue.
“Yeah.” Dean shifted where he stood, balling his hands into fists to stop himself from shoving them in his pockets. “I think, I mean, I know I said some stupid shit back there. I didn’t mean it.”
“Alright,” Cas said simply. He obviously wasn’t buying it.
“I just wanted to, you know, say I’m sorry for being just a jerk the other day. Kinda covered that in the prayer but, uh, here it is in person, too.” He tried to keep his eyes on Cas’, but his attention kept getting pulled to the wings like he was stuck in their orbit. They were so ethereal it was hard to understand how they could even exist somewhere as dull and three-dimensional as Dean’s bedroom.
“I think 'jerk' is somewhat of an understatement,” Cas said. “Dean, look at me.”
He did, after a moment.
“This addition to my vessel is not permanent, but it is a manifestation of my true form. It’s important to me that you’re not repelled by this part of me.”
Cas was right. Dean lifted his hand to massage his left shoulder—an old habit although the handprint had long faded.
“Can I touch them?” As soon as he said it, he snapped his mouth shut. “Uh, sorry, that was—” Cas was going to say no, of course he was. Dean didn’t know what the hell he was thinking. But the moment Cas reappeared it had taken some serious willpower not to reach out and run his fingers through the plush, powerful feathers. They moved like they were calling out for him, pulling him forward by the wrist.
“You may.”
“Really?” Cas looked dead serious but Dean was waiting for the punchline.
“Yes, Dean. You can touch them. Just be gentle. Although they’re only an intimation of the wings I possess, I’ve learned they have a tendency to be... sensitive.”
Dean approached him carefully, slowly even in the confined space of the room. He wondered if the look of apprehension on Cas’ face was because of Dean’s proximity or the timid stretch of his arm.
He didn’t want to hurt Cas, not again, so he barely brushed his fingertips through the soft down above Cas’ shoulders.
“Is this ok?”
“Dean, I’ve held your soul in my hands. I trust you.”
“I know I probably sound like a broken record,” Dean said, finding it a little difficult to keep his breathing measured as he let the soft feathers slip over his palm and through his fingers, “but I am sorry. Your wings. They’re, uh, they’re real nice.” His face burned from the omission, and for a split second, he wondered what the cool feathers would feel like brushing over his overheated skin.
The thought tugged something inside of him, something already stretched tension-tight, and when the wing under his hand rippled like it was reacting to his touch, that thing snapped.
Cas was looking at him with hazy eyes, and for just a second—hardly any time at all—Dean’s gaze flicked down to his mouth before lifting back up to safer territory. Cas’ face softened, but there was something else edging into his expression, something bordering on overwhelmed.
Dean pulled his hand away before it could dig into the ruff and touch the firm cords of muscle he could feel under the soft feathers. He didn’t want to push it and make Cas feel like a freak.
“Awesome,” he said a little breathlessly. “Cas, they’re awesome.” He let his hand drop to his side.
A small smile tugged at the corners of Cas’ mouth. “Thank you. I’m glad you think so.”
Dean put some space between them and scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah. So, did you find any leads on how to reverse the spell? Not that—” he quickly corrected. “Not that you should be embarrassed or whatever. But maybe you’d be more comfortable if your vessel was a little more vessel-y.”
“I visited Rowena. She’s looking into some spells for me. I was actually with her when I heard your prayer.”
“Great.” Dean didn’t know where to go from here. He was fidgeting like a kid in math class. “Let’s go get Sam. Maybe he can help.”
Cas looked at the small frame of the door. “Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll meet you in the library.” And he was gone.
**********
The next few days in the bunker were awkward. Spatially, Cas was having difficulty manoeuvring through some of the smaller rooms, and they all felt considerably smaller with the enormous expanse of his wings filling up every space and sucking the air out of Dean’s lungs.
He hadn’t asked to touch them again. That would be getting too close to a whole part of his brain he’d determinedly kept locked away for years. But in the kitchen, as he tried to shuffle past Cas to get to the fridge, he got a full body brushing out of the blue.
“Dude, would you move?” He tried to shake the feeling off.
“I’m sorry Dean, I’m keeping them as controlled as possible, but sometimes they refuse to listen.”
Dean pulled a beer out of the fridge and was surprised to see the sable wings stretching out behind Cas, fussy and thunderous, and as they shook themselves out, the crest along the ridge puffed up with a muted sheen.
“Somethin’ got your feathers in a twist?” Dean asked with an easy smile as he popped the cap of the bottle off.
