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The painting sits behind an upright stack of cardboard standees and movie posters, dusty from years of sitting unnoticed in the back of an antique shop just outside of Memphis. For a short while, Dean just takes the scene in—three angels, all white-winged and looking every bit like old religious illustrations, lead a bone-weary flock of travelers through the desert—and snorts, pulling out his phone. In the glaring fluorescent light, his camera picks up the missing splotches of paint and the massive rip down the middle, nearly splitting the canvas in half.
“Hey,” Dean calls out, glancing over his shoulder in search of Castiel. “You think angel wings really look like this?”
From the glass shelves a few steps away, Castiel abandons his idle search and wanders to Dean’s side, both hands in his coat pockets. His eyes narrow, brow furrowed in thought. “They’re…” he begins, but stops, squinting harder. “Human depictions can be misleading.”
Dean cocks a brow, looking back at the painting. “They’re probably not the same thing, sure. I mean, what’d it say in the Bible, flaming wheels and thousands of eyes?”
“More or less.” Leaning closer, Castiel runs his thumb over the canvas, specifically the third angel portrayed, with dark hair curling over his shoulders and feathers dusted with soot at the tips. Paint comes away under Castiel’s nail, marring the angel’s face. Faded blue eyes stare back at Dean, eerily familiar in a way he can’t exactly place. “We have wings, yes, but they’re… larger. What you see here could barely lift us off the ground, let alone keep us aloft in flight.”
“Bigger, got it,” Dean laughs, and jostles Castiel’s shoulder for good measure. Curiosity gets the best of him, and he prods further, nearing a whisper, “How big are we talking?”
“Hey, I got it,” Sam announces—Castiel yanks his hand away, and Dean turns, nearly toppling every poster he moved just to reach the painting. In his hand, Sam holds a pendulum by the chain, the stone gleaming bright from where it hangs. Of course Sam would be able to find it—not that Dean was looking particularly that hard anyway, but still. “Think we can just walk out with it?”
Castiel shakes his head. “There are security cameras in every corner.”
“Besides, it’s only…” Without touching it, Dean cranes his head enough to find the price sticker. “Ten dollars?”
Sam sighs and pulls a cloth bag from his pocket. “Could be worse,” he says. “At least we don’t have to bail like last time.”
-+-
As far as cursed objects go, the pendulum proves to be extraordinarily easy to destroy. Placing it atop a stump and covering it with a blanket, Dean smashes it with a rock, the quartz splintering into dozens of pieces. From the wreckage, a black cloud erupts into flame, hopefully releasing the curse that’s been plaguing the town for the better half of a month.
At least it put on a show, if not.
“All that work,” Dean mutters and stands, hands on his aching knees. “All the interviewing and breaking and entering, all for a rock. Since when is it that easy?”
Kneeling, Sam gathers up the shards of stone and brushes them off into the leaflitter. Hopefully, this far out in the woods, no one will notice. “Whatever it is, I’ll take it. Just glad we didn’t have to dig up anyone this time.” Wincing, Sam rubs the small of his back, a remnant from their last rendezvous with a demon; sometimes, if the room gets quiet enough, Dean can still hear both him and Castiel scream.
Speaking of Castiel—“You think Cas is back yet?” Dean asks. Just for something to do, he tosses the rock toward the nearest pine, listening to it thump heavily into the refuse. These days, just running into Castiel is a miracle in and of itself—actually seeing him for more than two hours yesterday, even more so. Sometime during the night, while Dean dozed in and out of sleep, Castiel disappeared in a flutter of wings, but not before…
Just a dream, Dean tells himself, but still, he can feel Castiel’s fingers in his hair, tracing gentle lines behind his ear, along his neck—and then silence, and a single feather left on the nightstand, discolored and almost like… Is Cas molting?
Sam whips the blanket, expelling the rest of the shards. “Did he say anything to you before he left? Not that it’s sudden, but… Normally he says something, or leaves a note.”
Dean could tell him—about the feather, about the hushed whisper in his ear in a language he can’t understand, the lips pressed to his temple—but even now, Dean can’t believe it himself. Instead, he opts for, “Didn’t hear anything. Just… optimistic, for once.”
Skeptically, Sam just nods, blanket slung over his shoulder. “You really are worried about him, aren’t you?”
