Work Text:
For two weeks, Dean’s wrists have itched, along with various other parts of his body. Namely, two eerily similar spots behind his ears and just behind his ankles, and a particularly strange spot along his spine.
Red, scaly patches mar his skin, almost reminiscent to psoriasis. Initially, he figures it’s poison ivy; with all of their trekking through nature recently, he always manages to catch something, whether it be oak or sumac or ivy. Whatever has a name, at some point in his life, he’s caught it and had to deal with it with annoying amounts of anti-itch medication and special bath salts and once, sitting in the ocean for five hours straight just to make the burning stop.
But this is different, Dean thinks, looking at himself in the mirror for the third time that morning, admiring the red scales behind his ears. They burn and itch, and occasionally throb when he touches them. Probably not the best idea, in hindsight, but he can’t stop himself. His wrists hurt even worse, just from the constant use of his hands, the patches there even angrier, festering a bit. His ankles, he can ignore, unless he puts on socks.
No amount of medication works, either. Lotion, Hydrocortisone, Epsom salt baths, nothing even comes close to dulling the pain, to the point where alcohol is the only way he can sleep some nights. With all his heart, Dean wants it to stop, lest he actually have to tell Sam and Castiel that he’s wandered into something toxic that’s threatening to scar him for life.
Today, standing in front of the mirror, Dean bites his lips as he scratches dull nails over one wrist, running his fingers over the raised indentations in his arm. It almost feels like he’s worn a bracelet too long, or he slept overnight in handcuffs. All of the spines feel like they originate from the carpal joints and spread out about two inches above his wrist, to where they taper and lift up into the skin.
Over the last week, it’s only grown more horrific, looking at himself. Hiding the marks has been a feat in and of itself, especially around his wrists. Whether anyone has noticed, no one has made a comment, but their silence only unnerves Dean further, to the point of paranoia. Now, he can barely wear bracelets without wanting to cry, and his feet ache, all the way to his toes.
His back, too—he can’t even describe the weight bearing down on his spine.
Scratching doesn’t make it feel any better, and despite knowing he shouldn’t, Dean can’t stop himself. Towel wrapped around his waist and hair air-drying, he digs into his wrist over the sink, until the ache subsides and the sting begins to set in. Blood wells beneath the surface and spills over from one hole—a hole—and just barely, he spots the black quill of something beginning to poke through his skin.
“Shit,” he hisses, heat beginning to race. He’s got a bug or something living inside him, and he didn’t know?
Only, it’s not a bug, at least not one he can identify. With two fingers, Dean pulls free a quill from his skin, barbs and all, the length of it extending two inches and tapered at the end, almost like a feather. A bloodied, unformed feather.
His brain works faster than his mouth, because what he’s seeing—it isn’t natural. It isn’t even human, and they’re growing inside of him, waiting to burst free of his skin. Feathers.
Actual feathers.
“Castiel,” Dean calls, hysteric, and rips into his wrist.
-+-
Dean’s only saving grace, sitting on the tile floor, is that he remembered to bring sweatpants in before he showered. Otherwise, he would still be there, a towel in his lap and Sam at his side, but he’d be naked and even more uncomfortable than he already is.
As of right now, Castiel is scratching his fingers through the quills extending from behind his ears, each one at least four inches long and jagged, the barbs scraping against his hair. There’s only five on each side, but that’s ten too many, all of them sending chills through Dean. He feels sick, almost inhuman.
There’s only three quills in his ankles, all emerging from just above his ankle, well enough out of the way for him to wear tennis shoes safely. If these things continue to grow, though, he may never be able to wear boots again, or even socks—what the hell are these things, anyway?
Sam tends to his wrists and the multitude of quills there, his fingers coming away bloody every time he pulls a new one free. They extend all the way around, forming a ring of feathers. And it hurts—it hurts in a way Dean can’t even begin to describe, like something is ripping out pieces of his liver, or his soul, one by one. The towel across his lap is soaked red in splotches, the mass growing with everything new they find, every vein they tap.
“What’s happening to me?” Dean asks, hoarse, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Everything burns, but not in the way it has for the past few weeks. No, now it just aches, but the pressure no longer festers in him, the cause set free. All he needed to do was rip feathers out of his skin—who knew?
“You’re having an adverse reaction,” Castiel says, standing. He seats himself at Dean’s back and runs his fingers over his spine, where it hurts the most; his thumbs glide along two slits Dean hasn’t even been able to see, but now, Dean wants to scream. “Have you run into anyone recently?”
“No more than usual,” Sam answers for Dean, wetting the tip of a washrag in a small pot and wiping down Dean’s wrists. “There was a witch last week, but she didn’t hex us or anything.”
“Nice girl, actually,” Dean mutters, wincing as Castiel prods his back more, thumbs digging in. “This demon was tryin’ to—will you quit that, please?”
“You have wings,” Castiel says, astounded. Sam must share the sentiment, based on how his eyes are locked on Dean’s spine.
Meanwhile, Dean tries not to hurl, the terror too real, too all-encompassing. “Please don’t tell me you gotta rip those out too,” he wheezes, beginning to tremble. Please make it stop, please, please make the pain—
“We can’t let them stay,” Castiel says, motioning to Sam over Dean’s shoulder. “The infection isn’t worth it. You could die, Dean.”
Great, not only is he growing feathers out of nowhere, but they’re apparently intent on killing him, as well.
“Has this ever happened before?” Sam asks, ever helpful. “People don’t just… grow wings, do they?”
Castiel takes a few seconds to respond, all the while massaging Dean’s shoulder blades until whatever inside him is positioned where he wants it. Whatever Castiel did, it hurts even worse now, Dean’s eyes not even bothering to hold back tears; thankfully, neither Sam nor Castiel comment on it.
“Usually not without interference,” Castiel eventually manages. His coat shifts from underneath him, and faintly, Dean hears the click of a pocketknife. Shit—they’re really going to cut him open. “There are certain spells that can produce wings, but that magic has long since died. The spells were burned thousands of years ago, and only a handful of Angels remember how to cast them.”