He was answered with a scowl. Dean raised his eyebrows and laughed as Cas reached behind himself to try and physically fold them back into place, but it was like trying to hold down an angry cat—the more he fought against the wings, the more they rebelled. And the more flustered Cas became, the deeper the lines on his forehead furrowed. Eventually, his brows were knotted so tightly together Dean was pretty sure his face was going to get stuck that way.
“Alright, alright. Let me help you out,” Dean said, quieting his laughter. He put his beer down on the counter and reached over to help Cas smooth things out with his restless wings.
As he ran his hand down one soft side, Cas gasped and Dean was almost bowled over as he got a faceful of feathers. It was like the damn thing was trying to grab him. While he struggled to stay upright, Cas took two full steps away and forced his back from Dean to put even more distance between him and the wings.
“I’m sorry, Dean. Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Think they like me though,” he said, flashing a cocky grin.
“I think I—they—need some space. I’m going to visit Rowena.”
Suddenly, Dean was alone in the kitchen, shaking his head and smiling as he tipped some beer into his mouth.
**********
A few hours later, Cas was back. For a multidimensional being of pure energy, he looked a little grey. And for a human body with wings sprouting out of his back, he looked like total shit.
He was standing restlessly outside of Dean’s room waiting for an invitation to enter.
“What’s up, Cas?” Dean asked, putting down the two records he was trying to decide between. “Get it figured out?”
“Yes, Rowena found a spell that will reverse the curse. It won’t be a quick process or an easy one. But it’s possible.”
“Get in here,” Dean said, sitting on the bed and moving over as an invitation. Cas pulled himself gracelessly through the door and the mattress shifted under his weight as he tried to get comfortable. Dean had to lean forward to make room for the wings—even tucked beneath him, they spanned the width of the narrow bed.
“I am very much ‘over this’,” Cas said quietly, leaning against the headboard when he was finally settled.
Dean looked at him and considered his options before giving in with a shrug and leaning back carefully into the fold of feathers.
“Is this okay?” Dean felt warm, foolish. This was probably the most physical contact he’d ever allowed between him and Cas outside of the odd, lingering hug. But those were always reserved for special occasions—the deadly kind, or the big reunion kind. This was just the two of them hanging out in his room after a few hours apart.
“Of course, Dean,” Cas answered, the discomfort fading from his face fading as Dean relaxed. The wing he was resting on twitched, and Dean felt the long feathers that fanned across the bottom of it brush down his arm.
He cleared his throat as goosebumps raised on his skin everywhere they touched. Cas was sitting stock-still, but the uneasiness from earlier was creeping back onto his face. He moved to stand, tugging out from under Dean until he was stopped with a hand on his chest.
“Hey, you’re good. It’s no big deal.” Dean swallowed. “It’s kinda nice.” He flinched, but he wanted Cas to feel welcome, to feel normal for once, instead of like the angel with a crack in his chassis.
Cas took a breath and tried to relax, but went stiff again and leaned his head back in frustration. Dean wondered what the long line of his throat would feel like under his tongue.
No, he didn’t.
“It’s very irritating,” Cas said between clenched teeth, “being stuck between two forms. It’s exhausting. Painful.”
“You’re in pain?” Dean leaned away from the wing that was still half under him, angry at himself for not seeing the signs sooner. Cas had all but told him when he said they were sensitive.
“This vessel isn’t built to support the additional weight, and it feels like my grace is getting torn between the astral and the physical realms. It’s making it difficult for me to heal properly.” He sighed, and his body language—withdrawn, worn-out—was so different from the calm strength of the feathers that it really was as if he’d been split in two.
“Can I help?” Dean asked. He was almost scared of the answer, even though he had no idea what it would be.
Cas stayed quiet for a moment. He rolled his shoulders and lifted a hand to knead at the sore muscles in his neck before dropping it back in his lap in defeat.
“No, I’ll be fine. It will only be a day or two more and then—”
“Cas,” Dean interrupted, “it’s my fault you’re in this mess. You wouldn’t have been anywhere near that psycho witch if it hadn’t been for me. Lemme help you out.” He felt a small thrill at the way the broad wing followed him as he leaned forward.
Cas just sighed, obviously unsure of what to say.
“Look, I’ll grab us a couple beers and I’ll help you chill out a little, okay?” He posed it as a question, but he wasn’t really asking. Dean got up and left the room before Cas could argue and before he could dwell on how much he missed the warmth he was walking away from.
When he got back with two frosty bottles in hand, Cas was lying face-down on the bed.