This time, Dean can’t bring himself to lie. “Just wish he’d stick around for more than five minutes,” he sighs, rubs between his eyes. I just wish he’d stay.
-+-
The one thing Dean can’t ever control in any town is just how many beds are available. Not that the places they stay are expensive in the first place, but shelling out over a hundred dollars just to have a place to lay their heads that isn’t the interior of the Impala is well over what he intended to spend. The receptionist takes pity on them, thankfully, and books both him and Sam separate rooms for the price of one—but for one night only.
One night is all they need, anyway. The sooner out of Texas, the sooner they can make their way to their next target—wherever that is.
Stomach full and limbs exhausted, Dean drops his bag by the dresser and flops down onto the mattress, delighting in the way the springs don’t dig into his spine, instead supporting his weight. The room smells of lemon Pledge and fresh toiletries, and the air conditioner hums, effortlessly working to cool the room.
For sixty dollars, he may have just struck a goldmine.
Arms stretched wide, Dean scoots his way up further onto the bed and just sprawls, allowing his mind to drift for one blissful moment, relishing in the brief peace Sam’s absence provides. Rarely—maybe five times a year, if he counts—do they ever have time away from each other, even if it’s a few hours at best. A whole night, with his own shower and no adjoining door between their rooms—oh, the things he could do.
Right now, though, napping takes priority—or, it would, if wingbeats didn’t disturb the silence. One eye open, Dean spots Castiel in the corner of the room, illuminated by the light streaming in through the sheer curtains, and nothing else. His shoulders slump the minute Dean sits up, eyes half-lidded in his exhaustion.
At least Dean isn’t the only one tired, then.
“It took longer this time, to get away,” Castiel says. Stationary, he shrugs off his coat and drapes it over the desk chair, following with his suit jacket. Dean leans up on his elbows and watches, swallowing thickly when Castiel goes for his tie and button-down. “I was thinking about yesterday, and I’m… in a bit of a predicament at the moment.”
“This have anything to do with the feather you left?” In an awkward display, Dean lifts his ass enough to dig into his back pocket, pulling out a bent green feather, roughly the size of his hand. Castiel stops around the third button, fidgeting idly with the plastic. “Me and dad stopped at this lady’s house when I was nine. She owned a parrot, and she told me he was molting and showed me the difference between old and new growth. This?” He holds out the feather, allowing Castiel to take it. “Buddy, unless you raided a craft shop while you were gone, you got a problem.”
Castiel bows his head at that, but resumes unbuttoning his shirt. The fabric slides off his shoulders and onto the floor, and before Dean can even begin to catalog just how Castiel looks shirtless, massive black wings unceremoniously spill from between his shoulders, their span taking up a good portion of the room from wall to wall. Where dark feathers should be, Dean instead finds greens and yellows poking through, the edges frayed and splitting, twisted at odd angles.
Still, seeing him like this, Dean can’t help but suck in a breath, especially when Castiel crawls onto the bed, hands bracketing Dean’s hips; his wings form an arc, and even then, they take up majority of his vision, the feathers vibrating the surrounding air. Distantly, Dean hears chimes. “You said you wanted to see how they looked,” Castiel says, creeping ever so close. Sheets between his fingers, Dean just breathes and prays he isn’t dreaming. “I trust this’ll be our secret?”
“Yeah,” Dean croaks, afterward clearing his throat. “Yeah, just… Whatever you need, man. Been told I got magic fingers, y’know.”
Just barely, Castiel smirks. “I’m sure you do,” he says, just before he collapses next to Dean. Dean grunts under the weight of his wing, fighting for air. Not exactly the way he wanted to come face-to-face with wings, but it’s better than nothing. “I haven’t been groomed in… decades, maybe. Centuries. And with Lucifer on the run… None of us have time to keep up appearances, as you would say.”
Finally—somehow—Dean manages to crawl out from underneath the appendage, pulling a feather from his hair on the way. Upright, he fully takes in the breadth of Castiel’s wingspan and pets through the mass in his lap; fingertips trace vanes and barbs, and under his touch, Castiel shifts and hums, eyelids fluttering shut.