“That’s great,” Dean huffs, wrapping his arms around himself. The barbs, ever sensitive, scratch against his sides, leaving behind red marks. “Fuckin’ peachy. Now I got things growin’ outta me and no answers.”
“There has to be a reason though,” Sam adds. Really, Dean could punch him. “What if it’s Grace? When you pulled him out of Hell, what if you left something behind?”
For a long, drawn out second, Castiel considers this; Dean could punch him too, given the chance. “It shouldn’t manifest, though,” Castiel murmurs, contemplative. Stop thinking and rip these things out of me. “Whatever I may have left, it would never be enough to cause… this.”
“Congratulations then,” Dean muffles into his fist. “You obviously did something. Now fix it.”
“You’re being obstinate,” Castiel shoots back, just the slightest hint of authority in his tone. Dean ignores him and settles for biting the meat of his hand. “Whatever is happening to you, it’s a gift.”
“A gift?” Dean barks, craning his head around; the quills behind his ears twitch, no doubt bleeding again. “You think this is a gift? What, fucking feathery stigmata is a gift to you?”
Castiel glares, palms pressed flat to Dean’s back, the knife still held in hand. “Only the bravest of souls are equipped to handle such a transformation. You shouldn’t think of it as a burden.”
“You have wings,” Sam adds, childishly awed. “Who wouldn’t want that?”
“Then why don’t you take them?” Dean spits, much to Sam’s horror. Sam’s face falls, and just barely can Dean bring himself to feel guilty. “I don’t want this. If you want them so much, then cut them off.”
“Dean,” Castiel hisses. Again, the pain resurfaces, and Dean bites back a groan, body going taut. “Dean?”
“Get them out,” Dean gasps, leaning over enough to press his forehead against the floor. The angle only exacerbates the ache, but he can’t bring himself to care, not anymore. Two weeks too long—he should’ve pulled everything out on day one. “Please, just—rip them out, cut them off, whatever, just—”
“Hold him still,” Castiel orders Sam. The words fall like acid, drenching Dean’s skin in cold sweat, his blood ice.
Sam’s hands on his shoulders only cement it in, that this is happening—that Castiel is cutting open Dean’s back and sliding his fingers along a mass of quill-covered bone, and Castiel is pulling a wing free while Dean screams and howls into his knees. Blood spills from the wound until it’s free, dripping down Dean’s flank and dripping on the floor. The second wing comes out easier than the first, the pain all but numbing Dean’s senses, leaving behind the abatement of pain and pressure along his spine.
Still, Dean begs, “Make it stop,” clawing at the floor. “Make it stop, please, please…”
The worst of it ends with the sudden rush of Castiel’s Grace through him, knitting together the gashes, until everything feels… normal. At least, as normal as it can, what with the feathers and the wings. Dean sobs and chokes on his own spit once it’s over, Castiel’s hand running down his back doing nothing to calm his nerves, or ease the heartache.
Dean has wings—by some horrific miracle, he has wings, and all he wants to do is take a saw to his own limbs, just to bring everything back to the way it was. An imperfect normal, where all he was was human. Now, he doesn’t even know what he is, but whatever it is, he wants out.
-+-
Resting is a nightmare. Sleeping is even worse, considering the current state of Dean’s disfigurement and the twinge that runs up his arm every time his hands brush against something. His ankles, thankfully, he can shield with long socks, but his hands are another matter. Lying on his back is no longer an option, not with how his wings twitch and flutter, featherless quills fluttering like inky spider webs in the air.
This entire day is a mess, Dean thinks, sluggishly letting go of his pillow. His bed isn’t comfortable, not like this, not with his sheets pulled over the small of his back and the rest of him exposed to the painfully cold air of the bunker. Out of all the times of the year, it had to happen in winter, when no amount of blankets can fully protect him from the chill.
What he needs is a Snuggie—god, what has the world come to?
Around two in the morning, Dean gives up on his self-imposed exile in his bedroom and leaves for the library, clutching the softest blanket he owns to his chest and wishing desperately he had a pair of elbow-length gloves, or even oven mitts, anything to cover his wrists and keep his feathers from brushing against anything and everything.
Miserable doesn’t cover it. He’s just… exhausted. Exhausted and devastated and too tired to stay awake, but too oversensitive to do anything but wander the halls.
Only one light is on in the library when Dean finds it, dimmed low enough to not startle his eyes, but enough to illuminate someone at the table, head pillowed on his arms, snoring softly: Castiel, always too stubborn to sleep in his bedroom, but somehow content to sleep wherever he wants, namely on top of a cold, wood table.
Whether he’s actually asleep is the question. Regardless, Dean picks up a chair from under the table and places it down softly in an attempt to let Castiel sleep, at least for a few more minutes.
Still, Castiel wakes just as Dean settles his blanket around his legs, leaning forward enough to make room for his wings. “Dean,” he murmurs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Did you sleep?”
“I can’t.” Sighing, Dean palms his eyes, wincing when one of the quills touches his chin. Only a few hours, and he’s still too sensitive to exist. “Feels like I’m being attacked.”
“It’s your nerves,” Castiel offers. Dean nods, still despondent. How is this his life? How is this happening? “You’re essentially a fledgling, though I suspect this is as far as you’ll grow.”
“God, I hope so,” Dean huffs, arms tight around his middle. “Kinda… I hate them, but I wish they weren’t so…”
“Tiny?” Castiel suggests.
Tiny is one way of describing it. His poor wings aren’t more than two feet long each, all constructed of white bone and dozens of not-quite feathers, all attempting to grow in on top of each other. People have dreams of becoming Angels, yes, but the reality of it is more frightening than fantasies. He always imagined massive things, a few dozen feet off to either side and painted in golds and silvers, and he’d glide through the skies without a care in the world.
Now, he’s wearing a permanent set of Halloween wings, sans the things that make them wings in the first place. He’s nothing but a mistake, a fluke, some faulty miracle that never should’ve happened.