A small laugh escaped Dean’s lips. “You alright there, buddy?”
Cas grumbled something Dean couldn’t make out, and his pathetic state brought a sympathetic smile to Dean’s face. “Not exactly being the badass angel of the Lord I usually take you for.”
The wings answered for him, lifting and flexing above Cas’ head in an obvious screw you.
“Alright, alright. Calm down,” Dean said, raising his hands in mock defeat. “Here, let me—” He put the bottles down on the dresser to give him a second before figuring out what to do next. “Let’s get your jacket off, I guess.” He figured that was a good place to start. Probably. But he didn’t know how he was going to manage it—Dean wasn’t sure Cas had taken it off at all since the curse hit him.
He reached forward, deciding to act instead of thinking it through, but as he touched the fabric the trench coat disappeared.
“Okay. That works.” He rubbed the back of his neck and hesitated before sitting down. Cas’ shirt was torn the same way the coat had been, and between the strips of fabric, Dean could see the tight, red flesh that was bonded with the tough muscle and bone of the wings.
He reached an unsteady hand out to run down the centre of Cas’ back where the wings were fused with his spine. The skin there was hot, too hot, and Cas’ gasp turned into a pained hiss as Dean’s fingertips brushed carefully against him. The sound almost made Dean pull his hand away, but instead, he pressed his palm against the angry twist of muscle to help soothe it.
“You okay?” he asked.
Cas didn’t reply with anything more than a quiet groan, but his shoulders rolled back and the wings shook and spread around him, almost pushing Dean off the bed. He was lost for a moment in a blanket of soft, impenetrable darkness until they settled quietly down. It was hypnotizing, watching them move as if they were liquid, and Dean couldn’t stop himself from combing his fingers through the black feathers and then pressing up to bury into the soft down underneath.
“Dean—” Cas choked out. It wasn’t the kind of sound someone made when they were in pain, but it stilled Dean’s hand.
Cas was breathing a little shallower and a little faster as he adjusted his position to try and get more comfortable, and when Dean pulled his hand away to give him some space, it was covered in something wet and slick.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Cas said. It sounded like he was pushing his voice through broken glass. Dean was forced to stand as Cas grimaced and pushed himself up off the bed.
“I’m just, uh, I was trying to—”
“Comfort me?” Cas asked with his back turned to him. “Make me feel better about my deformation?”
“What? No! I’m just—I’m trying.”
“You don’t need to. This will be over soon and I’ll go back to looking more adequately human. Perhaps it’s better if we don’t see each other until then.”
“You know what? Fine. I’m sick of babysitting anyway. If you wanna go, go.” Cas’ rejection made the blood boil beneath Dean’s skin. He wiped the strange oil off on his shirt with a grimace as he turned to head out the door. But before he could take more than a step, a strong arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him back against a broad chest. Dean’s breath hitched as Cas’ face dropped into the curve of his neck.
“You smell like them, like me,” he said tightly. Dean had to gather all of his strength to keep from melting against Cas completely as the deep voice vibrated through him.
“Kinda hard not to when they’re all over me.” Dean was trying to sound like he had any nerve left, but he was too breathless to make it convincing. Cas tightened his hand into a fist and bunched Dean’s t-shirt in his grip, pulling him in closer to skim his nose along Dean’s stubbled jaw.
“There have been more complications with this transformation than I have been forthright about.” Cas said, and as he spoke, Dean could feel his breath puffing against his skin leaving a scorched path in its wake.
Whenever Dean imagined this happening, which, he had to admit, was pretty fucking often, he kinda always pictured it the other way around. He was the one with experience. He was the one who should’ve been taking the lead here. But all those thoughts were pushed out of his head faster than a bullet leaves a gun when Cas touched the sensitive skin above the waistband of his jeans.
“This manifestation of my wings are more communicative than I would prefer them to be. They’ve been reacting to you, calling for you in ways my vessel does not.”
Dean tried to control his breathing—his eyes closed tightly in an attempt to dull at least one of his senses. The rest of him was alight, and although it was almost impossible to form a single coherent thought, what Cas said dragged him back down to Earth.
“So this—” he paused and licked his lips, trying to wet his dry mouth, “this ain’t you?” He put a hand over the one Cas was still dragging over his stomach.
“I have absolute control over my vessel, Dean. But these,” he raised his head for a moment to look at the cascading walls of black surrounding them, “seem to have a will of their own. And they’re giving certain things away I have worked very hard to keep to myself.”
