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Cas has cocksucker lips, all pale, pretty pink and soft, supple give. Lips that beg to be fucked open and stretched wide. Lips that are already gorgeous and could only be improved by being blood flushed and kiss swollen and spit slicked. The stubble around them should be a turn off, because, yeah, he's not really into dudes and he was pretty burned--literally and figuratively--by that one experience with a bearded lady in Kentucky, but it's not exactly the deal breaker he would have thought it would be. Because, okay, stubble, no tits, and, yeah, dick, but then there's that mouth, which has the phrase 'exception to the rule' written all over it.
In short, Cas has a mouth made for sin and Dean's never exactly been good at that whole 'resisting temptation' thing.
His back hits the wall hard enough that the picture of a puppy frolicking with a duckling hanging a few feet away rattles and nearly falls. The breath explodes out of his lungs in a hiss--his ribs are at least bruised, if not actually cracked, from their last hunt and there's an oldish cut under his ribs that pulls uncomfortably against its stitches--but he has an armful of clinging, mostly naked angel, who's sucking an epic sized mark into the underside of Dean's jaw and has a lube-slicked hand shoved halfway down the front of his pants, so...yeah, he's not exactly about to start complaining.
Cas' shirt is pushed off his shoulders, caught at his elbows, and when Dean tugs on it, trying to get it off, he makes a small, impatient noise, like it's too much trouble to pull his hand away from where it's cupping Dean's dick for the two seconds it'll take to strip it off of him. Dean yanks harder and a small thrill of glee goes through him when he feels the fabric start to give, then tear under his fingertips. The shirt splits most of the way down the back, a long, jagged tear from just under the collar to the hem, and Dean gathers handfuls of fabric and pulls until a seam in the collar snaps. Cas drops his head to Dean's shoulder and pants against his sweaty skin as the ruined shirt flutters down to hang from his wrists.
The heel of his hand presses down harder, a long, slow grind against the underside of the head of Dean's cock, and Dean looks over Cas' shoulder, down the long, unblemished line of his back. Looks at how smooth and soft the skin is, how it's flushed pink in patches that shouldn't look nearly as alluring as they do and has a sheen of sweat, and he wants to mark it, scar it. Do something to leave a sign of what they're doing, something that proves this is real. He digs his nails in and drags them down, presses hard enough that the flesh goes even whiter, then blood rushes in and paints lines of Dean's ownership under his skin in pale red.
Cas shudders, arches under his touch, his head tipping back on a strangled moan, and Dean has just enough time to feel smug about that before there's a faint rustling, then a pop like someone uncorking a bottle of champagne. And then Dean pretty much gives up on thinking, because holy fuck.
Wings.
They're not as massive as Dean would have assumed from the glimpses of shadows he'd caught, but they still seem plenty big enough stretched out like this in his small, dingy motel room. He doesn't know what he was expecting--probably something white and fluffy, because, let's face it, even having his own personal angel isn't quite enough to drive the ingrained image of cherubs out of his head--but it wasn't this...this oil spill in wing form. At first glance they seem black, darker than a moonless, starless night, but there are entire rainbows caught in the depths, bursting forth with slick, gleaming colors when Dean tilts his head and sees the dim light from the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling play over them. Dean swallows hard and buries his fingers in the inky feathers, and it's like touching a live wire; his skin crackles with the sensation, the hair on his arms standing straight up, and he wants. Cas freezes at the first touch of his fingertips, a high whine slipping from between his suddenly slack lips and his blue eyes rolling back, and that right there is pretty much the best thing in the history of ever, Dean decides.
He rakes his fingers through the feathers, which are dry and soft and slippery against his skin, and Cas mewls and grips Dean's cock tighter, tight enough to make Dean's knees wobble, and the two of them slide down the wall, because the bed is too damn far away and standing is so far gone from being an option right now. Dean still has his pants on, which is just stupid, pants are stupid and unnecessary and they need to be gone. He doesn't think he said that out loud, but he must have, because Cas is nodding agreement and helping him wriggle out of them, and oh. Oh, then it's just skin on skin on skin, and Dean wants closer, wants inside. Fuck, does he ever want.
"Fuck," he grinds out between clenched teeth, and Cas nods again and brokenly says, "Yes. Yes, Dean, please."
And really, who is he to deny an angel?
Well.
About this, anyway.
Dean pulls Cas forward by his wings, swallowing the whimper that forces out of him with his mouth, bites at Cas' cocksucker lips, and thinks, Next time, because hell yes there's no way there's not going to be a next time, not when it's this good, not when he hasn't had a chance to get those pretty lips wrapped around him yet. So he promises himself a next time, when they'll take it slow and learn each other the way they should have this first time, discovering each other's bodies by inches with lips and tongues and fingers, but right now he just lines himself up and thrusts in.