And yet, Castiel looks at him like he’s holy, like somehow in the last few hours, he’s grown a halo as well. With slow, swift steps, Castiel rounds the table and takes up the chair opposite of Dean, turning it to face him. “Give me your hand,” Castiel says, an order veiled as a request. Dean complies anyway, his heart not in it to fight, not right now. It’s too early in the morning, and he hasn’t slept enough in the last month to let him function properly, let alone enough to make informed decisions.
Yet, Castiel takes his offered hand in kindness, gentle fingers massaging the tender skin around the quills in his wrist. It stings, is Dean’s first thought, followed by, “Why there?” With his free hand, he points to their joined hands and the feathers behind his ears, painfully stuck in every direction. “Why… any of this?”
Castiel lets out a long breath, blinking lazily in the scant light. “Humans aren’t meant to bear Grace,” he supplies, turning Dean’s arm over to bare the underside of his wrist. “When it manifests, it’s always unpredictable. The ones who’ve transformed in the past, some of them have developed feathers near their eyes, along their sides, in their hips. Where yours have appeared are the best case scenario.”
“It still hurts, though,” Dean huffs, his wings shuffling a bit at his back. “How’m I supposed to get used to this? I can’t sleep, Cas, I can’t… It’s been like this for weeks. Weeks, and I haven’t slept, and it—”
“Why didn’t you tell any of us?” Castiel asks, not in the least bit accusatory.
Still, Dean’s eyes water, tears threatening to spill. He really does need to sleep, for his own sanity; if he stays awake any longer, he might start having heart to hearts with anyone in sight. “I thought I got into something,” Dean says, clearing his throat. A tear falls, spilling into the crease of his nose. “I tried everything. Even holy oil, and that just made it burn. And nothing worked, and I just wanted it to stop. And now I got… these things.” Angrily, he gestures to his back. “I can’t even get rid of them.”
“You’ll learn over time,” Castiel says. He takes Dean’s other hand in the interim, massaging the life back into his wrist. “No matter the size, I’ll teach you how to hide them.”
At least there’s that. The rest of the feathers, he doesn’t know how he’ll mask, especially the ones growing out of his skull. God forbid he go back into public again looking like this. “I don’t want this,” Dean admits, head bowed. “I look like a freak.”
Castiel shushes him, gently thumbing the space between two quills; Dean’s foot bounces, the sensation of good and painful and holy almost too much. “You don’t,” Castiel says. “Once they grow in, you’ll be beautiful.”
Flustered, Dean blushes, thankful for the darkness. “When’ll that be?”
“A week or two.” Castiel releases his hand, only to reach down and hoist one foot into his lap.
Dean’s face burns brighter this time, increasingly aware of their proximity while Castiel peels his sock down far enough to expose the crushed quills, all three of them springing back into position. Somehow, these hurt the most, just from where they are relative to his ankle. Every step feels like a rock is lodged in between his bones, scraping and incessant.
“Mercury,” Castiel muses, catching Dean’s attention. “These were always coveted amongst us.”
“Yeah?” Dean huffs. “You compare weird feathers with your buddies?”
“All of yours are in ideal placements.” Castiel massages Dean’s entire foot, not just the feathers, all the way to his sole, where tension bleeds from his bones. “It’s a shame you don’t have a collar.”
“Yeah, a real shame.” Dean turns his head, imagining how it might look, to see a ring of feathers sprouting from his chest and around his throat, forming a mantelpiece; somehow, it seems even more painful, now that he’s experienced it in full. “How many people has this happened to? Y’know, over our existence.”
Briefly, Castiel looks up to the ceiling, thumbing into the meat of Dean’s toes. “Seventeen, to be precise,” he affirms. Dean balks at the number. “The last human-born Nephilim was born—”
“Wait,” Dean sputters, nearly choking on his own spit. “Nephilim? Is that what you’re calling me?”
Castiel cocks a brow. “All humans in possession of Angelic qualities are labeled as Nephilim, regardless of whether they were truly born of our… sordid relations.” For reasons Dean can’t understand, he flushes even further, his face no doubt three shades of red. “You’re just a different… breed.”
“Nice to know you guys have taxonomies of us,” Dean sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Not even human anymore, I get it. I’m…”
“You’re not a freak,” Castiel reasserts, his grip on Dean’s foot tightening. “You’re anything but. You’re a miracle, Dean. Out of all of God’s creations, you’re the purest I’ve ever seen.”
Pure—like anything about Dean is pure. “Sure’s hell don’t feel like it.” Dean curls his toes. “I don’t know what to do. I haven’t slept in weeks, and I’m…”
“It may be unorthodox,” Castiel begins, drawing Dean’s unattended foot into his lap, both of them resting on his thighs, “but you could sleep with me. At least until your feathers fill in. The pain of regrowing your wings is… tiresome at best. I can empathize.”
Right—Castiel is an Angel after all, and he’s lost his wings more times than Dean wants to remember. Dean can only imagine how mangled they are, torn from constant bouts with hellfire, the feathers worn ragged and missing in places. But as to what they actually look like, he has no clue, and Castiel doesn’t seem keen on letting anyone know how he’s doing, or if he’s in pain. He has to be hurting, right?
Sleeping takes priority, though. After two weeks of tossing and turning in bed, Dean will take anything he’s given, including passing out with Castiel. After Castiel finishes his ministrations, he leads Dean through the labyrinth of corridors in the bunker, until they find the family room; a sectional and a coffee table take up most of the space, along with a television mounted on the wall and several beanbag chairs, for the few instances that someone actually visits them. Castiel grabs a light blanket before lying lengthwise across the sectional, head propped up on the arm; he beckons for Dean by patting the space between his legs, not in the least big seductive. Still, heat flushes across Dean’s face with the insinuation, and internally, he berates himself for thinking Castiel might want anything else.
It’s a stupid thought, one Dean quickly pushes aside as he closes the door and flips off the wall switch. Crossing the room, he worms his way between Castiel’s legs until he’s sprawled on top of Castiel, head pillowed on Castiel’s chest and arms snaked around his torso, woven into the gap between him and the couch. Meanwhile, Castiel covers what he can of Dean with the blanket, the quills on Dean’s ankles thankfully avoiding direct contact with anything sensitive.