Cas’ body was motionless even as the wings continued their undulant movements around them, and Dean could feel the rise and fall of his chest slowing as if he was holding his breath. He knew how the guy felt—Dean’s heart was pounding so hard it was threatening to crack his breastbone.
He turned around for the first time since he’d tried to leave the room, and his lungs compressed when he saw the way Cas was looking back at him. His eyes were blown wide and shining so brightly it almost hurt, full of quiet hope and a depth Dean couldn’t find the bottom of. But it didn’t last—his face shifted like he was making a decision or locking something away. The light faded as Cas drew his mouth into a controlled line and folded his wings tightly behind him.
“I’m sorry, Dean. I shouldn’t.”
The sudden withdrawal left him cold. His room was drafty and grey—so ugly compared to the place he’d been shrouded a moment before. Cas’ eyes were squeezed shut, hiding that bright blue that Dean saw whenever he closed his own. It was starting to get too late to say anything back, so instead he lifted his arm above Cas’ shoulder to run his fingers through any feathers he could reach. He hoped Cas could feel the same lingering current that pulsed through him at the touch.
He must have felt something, because when Dean pulled his hand away it was covered in more of the oily liquid from earlier. He looked at it closely—it was colourless and smelled like cloves and something else, something earthy he couldn’t quite name.
When he looked back up at Cas, he was watching Dean’s slick fingers slide against each other like he was hypnotized by it. The brilliance was back, but it was different—hotter than before. Cas grabbed his hand, covering his own in the oil before reaching forward to gently cup the side of Dean’s face. The scent was overwhelming as it spread over his skin, and Cas was staring at him with so much intensity Dean was sure his entire body was some shade of red.
Dean’s mouth fell open, and he didn’t know what the hell possessed him to do it, but he darted his tongue out to lap at the thumb Cas was dragging across his lower lip.
Cas made a small, needy sound that made blood pool heavy in the pit of Dean’s stomach. He opened his mouth a little more, and Cas slid his thumb inside. Dean closed his lips and sucked, swirling his tongue to taste more of the earthy spice that coated it.
“Dean.”
Dean grabbed Cas’ wrist and met his eyes. He smiled a small, shy smile around the knuckle he was holding gently between his teeth as an affirmation—a way to keep that intangible light shining on him. Cas pulled his hand away so he could press his nose against the skin he’d traced with his fingers, and as he breathed Dean in like he could live off the scent alone, his wings flared out dangerously behind him.
Were there sparks? Dean could swear he could see sparks.
He leaned into Cas’ touch, something under his ribs uncurling when Cas sighed and pressed his lips against flushed, freckled flesh to taste the light layer of oil streaked across Dean’s cheekbone.
The earth moved beneath him and Dean had to put his hands on Cas’ hips to catch his balance, pulling him closer as chapped lips and warm puffs of air spread across his skin. Cas was moving slowly, savouring every inch, every damn molecule, as he worked his way to the corner of Dean’s mouth. But there, so close, Cas paused. He was shaking with the effort of keeping skill, waiting for permission even as Dean’s hands held him tight enough to bruise.
Dean took a steadying breath and turned his head, letting his mouth rest against Cas’ so gently it could barely be called a touch. But it shot something electric down his spine and that small, quiet brush stopped being enough the moment it started.
He grabbed the sides of Cas’ face and finally, finally kissed him. The scent of the oil from his wings filled Dean’s airways, and the taste of Cas’ mouth and tongue and skin hit him like a punch to the gut.
It was wet and messy and imperfect, and all around him Dean could feel the soft strokes of those feathers—a stark contrast to the solid weight of Cas’ hands as they moved from his hips to press into his back. And as the exploratory touches brushed over him, they left behind more of that delicate, heady scent. Dean’s body felt damp with it.
Dean pulled away, breaking their kiss and holding the sides of Cas’ face to keep him in place as he surged forward to reclaim Dean’s mouth.
“What is this, Cas?” he asked, panting through swollen lips.
“What?” Cas looked wild. If he could stay focused on any one part of Dean’s face for longer than a second, his eyes might have burned a hole right through him.
Dean lifted the hem of his shirt to show him where the oil was staining the dark cotton even darker. “This stuff. Is it angel sweat, or something?”
“Or something,” Cas repeated. “It isn’t perspiration, it's…” He seemed lost, struggling to find the words when, by the way he was pushing his hips against Dean’s, he didn’t really feel like talking at all.
Dean waited. He could handle this, he could. But he needed to know he wasn’t about to die from some sort of weird angel food poisoning. The oil was all over his face and he could still taste it from where he’d licked it off of Cas’ thumb.