“You said you wanted to see what they looked like,” Castiel rumbles and drapes his hands above his head, allowing his wings to stretch to their full length. Dean sucks in a breath but resumes his ministrations, only to feel Castiel soften even further. Two years—two years, they’ve known each other, and never once has Dean seen him so unguarded, completely comfortable despite the circumstances. Mid-stretch, he lifts his left wing up enough to allow Dean to crawl out from underneath it. “They used to be white, at one point. That was… a long time ago, though.”
Dean throws a leg over Castiel’s waist, then blinks—blinks again, when the painting flashes back into his memory, and the angel Castiel had touched so reverently. “That was you?” he asks, earning a sluggish nod. At that, Dean chuckles and runs a hand down Castiel’s spine, into the mess of feathers growing between his shoulder blades. “Buddy, we gotta talk about your hair.”
“It was traditional of the time,” Castiel retorts, but laughs anyway, reaching out for a pillow.
Tomorrow, the war will continue. Tomorrow, they’ll have to hunt down Lucifer while dealing with whatever else comes their way. For now, Dean just strokes through the feathers and listens to Castiel sigh, settling even further into the bed. If he could, Dean would have Castiel like this always, this one moment of peace amidst the chaos. “There anything special I need to do?” Dean asks and leans back to rest on his heels. Castiel’s ass being right there doesn’t escape him; for once, though, he ignores his libido in favor of fulfilling a deeper desire, of getting elbow deep in more feathers he could ever imagine. “Just pull ‘em out?”
“You can use oil from here,” Castiel reaches back for emphasis, spreading out a few of the smaller secondaries to expose a number of small nubs, each about the size of a quarter, “after you’re done. It helps remove dirt and other—”
“Keeps ‘em shiny, got it,” Dean cuts in, but not unkindly. “Just relax, I got you.”
As soon as Castiel resituates himself—arms above his head, one hand grabbing a wrist, and his feet dangling off the edge of the bed—Dean starts with the feathers closest to his body. Castiel doesn’t say much, thankfully, but he does squirm occasionally. Just getting comfortable, Dean tells himself, and pointedly ignores how often Castiel’s ass rubs against the front of his jeans. Each broken feather comes away easily, and Dean focuses his attention on those; in their absence, a white feather breaks through, gold and blue speckled into the vanes.
“Hey,” Dean asks, urging Castiel to shift his wing more towards him. “Hey, you with me? Got a question.”
“’m awake,” Castiel slurs, but opens one eye.
Deftly, Dean yanks another feather free, this one longer than his forearm. Wow. “If you lost all of them, would they come back white?”
“It’d take a considerable number of years.” Castiel muffles into the pillow. “Or consistent grooming. Even then, the damage that’s been done… They’ll never entirely look the same.”
Dean mulls that over, gathering another few feathers in the silence. A pile steadily grows by Castiel’s knee, each feather a slightly different color or length, or shape altogether. “Why’re they black now?” he asks, before a vision crosses his mind. Amorphous, but he remembers the fire, the heat—and he knows, even without Castiel having to answer.
“Not all of us who descended into the seventh circle survived,” Castiel says. His wings curl in tighter, the longest of his primaries encircling Dean, caressing his back. “Many of us were permanently scarred.”
“But you got the worst of it,” Dean assumes, earning a nod.
Almost, he swears he feels the scar on his shoulder throb; maybe, on some level, it does. Guilt rushes through his gut at the thought of it, of Castiel—an angel, Christ’s sakes—willingly suffering to pull one measly soul from the depths of Hell, only to be subjected to his own personal brand of torture in return. Fighting to avert the apocalypse while also struggling with his superiors, with his own family, in an effort to save the world, and suffering—even dying—for the trouble… If only Dean couldn’t imagine it so vividly.
“It’ll take time,” Castiel concedes. Releasing his wrist, he stretches up toward the headboard, and his wings again unfurl, primaries scraping the wallpaper. “Time I may not have, but… I’ve come to enjoy your company immensely. And if given the chance…” As much as he can, Castiel leans up on his elbows and looks over his shoulder; the conflict in his eyes turns Dean’s stomach, and desperately, he aches to ease the burden. “I don’t like leaving here. Leaving you. Heaven is nothing but malice and violence, and you’ve taught me what peace means, even if it’s in moments like these.”
“Not too many of ‘em, I’ll say that,” Dean murmurs. Filling the gap, Dean pets through Castiel’s right wing, now properly groomed and spotted with snow-white feathers. “But just… like having you here too, y’know. Not just because you’re an angel, but… just because.”