It’s comfortable—too comfortable, creeping well past the boundary between platonic and romantic. Yet, Dean can’t bring himself to care, not while Castiel breathes slowly underneath him, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. Eyes closed and Castiel’s arms settled just under his wings, Dean listens to Castiel’s heartbeat, waiting for his own to sync.
“Sleep,” Castiel whispers in the dark, his voice nothing but a hum. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
His body complies all too easily; for once, Dean can’t bring himself to care.
-+-
Castiel’s original prediction of a week turns out to be three days, give or take a few hours, before Dean’s wings begin to fluff up. Or, they would, if there wasn’t a brittle, coarse film covering each quill, flaking off in areas, none of which Dean can reach without seriously straining himself.
And the worst part, is Castiel isn’t here to help him. Something about reporting Dean’s status to Heaven, lest they barge in and steal Dean away in the middle of the night. As long as he comes back whole, Dean’s fine with that—just as long as Castiel doesn’t die, Dean’s fine. Lying makes it easier. Lying means he doesn’t have to confront that for the last few days, he’s slept nestled in Castiel’s arms, and lying means he doesn’t have to admit he enjoyed it.
All he has now, in the aftermath of Castiel’s departure, is Sam. Sam, who helped cut the backs out of a pack of cotton t-shirts for him, just so he didn’t have to walk around shirtless for weeks on end. How thoughtful of him. “Sammy,” Dean calls through the corridors, peeking into every room in search of his brother.
Sam, as it turns out, is in the kitchen, reading an out of date National Geographic with half a grilled cheese between his teeth. “Hey,” he manages between bites, tearing his eyes away from the magazine. “You feeling any better today?”
“Just peachy,” Dean huffs, placing both hands on the tabletop. “Hey, I got a favor to ask you.”
At first, Sam regards him with scrutiny, his eyes eventually softening. “Yeah, anything. Unless you’re asking for the saw, then I’m calling Cas back.”
“No, no, it’s not…” Dean may have only been cognizant of his wings for a few days, but he’s mentioned the saw at least five times—and each time, Sam and Castiel have scolded him to the point of red-faced embarrassment. Guilt trips work, apparently, especially when it comes to keeping all of his limbs intact. “Look, my wings are… They’re gross, okay?”
“That’s not the best way to start this argument,” Sam says. Leaning back, he crosses his arms. “You wanna try again?”
“Not like that.” Dean shakes his head. “Look at them. They’re like… rotting or something.”
“Rotting?” At that, Sam perks up, sliding his chair back. “What, like they’re infected?”
“No.” His wings ruffle, the quills straining into Sam’s sudden proximity. “Like they’re peeling. See, look at them.”
Unconsciously, Dean unbends the arch of his wing, exposing dozens of quills in Sam’s direction. Black flakes slough off when Sam pinches one, the faintest bit of gold worming its way out from its casing. “You have feathers,” Sam says, sucking in a breath through his nose. “Real feathers, Dean. Pretty sure they’ve finished growing in.”
“What, seriously?” Craning his neck, Dean spots the exposed quill in Sam’s hand, half of the casing peeled off, exposing a gold-hued feather several inches long, almost the size of Sam’s hand; the rest of it is still cocooned in black, but straining, threatening to burst free.
He has feathers—Dean actually has feathers, not just the spines he’s been looking at in the mirror for the last few days.
“Holy shit,” Dean laughs, equally awed and terrified. “You think you can get ‘em out? I can’t… reach.” He motions over his shoulders until Sam gets the hint. “They’re fuckin’ small, man.”
“They’re still cool, either way.” Sam shrugs. “Here, come with me.”
Sam leads them back to the communal showers, the only room in the entire bunker where they can hose down the floor and be done with the mess, no brooms involved. Dean sits in front of a six-foot mirror at the far end of the room, probably at one point used to do once-overs before leaving for whatever event the Letters were hosting. Now, Dean watches Sam don latex gloves and dive in, knees pressed to the tile floor and fingers slowly peeling away the masses of black skin from his wings.
Over the course of what feels like half an hour, Dean watches Sam slowly work his way through, the quills making way for tawny-gold wings; the longest feather measures at least eight inches, dotted sparsely with brown specks. A light dusting of feathers covers the bones and arches, and fills in the space between the longer individual feathers, leaving Dean looking less like an Angel and more like a frightened bird.
“Maybe the filler will fall out?” Sam suggests, glancing at Dean in the mirror.
“God, I hope so,” Dean says. The flight feathers look cool though, silky under his fingertips.
Sam ventures onto the second wing with ease. Meanwhile, Dean fiddles with the quills surrounding his wrists and ankles, easing the casings off and casting them to the floor. Golden-brown feathers adorn his wrists like a bracelet once he’s done, each of them spanning halfway up his arm. His ankles, however, are more prominent, with each feather measuring at least seven inches, reaching well up his calf. “You think I can trim these?” Dean asks, turning his ankle towards Sam. “They’re like nails, right?”
Sam hums a non-answer, almost sing-songing to himself. “You’d have to ask Cas,” he says, freeing a smaller patch of feathers near Dean’s shoulder. “Isn’t it sacrilege or something, to clip an Angel’s wings?”
“Cas said I’m a Nephilim,” Dean chuckles, his wings twitching, nearly forcing Sam’s hands away. “Do I look like some Angel’s kid to you?”
“You still look human to me.” Sam shrugs. “Just, y’know, with these things.” Running a hand over the arch of one wing, Sam smiles. Dean’s heart warms in joy, but also guilt, knowing that this is one of Sam’s longest held fantasies. Not being an Angel per se, but bearing wings, the pureness of flight; his fascination with Angels doesn’t help, either, even after knowing their true nature and how much disdain they hold towards humans.