“It’s a manifestation of a characteristic unique to my true form. In this realm, it seems to serve a more biological purpose.” Cas looked worried, afraid of another rejection of another part of him Dean didn’t understand.
“I ain’t gonna drop dead from the stuff?” He bit his lip, still chasing the honeyed richness before even getting an answer.
Cas reached up to dig his fingers into the feathers over his shoulder. When he pulled his hand away, it was covered with oil, and he dragged his hand down Dean’s neck and over his chest—wetting his shirt enough that it stuck to his skin.
“No, Dean.”
His pulse felt supercharged at the touch, like his blood was thrumming twice as fast and burning twice as hot as it moved through his body. He grabbed Cas to crush the angel’s mouth against his own, licking back inside and meeting Cas’ hips against where he was helplessly grinding against him. As Cas slid his hands over the curve of his ass and pushed them even closer together, Dean moaned around Cas’ tongue.
The angel practically vibrated against him, grabbing Dean’s hair and pulling his head back so he could run his mouth up the tendons of Dean’s exposed throat. His eyes slipped closed as soft kisses turned into sharp drags of teeth and Cas bit small marks along the curve of his neck and across his collar bone.
“I just—one second,” Dean said, reaching down to pull his shirt over his head. At the sight, Cas’ mouth, shiny with Dean’s spit and the oil from his skin, fell open.
Dean finally felt his nerves taking a backseat. “How about losing a couple layers, yourself?” he asked, running his hands over Cas’ clothed stomach.
Before he could even start undoing the buttons still maddeningly fastened on his shirt, Cas mojo’d the tattered cotton into whatever dimension he sent those things. Dean didn’t care where it went or that he hadn’t had the chance to undress Cas himself—next time, he thought—not when he had about a mile of olive skin laid out in front of him.
He kissed along Cas’ shoulder, biting into the firm muscle and digging his fingers into the small of his back. His hands were sliding across slick skin like he was at a goddamn massage parlour.
“Dean. Get on the bed.”
He didn’t have a chance to obey because Cas was already walking him backward so quickly he almost tripped. His ass hit the mattress and he barely bounced once before the angel was on top of him, pushing his knees apart to press into the space between his legs. The wings spread out above them, the tips brushing the walls on either side of the room, and Dean had never felt so small or so powerful in his entire life.
Cas was already working his way down his chest, sucking on Dean’s skin until it was wet and crimson and then dragging his tongue over the bruised flesh. Dean dropped a hand to cup his straining dick through his jeans, to find some relief, but Cas grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the bed.
“Don’t,” is all he said, his lips hovering over Dean’s nipple.
“Jesus Christ, Cas.” The words were ripped from his throat as Cas caught the pink bud between his teeth and flicked it with his tongue. Dean moaned and dragged his free hand through messy hair, his hips thrusting up to grind against Cas—against anything—but his movements were restricted by stiff denim.
Sensing his discomfort, Cas leaned back to undo Dean’s jeans, slowly pulling the zipper down and tugging them over his hips. Dean watched him with wide eyes. He could barely believe this was actually happening. He was ruined.
“I like you this way,” Cas said, pulling the jeans off completely and getting rid of his pants at the same time. He grabbed Dean’s leg to press a kiss to the inside of his thigh—and he did it like it was no big deal, like it wasn’t the end of the fucking world.
“Oh my god.” Dean bit into his forearm to stop himself from crying out completely. Was his room soundproof? He fucking hoped so. He’d never hear the end of it if it wasn’t.
But it was like someone pressed an eject button inside his head, and his mind went blank when Cas shoved an oil-slick hand into his boxers. He bit down harder on the flesh between his teeth, sure it would draw blood as Cas started running his clenched fist up and down his cock, taking time to squeeze the sensitive tip with every slow drag.
“Does that feel good, Dean?” he asked, and Dean could have cried before being able to answer. This was it—this was the mark, the moment, that he’d never want to lock away. Cas, all taut lines and harsh angles that were so fucking beautiful he was pretty sure he could draw them from memory, leaning over Dean and looking at him like there was nothing else in the universe worthy of his attention. But no goddamn piece of art could capture the electric heat of his skin, the rough scrape of his teeth, or the slippery, slow grind of his hand.
Cas was beyond it all, beyond anything Dean could ever hope to capture or recreate. And the mountain of black above them made him ache for want of breathing that darkness in.