Softly, Castiel smiles—Dean’s heart pangs, and he ducks his head, fearing just what it might mean. “If you finish my other wing,” Castiel sidetracks, lying back down, “I’ll tell you about the man who painted that scene.”
Dean can’t help but snort and dive back in; still, a weight sits heavy in his stomach, a fear he can’t shake, and as long as Castiel is here, he may never be able to.
-+-
Very rarely does Dean ever wake up naturally. Most of his mornings are filled with the sound of his own screams or sometimes Sam’s, or the noise of an alarm clock blaring in his ear. Tonight, he wakes to the occasional car passing on the interstate and the shuffle of sheets to his left, and a warm arm wrapping around his middle, drawing him flush.
The last he remembered, Castiel was sitting by the window watching the moon rise amidst the yellow glow of the TexInn’s sign. The last he remembered, Castiel wasn’t spooning him, nor was he kissing his neck—“Cas,” Dean manages, mouth dry. “Cas, you awake?”
“I don’t sleep,” Castiel says and drags Dean closer—and Dean wouldn’t pull away even if he wanted. Full lips suck kisses to Dean’s throat, coming dangerously close to leaving behind marks. Yet, Dean just lets him, clawing at the sheets when Castiel tucks a knee between his own, the swell of his arousal obvious against Dean’s ass. “Warm,” Castiel mutters, sounding drunk on it, on whatever… this is, between them.
“Guess you’re feeling better?” Dean says, biting back a moan. Not here, he thinks—thinks even harder when Castiel palms the front of his boxer briefs, gently at first, but insistent. “Cas, what’re…”
“Forgive me,” Castiel says, breathy and sounding every bit a sin. “Forgive me for wanting this.” A breath, a tighter hold. “I couldn’t forget your hands, what you—”
Dean shushes him with a hand to his cheek. That doesn’t stop Castiel from shoving him onto his back, his presence immovable, body solid where Dean clings to him. Namely, his shoulders. No longer does he see Castiel’s wings blocking out the ceiling; instead, Castiel’s presence looms, scalding in its intensity—Dean could lose himself in his eyes alone.
Incessantly, his heart pounds, throat bobbing when he swallows. Castiel watches him with blown pupils, lips parted and inviting. By sheer will alone, Dean fights the urge to kiss him. Not until they talk—not until Castiel explains this, whatever it is. The tension builds between them, now bleeding over into the quiet night, a lonely night.
Alone—for once, Dean is alone, and Castiel is taking advantage of the opportunity. “How long have you…” Dean starts, breathes. “How long?”
Castiel blinks at him, somehow managing to sneak even closer, close enough for Dean to feel the heat from his skin. A knee presses into his inner thigh, urging him open, wider. “Long enough,” Castiel says, and kisses him, rough and stealing the air from his lungs.
Whenever he fantasizes, Dean always imagined Castiel would be a gentle lover, not necessarily inexperienced, but willing to take his time, to ease him into the experience. What Castiel does is devour him, his kiss rough and verging on desperate. Dean just clings to him, both hands in Castiel’s hair, guiding him. Lost, he grabs for Castiel’s ass through his slacks, urging their hips together in a rough grind. Palming down Dean’s clothed chest, Castiel breaks away to nip at his jaw, soon stroking the front of Dean’s briefs, cock half-hard just from Castiel kissing him, touching him—
“Fuck, yes,” Dean moans when Castiel latches onto that spot under his ear. Gripping Castiel’s hair, Dean just holds him there, swearing a string of curses while Castiel marks him. “Fuck, get in there, c’mon…”
“Talkative,” Castiel murmurs and pulls up, drawing Dean into another kiss. “Are you ever quiet?”
At that, Dean laughs, only to break into another moan when Castiel palms his cock, tracing the hard line of it with his fingertips. “Fuck—you keep doin’ that, and I’m gonna talk your fuckin’ ear off, shit—”
Castiel chuckles, leaning down to mar his throat, again and again. Each time, Dean bites back a shout, hips driving desperately against Castiel’s until Castiel bodily pins him into the mattress, just to keep him still. If anything, it only makes Dean moan louder, lip bitten swollen by the time Castiel lets go. “You have no shame,” Castiel chides, a hand to Dean’s throat. Wary, Dean watches him, mouth dropping open when he squeezes just the slightest, hips rutting a stuttered rhythm. “You like this,” Castiel continues, a thumb over Dean’s windpipe. Not pressing in, but just a reminder, of who has control here. “You want this.”