“You sure you’re good with this?” Dean asks with some hesitation, hunching his shoulders. At his sides, his wings extend to their fullest before tucking against his back, where they rest. “The whole… me being whatever this is this.”
“I think I’m good,” Sam answers, wary. He stands with a grunt, hands on his knees; in a few years, they’re both going to be crippled with Arthritis, Dean just knows. “I’ve always thought that having wings would be great, like I’d feel pure if I had them, but… seeing what you’ve been through, I think I’ll pass.”
“Same,” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “I just didn’t know if you’d feel… left out or whatever, being the only normal one in the house.”
“I don’t think me or you have ever been normal,” Sam adds, which—true. “You may have feathers, but you’re still my brother. Angel or not’s not gonna change that.”
Good. Exactly what Dean wanted to hear, but it still hurts all the same. “Just hope Cas can teach me how to hide these things. Hey, what happens if I hulk out, how many shirts do you think I’m gonna go through?”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Sam laughs, tearing off his gloves and tossing them in the trash can by the sink. “We don’t have that kind of budget, nowadays.”
“Bet it’d be cool,” Dean chuckles, groaning as he stands. “Really freak some monsters out.”
Sam pats his shoulder, wringing the sleeve of his shirt tight; his grin is all teeth, and for now, Dean knows they understand each other. “Let’s not go that far.”
-+-
Castiel returns just before dinner, with two cases of pecan pie from the bakery in town and a tub of Turtle Tracks, all of which he nearly drops on the kitchen floor at the sight of Dean, wings and all, manning the stove. Or at least, that’s what Dean imagines he sees. Castiel could be seeing Sam scratch himself, for all Dean knows.
But no, all Castiel sees is Dean, pointedly marked by Castiel repeatedly saying is name, even after he sets the shopping bag on the table. Dean turns and smiles, not expecting Castiel’s hands to frame his face, his fingers brushing the feathers behind Dean’s ears. They’re just as tan as the rest, dotted with pinpoints and flecked in gold at the tips. “You filled in,” Castiel says, awestruck.
His hands wander to Dean’s wings. At first touch, though, Dean pulls away, the sensation suddenly too much, like an intense static shock directly to a vein. Hours ago, it hadn’t felt like this, when Castiel pet over the bone arches; now, Dean’s entire body burns, and his face no doubt red, from embarrassment and horror.
Whatever it is, Castiel backs off, equally as mortified, his hands dropping to his sides. Sam, blessedly, doesn’t notice, too enrapt in his magazine once again.
“Sammy helped get the crud off ‘em,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck. “How do they look?”
Castiel takes a second to respond, his eyes wandering over the expanse of Dean’s wings, the feathers spanning barely two feet to either side. “They’re magnificent,” he breathes, eyes wide.
Again, Castiel reaches out to touch, this time more cautious, a question in his eyes, and Dean lets him stroke through the feathers, fingers running along the vanes and across the silken surface. Pointedly, Dean ignores how good it feels to be touched like this, this time with permission; something must let on, though, because Castiel smiles, wide and gummy, too enrapt to say much else. Honestly, if Castiel did ask him something, Dean might trip over himself trying to reply.
Words fail him. Instead, Dean tries for, “How’d Heaven go?”
“Your status has been assessed,” Castiel says, the wonder fading from his eyes just the slightest. “As long as you’re not in possession of Grace or using what little you may have, no one will interfere with your daily life.”
Great—fantastic. Now he doesn’t have to worry about Angels following him around for the rest of his life. “Best news I’ve heard all day,” Dean says, earning a short laugh from Castiel. “C’mon. You like manicotti? Sam’s been asking for it for weeks.”
“Only because I made you buy the shells this time,” Sam pipes up, turning the page. So he was listening after all. “You always get distracted by the potato chip section.”
“Yeah, yeah, but I don’t see you going hungry,” Dean chides. “You joinin’ us, Cas?”
“Of course,” Castiel offers. “I’d rather be here than anywhere else.”
Shyly, Dean smiles. “Then you’re in the right place, man.”
-+-
Navigating through the bunker, as Dean finds out, is relatively easy, so long as his wings don’t grow a mind of their own and ram into something priceless, like the vase he smashed yesterday. They don’t act up much, much to his relief, except for the instances Castiel wanders into the room without notice. If anything, Castiel has been treating him with even more admiration lately, like the sudden emergence of wings was enough for Dean to gain Castiel’s full respect.
Or, there could be something else hidden behind the lingering stares and the occasional brushes of shoulders when they pass in the halls. Whatever it is, Dean doesn’t think about it. Tries not to, anyway, but it’s hard when Castiel isn’t far from reach at all hours. Dean’s only real moment of solitude is when he’s asleep, and only then.
The bathroom isn’t even off limits, no matter how many times Dean has told him to stay away. Castiel’s excuse, “Your wings need cleaning, Dean.”
Like hell they do—his wings are just fine as they are, without Castiel’s help. Dean knows he means well, but until they talk about whatever… this means, the fondling is off limits.
At least, until a week after the incident, while Sam is off using the indoor treadmill and Dean is half asleep in bed, drifting lazily in and out of consciousness. Sleep comes easier now, now that he can tie his wrist feathers down using washcloths and hairbands, and he can lie on his wings if the room is cold enough to cover himself. This morning, he lies on his stomach and buries one hand under his pillow, barely aware of the footsteps creeping outside of his bedroom door and the knock that follows.
It’s Castiel, Dean knows, but in the midst of falling back to sleep, Dean can’t bring himself to fight him off. “Whatever it is, it can wait until I have my coffee,” Dean mutters, reaching down to pull the blankets further over his waist. Castiel doesn’t need to see his bare ass this early in the morning.
The door clicks softly, almost as an afterthought. At first, Dean figures Castiel left, that thought extinguishing as the bed dips on either side of him, both of Castiel’s knees framing his lower back. Softly, lips press against Dean’s temple—that alone is enough to wake him, his immediate attempt to flee halted by Castiel’s proximity. Still, his wings flare out and press further into the bedding, close to submission, but not quite.