“Wait, sweetheart, wait,” Dean finally gasped. He was too close to the edge, and although this was the first time they’d gotten here and there was no reason to rush, he needed it too badly to stop himself from saying it. “Put your fingers in me.”
Cas bit down on the skin he’d been lapping at, growling something deep and guttural that Dean couldn’t hear.
“I’d like that very much,” he said when he pulled himself together. Cas’ wings retracted from where they’d been rolling like the ocean above him. Instead, they bent forward to fold around Dean, enveloping him in a cocoon he couldn’t ever imagine leaving. He gasped as they swept across his skin and then he broke completely when Cas dropped to pull down his boxers and sunk his mouth around Dean’s straining cock.
“Fuck.” Dean’s hand flew back into Cas’ dark hair—not as black or as endless as the feathers that surrounded them, but better. Because it was Cas, the one he’d fallen in love with about two goddamn minutes after they’d met. The one who’d pulled him from perdition. The one who’d turned him inside out and flayed the skin from his bones so many times he’d lost count.
Cas.
Dean’s legs fell further apart when Cas pressed a finger lower, even lower than his mouth was. He felt relaxed even through the fire that was spreading through him, opening for the other man like he’d been built to do it. And maybe he was. This body, every molecule, cried out for contact, for pressure, for the pure fucking heaven that exploded inside of him every time they touched.
A second finger joined the first, and Dean’s spine almost melted as Cas dragged them against that spot inside of him—one he’d used his own fingers to press against, in the shower, in his room, wherever he could and whenever he’d let himself imagine it was the angel touching him, his angel—and he dropped his arm away from his face and let himself cry out into the space around them.
Dean took a shuddering breath and looked down at Cas resting between his thighs. He still had one hand gripped tightly in his hair, and he used his leverage to pull Cas' face up.
“You’ve gotta stop,” Dean panted. “Or I’m gonna come real fuckin’ soon.”
“That’s my intention,” Cas said with filthy depth. He pulled Dean forward and spread him open to add his mouth and tongue to where his fingers were pressed and Dean was caught helplessly in his storm.
Dean reached above him, grasping into dark feathers to find something to hold onto as Cas stripped him back and took him apart. The wings fluttered and bent low, close enough that Dean could rub his face against them. His skin was wet with oil and he reached up to taste more of it, greedy and straining. The hard sinew moved lower to push itself into his mouth—holding his jaw open like a bridle as Cas continued to fuck him with thick, relentless fingers.
Cas reached up and wrapped a hand around his cock with his face still buried between Dean’s thighs, and tears fell down the sides of Dean’s face as he struggled not to bite down on the powerful wing. He finally threw his head back, gasping for air and muttering a stream of words he never thought he’d have the chance to say as the heat in the base of his spine spread down his legs and up under his ribs. When Cas crooked his fingers inside of him one more time, Dean finally let go, shuddering as he covered his stomach and chest in come.
Dean was still struggling to catch his breath when a hand fisted into his hair and pulled his head back. Cas was leaning over him, his knees bent and tucked against Dean’s sides, and blue eyes were locked on Dean’s as he stroked himself above him.
“You’re mine,” Cas said.
Dean nodded, struggling against the tight hold in his hair. “Yeah, Cas. I am.”
Cas’ muscles were straining under his damp skin—stronger even than his wings—as he jerked himself off over Dean. Dean looked down at the hard, flushed cock in front of him and dropped his mouth open, letting his jaw hang slack and his pink tongue slide out over his lower lip.
Come for me, it said.
Come on me, it said.
And with that, Cas’ body tensed and shook and he came into Dean’s waiting mouth, covering his lips and chin in a hot, sticky mess.
It tasted like his oil tasted—like cloves, but more bitter. Dean licked at what he could reach without caring how depraved he looked.
Cas shuffled down and kissed him, covering his face with his own oil and come, and Dean had never felt so goddamn alive.
They both stayed quiet as they calmed down and cleaned up, and when Dean’s heart rate had taken a step back from verging on full cardiac arrest, he curled into Cas as his wings wrapped around them.
“You need to go see Rowena?” he asked the incredibly non-human and absolutely made-for-him angel that was breathing heavily against his salt-sticky skin.
“I was thinking,” Cas said, “that I could perhaps put that appointment off for a few days.”
The black embrace tightened around him, and Dean sighed into it.
“I like this side of you, Cas,” he said with a tired smile. “Kind of love it, actually.”
“I kind of love it, too.”
Dean felt warm lips press against his temple and, for the first time, let himself forget about the monsters under his bed.