“Just feels good,” Dean rasps, red-faced and unafraid.
Watchful, Dean sucks in a breath, wringing the linens, all while Castiel looks down at him, both hands to Dean’s chest. A thumb brushes his nipple over his shirt, and slowly, Castiel rubs it until it peaks—then twists. Choked, Dean throws his head back, his orgasm sharp and sudden and just as messy. And worst of all, Castiel encourages it, keeps grinding down onto Dean’s softening cock. All Dean can do is moan, muffling the noises into his fist.
He just came—with his clothes on.
“Eager, are you?” Castiel taunts, a smirk on his lips. One handed, he yanks the front of Dean’s shirt up, exposing his heaving stomach and the definite wet spot staining his underwear; his cock twitches, interested and more than willing to proceed. “I can feel your want, your lust.”
Castiel pauses long enough to dip his thumbs into the waistband of Dean’s briefs, swiftly tugging them off, all with little resistance on Dean’s part. In fact, he just spreads his legs after they’re gone, allowing Castiel back between them, square palms kneading the soft meat of his thighs. Again, Dean’s cock jerks, leaking. “Please,” Dean manages after a breath, clawing at Castiel’s bare shoulder. Glancing down, he spots the hard ridge of Castiel’s cock, and his mouth waters just thinking about what it might look like, how it might feel down his throat, in his ass—“Fuck, Cas, please…”
“Please what?” Vaguely reminiscent of a strip tease, Castiel undoes his belt, pulling it through the loops as slow as he possibly can. He casts it to the foot of the bed before going for his zipper, and Dean watches with intent as Castiel strokes himself through the fabric, hips riding his touch. Half-lidded eyes look down on Dean, lips parted, tongue barely peeking through. “Do you think you deserve this? After the way you touched me today? The act of a human touching the divine so intimately, knowing how you touched yourself after you finished, you should be ashamed.”
“Just doing what I was told,” Dean jeers. He strips off his shirt before he can miss anything else, and propped up on his elbows, he idly watches Castiel unzip, shoving his boxers out of the way to take his cock in hand. Audibly, Dean gasps at the sight of it, uncut and throbbing and massive in his grip, leaking through his fingers with every stroke. “Fuck, where’ve you been hiding that?”
Taunting, Castiel smirks and lets it go, only to press three fingers to Dean’s lips, slick with precome; Dean sucks them in with little prompting, moaning around the digits and allowing Castiel to stroke his cock again, soft but quickly hardening with even the barest touch. He tastes like nothing, but Dean chases it anyway, fighting back a gag when Castiel presses down on his tongue. Power play, Dean recognizes, and groans, hips bucking up into Castiel’s grip.
“Your mouth alone could tempt an angel into sin,” Castiel rumbles, pulling his fingers free. Saliva rolls down Dean’s chin; Castiel gathers it up on his fingers and uses it to slick himself, now working both of their cocks in earnest, before he abandons Dean’s for his own pleasure. Hips thrusting into the circle of his fist, Castiel grips the sheets beside Dean’s shoulder, and Dean clings to his bicep, chest heaving every time Castiel speeds up, watching, waiting for the inevitable.
Only, both it and Castiel never come. Rather, Castiel stops himself, hips still bucking, chasing the familiar pressure, and precome spills from his cock, dripping onto Dean’s. “Fuck,” Dean hisses and grabs for Castiel’s hair, dragging him into a wet kiss. “Fuck, angel, wanna get you in me.”
Castiel hums something unintelligible, and smacks Dean’s hip for his trouble. Impossibly, Dean’s chest burns even hotter, breaths shallow. “Do you think that’s wise, after what you did? Do you think you deserve it?”
“Yes,” Dean begs, just desperate enough to admit it. They’re alone here, safe behind a locked door and hidden behind—“Shit, can someone see us?”
Briefly, Castiel turns his attention to the sheer curtains, and closes the floral-patterned drapes with a single finger. A single sliver of light breaks through the darkness, streaming right across Dean’s chest. “You’re safe here, remember that,” Castiel reminds him, and takes a moment to remove the rest of his clothes. Dean, meanwhile, rolls off the bed to find the lube stuffed in his duffel, and grabs his still-wet towel from the bathroom floor on the way.