Castiel isn’t a threat, Dean reminds himself, face flushed red in the dark. But that doesn’t mean Castiel can kiss him without even discussing what it means.
“We need to talk, while Sam isn’t here,” Castiel says, low and heated. “I think you should know how this happened.”
“Really?” Dean slurs, blinking himself alert. Slowly, he turns over until he’s lying directly underneath Castiel, his wings sprawled into the sheets, feathers astray. “Now’s a good time?”
“Better than any.” With a smile, Castiel dismounts and seats himself diligently at Dean’s side, legs crossed and hands in his lap.
God, I need coffee. “It’s six in the morning,” Dean huffs, pushing himself upright. Behind him, his wings shuffle, the feathers realigning with a wisp. “Seriously, this couldn’t wait?”
“I don’t want Sam to hear us,” Castiel says, urgent. “He wouldn’t… understand, what we have together.”
What we have? We have something? “Gonna have to be more specific than that.” Rubbing his eyes, Dean tucks his feet under his thighs, afterwards drawing the blanket further over his lap. “This is your Grace, right? That turned me into… this?”
“I believe so.” Castiel sighs, turning his attention to the mattress. “You have to understand, most of these transformations only took place after extended contact with an Angel’s essence, directly from the source. When I raised you…” He stops to fit his hand over the silvered scar on Dean’s shoulder, the edges no longer raised and inflamed after years of sun exposure and various ointments. Over half a decade later, and Castiel’s hand still fits, like it never left. “I branded your soul, as a claim to Heaven, that whosoever touched you were to suffer a fate worse than death. Because you were my greatest creation, and in the process… I left some of myself behind.”
“Sounds kinky,” Dean yawns. Castiel just huffs and grips Dean’s shoulder tighter, nails meeting skin. He’s serious, then. Somehow, the Grace held within an age-worn scar manifested enough of itself to give Dean wings, amongst other things. What if he had his own Grace as a result? What if he really was an Angel? “How did it happen then?” he asks, reaching up to cover Castiel’s hand with his own. In the darkness, neither of them have to see how he threads his fingers between the gaps, holding on tight. “What, just… some fluke? Moon in retrograde?”
“There’s no rhyme or reason to how it occurs,” Castiel says. “Your soul just accepted my Grace, and the two merged, like it was a part of you to begin with.”
Recognition dawns like whiplash, Dean’s breath seized in his lungs, and all at once, Dean knows. The convergence of two invisible materials into one, the unconditional acceptance of another being into his body, another life force into his heart. He’s in love—he’s been in love with Castiel for years, and his love manifested in wings and feathers and the desire to be touched at all hours by Castiel, just to feel whole again.
He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it sooner.
“I know how,” Dean whispers, breathless. He holds Castiel’s hand tighter, his own trembling, seeking comfort.
Castiel blinks, head cocking just the slightest. “How?” he asks, opening his mouth to continue.
Before he can, though, Dean cradles Castiel’s face in both hands and kisses him, swallowing down the shocked gasp from Castiel’s throat. He tastes like cereal and almond milk, his kiss just as sweet, and Dean can’t get enough of him, of Castiel’s hands caressing Dean’s neck, trailing down to his chest. They end up on the mattress at some point, Castiel surrounding him and Dean’s wings spread to their breadth, every inch of them exposed. At some point, the blanket around Dean’s hips comes loose, but he can’t be bothered to care, not when Castiel licks into his mouth and presses a knee between Dean’s legs, giving Dean something to rut against.
The thought sends his heart into his throat, the sensation all too much. “Stop, stop,” Dean pants, pulling away. He retrieves his hands from Castiel’s hair, eventually settling them in the shoulder straps of his trench coat, just for something to hold on to. “You get this, right? What I mean?”
“I didn’t think the answer could’ve been so obvious,” Castiel huffs, dipping in for another kiss, one Dean accepts with ardor. “I didn’t think you loved anyone, especially me. And now…” His fingers curl over the feathers behind Dean’s ear, petting over them playfully, tangling one between two digits. “You’ve welcomed a part of me you never knew existed.”
“Yeah.” Swallowing, Dean closes his eyes, just to feel Castiel kiss up the column of his throat; his knee slides further up, pressing insistently against the heat building between Dean’s legs, both from morning wood and just from being kissed. He’s always been an easy lay, but this is just absurd, how hard he is. His wings must feel the same, based on how prone they are, the undersides exposed to Castiel’s view. “Yeah, I… I’ve got so used to you leaving, I didn’t think you wanted to be with me. I thought I was just some… play toy to you, something to pass the time.”
“You’ve never been a toy,” Castiel whispers. He sneaks in another kiss before palming along the expanse of Dean’s wing, his hand taking up a good portion of the visible feathers—when did Castiel’s hands get so large? Unbidden, Dean arches into his touch, a moan escaping him, muffled against Castiel’s lips. “You’ve always been my friend, and I’ll always be here. I’m sorry if the past…”
Dean cuts him off with a nod, biting back another groan when Castiel fists the feathers ever so slightly, eliciting a shiver all the way to his toes. “Just don’t leave again, alright?” he asks in haste. His hips thrust up against Castiel’s thigh, seeking whatever friction he can get; he’s so close already, just from Castiel touching his wings, from Castiel loving him, unabashed and fearlessly. “God, please don’t leave me, not like this.”
“Never,” Castiel soothes. “I’ll never leave you again, my love.”
The surety of Castiel’s hands betrays his voice, though, none too subtly stroking through the mass of Dean’s wing, down into the feathers closest to his body. There, Castiel finds two small masses and rubs them, and Dean comes before he can even process it, his moan smothered into Castiel’s kiss while Dean spills between them, no doubt catching some of Castiel’s coat in the process.
Dean’s consciousness drifts for a while, and just barely does he recognize that Castiel is kissing his chest, capturing Dean’s release behind full lips and swallowing it down without hesitation. Feebly, Dean feels himself twitch, just from watching Castiel, dazed. “Takin’ advantage of me,” Dean mutters. Castiel hides a laugh in Dean’s hip. “You knew what you were doin’.”