It's tight, almost too tight, because they spent almost no time prepping Cas and what little they did do seems like it happened a lifetime ago, but Cas doesn't seem to mind if the way he attacks Dean's mouth is anything to go by. There's a creaking noise and the wall at Dean's back shudders, and it takes him a moment to realize that Cas is digging his fingers into it, the drywall buckling and crumbling under his hand, and that's kind of unbearably hot, and Dean plants his feet more firmly on the floor and surges up. Cas cries out, the hand that isn't eating up their security deposit gripping his shoulder tight enough to leave bruises over the raised mark there, the scraps of that damn shirt tickling Dean's side. Dean lets him, lets the pain soak into him, grounding him, loves the combination of physical roughness with the tender, almost reverent way Cas is staring at him, like he wants to worship him, but is too overwhelmed to contain himself. And, okay, Dean changes his mind, because making an angel completely lose control? That is the real best thing. Better than magic fingers, better than Metallica.
Shit, it's better than pie.
Dean flexes his hips and Cas' wings flutter, quivering and stretching erratically under Dean's touch, but Cas holds his body as still and taut as a drawn bow, and Dean leans closer. He presses a messy kiss to the dip under Cas' bottom lip, another to his sternum, smooths his palms over the puffed up feathers along the top ridge of his wings, and when Cas finally starts to tentatively roll his hips in an uneven rhythm, Dean slides his hands down to the joint where his wings meet his shoulder blades and guides his movements, teaching him how to ride him.
"Dean," Cas says, like it's killing him. "Dean," like his name is a benediction. His eyes are fever bright, his messy hair sticking damply to his skin, everything about him so beautifully wrecked, and Dean can feel his own words--stupid, destructive, bad idea words--bubbling up in his chest and trying to escape. And he can't, he just can't, so instead he kisses Cas again, licks into his mouth and lets him swallow the words he's too terrified to say.
It's hard and messy and fast, all sweet friction and grasping desperation, and there's no way it can last long. Not with the way Cas is clenching around his dick, not with the way Dean can feel Cas' pulse beating faster and faster in his wings.
"Yes," Dean hisses into the space between Cas' lips, too far gone to really even kiss Cas anymore, but unwilling to pull away from his mouth. Cas groans in agreement, his wings curving in around their bodies so that Dean can feel those delicious, electric tingles everywhere, and that just fucking does it. He doesn't scream, because Dean Winchester does not scream during sex, he makes people scream during sex, but he could kind of understand how someone could get the noise he makes confused with one. He comes so hard it almost hurts, like something's reached deep inside of him and ripped his orgasm out of him, and, yeah, that's the kind of mind blowing he can get behind.
Cas makes a small, needy sound low in his throat, Dean's softening cock still up his ass, and his dick dripping precome on Dean's stomach. And, okay, he can feel embarrassed about the fact that the forty thousand year old virgin lasted longer than he did later, because he's never left a partner hanging before and he'll be damned--again--if he starts with Cas. He finally manages to tear a hand away from Cas' wings to wrap his fingers around his dick and starts jacking him, the firm flesh slippery with precome and sweat. When he turns his head, the curving top of one of Cas' wings is right there, close enough to brush against his lips, and it seems like a no brainer to open his mouth, take the almost pointed tip between his teeth, and bite down.
The drywall crumbles and completely gives way under Cas' hand, the overhead light flickers, pulses brightly, then breaks, the television sparks and catches fire, and Cas comes hot and sticky all over Dean's hand with a loud cry that could definitely be classified as a scream. For several seconds, he's tense against Dean's body, his muscles jumping when Dean pets a hand up over his stomach and chest, down his side to settle on his hip, and then he just kind of melts, his wings drooping limply and his arms looping loosely around Dean's neck.
"Shit," Dean says. It sounds kind of funny because his tongue is a little numb from whatever mojo Cas keeps in his wings, but he's so beyond caring about that. Cas presses lazy kisses to the corners of his mouth, his eyelids, his chin. Dean shivers and lets him, even though this is starting to get dangerously close to cuddling, afterglow territory. When Cas holds still long enough, he mouths at his cheekbone, tasting the sweet tang of his sweat, then tilts his head back so that Cas can nuzzle back behind his ear. He sighs, says again, "Shit."
Cas hums his agreement and carefully lifts himself up on shaky knees until Dean slides out of him, then settles back down on his lap, their skin sticking damply together.
They should get a towel or something to clean up with, Dean thinks absently, but he can't even be bothered to undo the cuffs of Cas' sleeves so that he can finally get that damn shirt off, so there's no way he's heading all the way into the bathroom right now.
"So," Cas says against Dean's jawline, his voice a little rougher than usual, but surprisingly steady all things considered. "That was sex? I found it surprisingly satisfactory."
Dean can't help it.
He laughs.