A momentary reprieve, but they need this—whatever this is, they both need the reassurance, that this isn’t some fluke, that this isn’t the result of a lust-filled moment that they’ll regret later. Dean has plenty of regrets already—being with Castiel doesn’t need to be one of them.
As soon as Castiel spreads the towel out, Dean crawls back onto the bed and pulls Castiel into another kiss, this one surprisingly chaste, given the last few minutes. His cock bobs anew when they press together, Castiel’s hands in Dean’s hair, Dean’s on Castiel’s hips. “Feel like we should talk about this,” Dean says just as Castiel massages his sac, the final syllable pitched higher. “Fuck, fuck, Cas, listen—”
“We’ll talk, after we’re done,” Castiel assures, every bit as sincere as Dean hopes. “Unless you’re unsure? I don’t want to impose—”
“Trust me, you’re not.” Lightly, Dean taps Castiel’s hip. “Just wanna make sure this isn’t… I don’t wanna fuck this up with you, man. You, outta all people—”
“I know,” Castiel punctuates with a kiss. “And you won’t. Just this once, don’t think about it, can you do that?”
No, Dean thinks, but for the moment, he tosses that aside and falls into Castiel, utterly lost in his touch.
Somewhere along the way, he lands on his back and Castiel towers over him, their cocks softened in the lull. Licking a stripe up his palm, Dean works Castiel’s dick back to hardness, reveling in the quiet moans Castiel gives. “That's it,” he encourages and pets up Castiel’s thigh. “That’s it, c’mon. Gonna be so hard in me, aren’t you?”
“Dean,” Castiel rasps. Eyes pinched shut, he places both hands to Dean’s chest and falls into it, and Dean strokes him like that, watching his thighs flex, taut muscle straining around his hips. “Dean, Dean—”
“So hot like that,” Dean hums. The second he lets go, Castiel pins his wrists to the bed, the fire once again burning behind blue eyes. “Cas,” he pleads. Castiel kisses his neck rather than reply, leaving Dean moaning in return. “Cas, please—”
“You just can’t keep quiet, can you?” Castiel says directly into Dean’s jaw. “I could make you bite my belt, or I could gag you, and you still wouldn't shut up.”
“You like it,” Dean goads. “Want me quiet so bad, why don’t you do something about it?”
Something scheming crosses Castiel’s eye, devilish enough to make Dean’s stomach swoop low. “I think that can be arranged,” Castiel purrs, and drags Dean up by his hair.
Typically, Dean likes to take his time when he’s blowing someone, tries to keep it as wet and slick as possible, and relaxes his throat as much as he can. Here, half hunched over, Castiel feeds Dean his cock and just holds him there, not exactly constricting, but keeping him in place. Either way, Dean moans around his girth, looking up whenever he gets the chance to see the look on Castiel’s face. His neck screams in protest, though, and eventually he taps Castiel’s thigh, a warning.
“Let me up, finger me while I’m down here?” he asks.
Castiel pets the back of his neck with his knuckles in reply, something soft and sinful crosses his lips. “Hand me that bottle, then.”
Blowing Castiel like this isn’t exactly any more comfortable; Dean’s neck protests with the strain, and keeping his ass tilted up takes more effort than his spine wants to commit to, but he manages it, and Castiel rewards him with a wet finger circling his rim. Not anywhere close to dipping in, but Dean vibrates with anticipation and holds onto Castiel’s hips.
“You feel divine,” Castiel groans. Hand to Dean’s ass, Castiel spanks him, just hard enough for Dean to grunt. “I thought about this, what you’d feel like.” A hand cards through Dean’s hair, pets down to the base of his skull; minutely, Dean relaxes, and the first finger slips in easily. “Your lips are sin alone, but your tongue—”
For emphasis, Dean pulls off enough to lap at the crown of Castiel’s cock, tongue dipping into the slit. Castiel throws his head back, and he darts a second finger in. “Shit,” Dean breathes, clenching down around him. He mouths a kiss to Castiel’s nipple while Castiel curls the digits, seeking, imploring—“Oh fuck, there, that’s it, just like that—”
Castiel admonishes him with another swat—all Dean does is shout. “Quiet, or you get nothing,” he scolds. A shiver runs down Dean’s spine, and his cock jumps, begging for attention. “Can you do that for me?”