“I did.” Smirking, Castiel rises again, kissing Dean with a renewed fervor. “I’ll show you—”
A knock on the door signals the end of their tryst, and Dean’s renewed erection in the process. Sam—always fucking Sam. “I’m sleeping,” Dean half-shouts, shoving a pillow over his face.
“I found us a case,” Sam announces on the other side of the door, thankfully not threatening to barge in. “You think Cas can teach you how to hide your wings before we go?”
Glancing up from underneath the sham, Dean watches Castiel nod. “Sure he can figure something out,” Dean manages just before he drops his head, muffling a groan into the pillowcase. What a buzzkill.
-+-
“I’m thinking it’s a Vetala,” Sam announces in the kitchen, stuffing at least six water bottles into his backpack. “Hutchinson cops found three bodies so far, all in Sand Hills park, all drained of blood.”
“Four bite marks?” Dean asks through a grunt, wincing through his teeth.
At his back, Castiel holds Dean’s wings in both hands, attempting to keep them still. Hiding wings is apparently harder than any of them thought, especially when said wings don’t want to lose their corporealness. Whatever Castiel is attempting to do to them is a question Dean doesn’t want answered until after they’re gone; the feathers around his wrists and ankles have already retreated back into his skin, along with the quills behind his ears, leaving nothing behind but a ring of black circles.
On the surface, it looks like tattoo. If Dean massages each mark, though, he can feel the quills just underneath the surface, the lines of them soft under his skin. Now, if only his wings would cooperate, instead of slapping Castiel in the face.
“Four fang marks, yeah,” Sam says. Closing the refrigerator, he turns, eyebrows raised at whatever Castiel is attempting to do. “You sure that doesn’t hurt?”
“Oh, I’m havin’ a fuckin’ blast,” Dean hisses. One wing whips out of Castiel’s grasp, and just barely does Castiel manage to keep it from bashing his shoulder.
“You’re tensing,” Castiel accuses. Dean rolls his eyes, placing both palms on the kitchen table. “I told you, you need to stop fighting them.”
“I’m not fighting,” Dean spouts back, glaring over his shoulder. “They just don’t wanna cooperate.”
“They’re fighting because you’re not concentrating.” Castiel thumbs between his shoulders, and Dean jumps, his wings spasming. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, Dean turns with a scowl. Castiel places his hand between Dean’s pecs and presses, just enough pressure for Dean to latch onto. With Castiel’s insistence, Dean inhales, blowing out until his lungs empty. Inhale, exhale, every breath guided by Castiel’s hand. Slowly, Dean feels himself unravel and his bones soften, the tension in his body settling, and impossibly, his back begins to burn and his wings retract through the slits in his shoulder blades. Not as bad as having them ripped out, but it stings all the same, an additional weight buried under his skin.
But they’re gone. For the first time in a week, Dean can move freely again, without his wings getting in the way. Experimentally, he flexes his shoulders and lets out a long, overdue sigh. “Holy shit, that’s better.”
“Yeah, about that,” Sam remarks, wary. His lips curl down in partial disgust, much to Dean’s amusement. “I could go without seeing your back open up like that again.”
In all honesty, Dean has no intention of ever watching that happen.
“No one ever said wings were graceful,” Castiel amends.
“I’m gonna get such a good shower, now,” Dean laughs, ruffling his hair. Hopefully they can kill this thing and get home before nightfall, if they’re lucky. “So, Vetala?”
“I think this’ll be a milk run,” Sam says eventually, seemingly torn between puking and passing out. Hopefully, neither. “Someone’s already gone missing, and there’s been some suspicious activity in the prairie, but the cops won’t touch it. One of their officers hasn’t come back after going on shift last night.”
“Two victims, then,” Castiel says.
Sam nods. “Possibly. The sooner we can pin it down, the better.”
Dean claps his hands. “Then let’s roll out. Hutchinson’s what, three hours away?”
“I’m already packed.” Sam gestures towards the garage. “Meet you guys in ten?”
Both Castiel and Dean nod, Castiel more wary of the two. Whatever it is, though, Castiel doesn’t look willing to talk about it, especially in Sam’s company. “We’ll meet you in the garage,” he says, hands in his pockets.
Dean waits until he hears the garage door open before he faces Castiel and the concern on his face, brow knitting to the point of wrinkles. “What’s got you this morning?” he asks, crossing his arms.
Castiel, in reply, looks to the ceiling and sucks in a breath, letting it pour out through his nose. “Having wings means diligence. In the heat of battle, it’s possible to expose yourself to your enemy, and that makes you vulnerable.” Stepping forward, he cradles one of Dean’s wrists in both hands, thumbing over the divots underneath each mark. “Promise me you’ll be more self-aware. I’m still not sure the extent of your power, but…”
Right, right. Just because Dean has wings doesn’t mean he’s immortal, unlike Castiel. For all they know, he’s still human, no Grace involved. None of them can afford to be careless in this line of work, and with this new thing between him and Castiel… Dying scares Dean now more than ever.
Quietly, Dean palms Castiel’s cheek, teasing a finger just beneath his ear. “I’ll be careful,” he whispers. Quickly, he glances over Castiel’s shoulder before sneaking in a kiss, sighing against Castiel’s lips. “I don’t think I can do this… alone anymore. Not without you, I mean.”
“I know,” Castiel says. He covers Dean’s hand with his own, drawing his fingers to his lips. “I’ll be by your side.”
“Good.” Nodding, he pulls away, a flush still painting his cheeks. “Good, that’s…”
“We should pack,” Castiel says as a distraction, turning his back. “Before your brother thinks we’ve forgotten him.”
Right—Sam. Dean covers his face, hiding a laugh. “I’ll be right there.”
-+-
Sand Hills State Park is mostly prairie-land with a moderate scattering of trees about, low-lying shrubs covering majority of the land, all of it blanketed by thick snow. It’s barely reminiscent of a park at all, and in fact, if it didn’t have a parking lot and a designation sign, Dean would’ve figured it was just the outskirts of town. Though, the caution tape throws him for an entirely different loop, a yellow barricade blocking off the main entrance to the walking paths.