“Can I talk after you’re done?” Dean asks. For reassurance, mostly; this is still so new, and every fantasy Dean has ever dreamed about for the past year and a half, and he can’t risk—he can’t risk whatever this is.
Rather than reply, Castiel kisses him, then chases it with a peck to his cheek. “Of course. Lie back.”
Automatic, Dean flops back onto the towel—after that, all he knows is the warm press of Castiel’s hand on his scarred shoulder, and the fingers sliding wetly into his ass, stretching, feeling him out. Dean rides his hand like that for longer than he can keep track, lip between his teeth when Castiel breaches him with a fourth, wider than Dean has ever felt. Castiel’s thumb presses into his perineum just as he curls the rest of his fingers into Dean’s prostate, the stimulation overloading all of his senses—and only by a miracle does he not come, or start praising every god he can think of.
Because this—this might as well be heaven. Yes, his mind screams; out loud, he moans and grabs whatever he can find—namely, one of Castiel’s knees and his own cock, now leaking profusely onto his stomach, making a mess of his skin. “Good boy,” Castiel praises and pours more lube onto his fingers. Dean wheezes and arches his back, gripping his cock tight enough to hurt. Not yet, not yet, he scolds himself—but he wants.
Eventually—and reluctantly—Castiel pulls his fingers free, and Dean heaves out a breath, lying flat on the towel. Sucking in air, he watches Castiel wet his hand again, this time stroking his cock with it, stomach spasming when he gets close to the head. This won’t last, but I don’t care. “How do you want this?” Castiel asks, and—that wakes Dean up. He ran out of condoms five hunts ago, and with the apocalypse looming, sex had been the last thing on his mind.
“Fuck,” he groans, an arm over his eyes. “Pretty sure I’m clean, but I didn’t…”
“You’re perfectly healthy,” Castiel says. With both hands, he massages Dean’s thighs before spreading him open, fingers leaving slick trails just behind his knees. Still, Dean looks away, for once ashamed of his nervousness. In the past, he’s hooked up with men, sure, but never… Never like that. “We don’t have to, Dean.”
“No, no, I’m… Jesus.” Leaning up on one elbow, Dean looks between them, at Castiel’s waiting cock and his own, and the brilliant flush dying every inch of skin imaginable. He hasn’t been this turned on in a long, long while, and damn his insecurities if he won’t allow himself this one thing. “Just go slow, alright? Haven’t exactly done it without condoms before.”
Castiel kisses him, once, a slow tease. “Tell me if you need anything,” he says, and Dean nods. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, c’mon. Wanna see if it’s any different like this.”
Thankfully, Castiel takes his time at first, probably more gentle than he intended. Regardless, Dean clings to Castiel’s shoulders and just breathes, shuddering when Castiel’s head pushes in, in, thicker than it felt in his mouth. “Fuck,” he curses, grunting with every slow, gliding thrust. For what feels like forever, Castiel fucks in, and only once he’s fully seated does Dean breathe. “Cas, you’re… God—”
“Not exactly,” Castiel hums. “But you make me feel like one. I look at you,” and he rears up, palms to Dean’s pecs, and pulls out, a slow, wet glide that reignites the fire in Dean’s stomach, “and I want to be all you know. I want you to trust me”—back inside, hard enough to rattle the bedframe—“I want you to know me”—another, and Dean smacks the headboard for balance—“I want you to worship me”—again, again, again.
In the dead of night, Dean cries out, and hangs on.
Despite the frigid air from the window unit, Dean sweats, fingertips slipping on Castiel’s shoulders, on his arms, wherever he can grab hold of. “Shit,” he swears, eyes rolling back when Castiel shoves in and grinds, deep, hips keeping him pinned open. “Shit, angel, there, oh fuck, right there, just like that,” he praises.
Castiel rewards Dean with a series of punctuated thrusts, each rutting into his prostate, each making his cock jump between them. If he wanted, Dean could get off like this, could come just on Castiel’s cock and would love every second of it. Already loose from one orgasm and building to a second, Dean elects to watch him, adjusting his hips when he needs to, just to get Castiel where he wants it, to where Castiel’s eyelids flutter.
“Like that?” Dean asks at one point, reaching between his legs to feel where they meet. Castiel splits him open, everything a mess of lube down there, dripping onto the towel and smearing into their skin—"Fuck, got me hard, Cas. Real hard, feel it.” Dean grabs for Castiel’s hand and guides it downward to encircle his cock. “Feel that? That’s you, look at what you did.”
“Fuck, Dean,” Castiel pants, and that word—that one word nearly drives Dean over the edge.
What almost does as well, is the sight of Castiel’s wings unfurling in the dark, a blue glow emanating from between the feathers, enough to light the room. Dean gasps and claws at Castiel’s knee, dovetailing his fingers with Castiel’s; in tandem, they strip his cock, Dean’s hips twitching and bucking, teeth bared. “Fuck, there,” he says, winded, “there, there, oh fuck, Cas, there, oh fuck yes, yes, there, yes—”
And he comes, full-bodied and loud, toes curled, legs clamped around Castiel’s waist. White spills into their joined hands, and for a few blissful seconds, all Dean feels is the ecstasy of release, the world a distant memory in Castiel’s arms. “In me,” he hears himself say, far off and unfamiliar, but Castiel complies regardless, his warmth all-encompassing, his wings shrouding them in light. With a grunt and hushed words, Dean feels Castiel come more than hears him, his cock sliding through his spend and slicking the way even further, in a way Dean knows will be a pain to clean up later.
For now, though, he basks in it, body still spasming while he comes down, Castiel still grinding, riding out his orgasm and the last of his hardness. Lying there, he strokes through Castiel’s hair and presses kisses to his sweating temple. “You did it,” Dean says, elated. “Look what you did.”
“Filthy,” Castiel says, winded but mirthful. He thrusts one more time before pulling out with a wince, cock spent; come spills from Dean’s rim, and before Dean can protest, Castiel gathers it up and plunges his fingers back in, slow, like every porno Dean has ever watched. “I could do this again and again, and you’d never get enough, would you?”
“Never,” Dean laughs. Like I ever could with you.
-+-
Sam knocks on the door around eight the following morning, well past when Dean planned on waking up. Sluggish, Dean opens one eye, only to feel Castiel tug him closer, a wing still draped over his legs. “I know you’re in there,” Sam calls. “Come on, I know I said I’d drive today, but after last night, I’m taking shotgun.”
“Oh god,” Dean groans, palming an eye. Sam heard them—of course Sam heard them. “Cas, we gotta get up.”
“I thought we were planning to talk,” Castiel yawns, but sits up. Before Dean can reach for them, Castiel retracts his wings, leaving Dean cold and oddly alone. “I’m… sorry. I wanted you to sleep for a while.”
Could’ve gotten me up an hour ago, Dean thinks, but doesn’t complain. For once, he feels more rested than he ever has, and having a warm body at his back certainly helped. But Castiel is leaving—and Dean grabs for him, keeping him in bed for a moment longer. “Wait, just… You know I…” It shouldn't be this hard, but it is, and he can barely get the words out. “This isn’t a one-time thing for me. I’m tired of… I’m just tired of you not being here, okay?”
The look Castiel gives him tears at his heart, even more than the following kiss, and the one after that. “No matter what, know that I want to be here, with you. I’ll…” Another kiss; Dean fights back the sudden sting in his eyes. “I’ll try to stay. Until they force me, I won’t leave.”
“Just don’t want you to go.” Sighing, Dean pulls back, enough to look Castiel in the eye. Sam knocks again; Dean ignores him, just for another minute. “And not just because you blew my mind last night.”
Castiel snorts, ducking his head. “Would you believe I’ve never done that before?”
Dean blinks, then laughs. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“You make it… too tempting, I’m afraid.” A final kiss, and Castiel helps Dean sit up, their lips never far away. “Now that I have you, I don’t want to let you go.”
A line Dean has only heard a few times in his life—this time, he believes it. “Then don’t,” he whispers. “Whatever you need, I’m here, and I won’t… I need you, man. More than you know.”
“I know.” Gently, like a breeze, Castiel touches his cheek, kisses his forehead. Rarely has Dean ever felt a love like this—this time, he hopes he can hold onto it, for as long as he can. “I know.”