Wherever the cops are, they must’ve left hours ago, or they just haven’t made it in to take it all down. Regardless, Dean lifts the tape and allows Sam and Castiel through, afterwards descending the few steps it takes to reach a concrete path, leading further into the land.
“The police blotter said that they found the first body in the woods,” Sam recites from the document displayed on his phone. “About half a mile to your right.”
The path leads them from the pleasant warmth of the sun into the shade, the snowfall here not as thick as it is elsewhere. It’s still not warm enough outside to melt the accumulation, but just brisk enough to make Dean raise the collar of his coat, just to keep his ears from freezing. Footsteps and wheel tracks mar the snow in some places, another layer attempting to even out the disruption. The bloodstains, however, aren’t as easy to follow, their existence erased and consumed by the earth.
All of it leads towards a gathering of taller trees, so thick even the sun catch breach the canopy. “You think this is it?” Dean asks, looking over his shoulder. No one is in the park today thanks to the police activity—or lack thereof—but he still feels like he’s being watched. Not the best feeling, considering what they’re looking for.
Castiel lets out a low, drawn out hum, the noise unnerving Dean even more than the solitude and the prospect of climbing the tree. “There’s only one,” he comments. Treading through the snow to reach the base of the tree, Castiel places his hand on the bark and sends a wave of Grace through the trunk; the canopy quakes, sending leaves and a squirrel falling into the snow, along with the heavy weight of a body, alive and flailing.
“Nifty,” is all Sam gets out before the Vetala—a man with piercing yellow eyes and untamed fangs—springs forward, and straight for Dean.
Sam gets off a shot before Castiel’s sword drops from his sleeve, but they’re not fast enough—and Dean’s not fast enough either, not when the thing has him by the throat in seconds, snarling and dripping blood and venom onto his face. Great, they caught the thing while it was feeding—fantastic. Dean has encountered more dangerous creatures in the past, but Vetalas have always ranked among the most terrifying to him, with their ability to incapacitate and feed off their victim for days, or weeks if they stretch it long enough.
The one in Dean’s face, though, only wants blood. Shooting it does no good; neither does Castiel attempting to rip it backwards, its attention solely on Dean. No matter how hard he kicks or punches or claws at the Vetala, it won’t budge; pressing his hand to its forehead works, though, and its eyes flare in a burst of white light as it dies, its skin mottling and thickening, even after Dean throws it off of him and onto Sam’s feet.
“Dean,” Castiel shouts in haste. Rushing to Dean’s side, Castiel cradles his face, checking his throat for any signs of puncture wounds. Sam, meanwhile, keeps his pistol trained on the Vetala and kicks it into a snowbank, shoving the rest of the accumulation over its corpse.
The monster is dead—but all Dean can concentrate on is how he just killed it with his bare hand, and how much his wrists sting, feathers now poking out of the sleeve of his coat.
In fact, all of his feathers are exposed, poking through clothes and shoes alike, his socks no doubt ripped to shreds at the ankle. His wings, thankfully, remain tucked away by some miracle.
“Dean,” Castiel says again, gentler now, but still as urgent. “Dean, are you—”
“I’m fine,” Dean sputters. He blinks up at Castiel’s face in awe, unexpectedly giddy about the whole thing. “I just killed it.”
“You did,” Sam adds, just as shocked. Dean turns his head to see Sam’s face and the horror there, and for a split second, Dean thinks, I really am a monster.
“You have Grace,” Castiel says, amazed, just before he looks to the sky, expectant of Angels descending or the world cracking, or something to disturb their peace. There’s nothing, though—nothing but the breeze and Dean’s harsh breaths, and Sam clearing his throat. “It appears,” Castiel starts, wary, “that Heaven has decided not to intervene.”
“Thank God,” Dean gasps, dropping his head into the snow.
“Maybe as long as he’s not killing Angels, no one’ll… care?” Sam suggests, to which Castiel nods in agreement. “Was it a one-off, or does he actually have…”
“I’m not sure,” Castiel admits, rearing back onto his haunches. “I’ll have to determine that when we get home.”
Dean’s blood warms pleasantly—why does that sound like a promise?
-+-
The Bunker, for all its labyrinth of rooms and endless sources of horror hidden in filing cabinets and on shelves, does not have a space large enough for Castiel to bear his wings. Which, in hindsight, is a concept that Dean never thought he’d have to consider, what with Castiel’s wings permanently hidden in the very fabric of the universe. Sure, there’s the lap pool and the firing range, but they’re too closed in, too deep in the infrastructure to be even remotely comfortable.
The room Dean finds, after an hour of sneaking through the halls in an effort to not wake Sam, is a small tennis court, decked out in solid concrete with age-worn lines painted on the floor. Half of the lightbulbs busted at some point over the years, and the survivors barely hang on, occasionally flickering over their heads.
“We really need to map this place out one day,” Dean comments, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it towards the net. He has to get naked, right—or at least partially nude, according to what Castiel said. What Castiel wanted, he remembers; his chest reddens, his shame exposed under the seventy-year-old lighting. Thankfully, Castiel doesn’t pay him any mind, simply opting to walk around the court, measuring or scanning or… whatever he’s doing. “We only found a few of the blueprints, y’know? There could be entire levels here we haven’t found yet.”
To Dean’s lament, Castiel doesn’t entertain him with a response for several agonizing minutes, all of which Castiel spends just walking, bare feet slapping against concrete, the legs of his pajamas dragging across the floor. His shirt disappeared around the time they entered the room, leaving him bare from the waist up. On his back are six slits sitting congruent to one another, the bottommost four redder and more inflamed than the top set. New wings, maybe—but why hasn’t he talked about it with either he or Sam, if he’d been in pain?
Other than that, Castiel looks… relatively normal, shirtless. Dean has seen him undressed on occasion, sure—he doesn’t count the bee incident as anything more than a crazed memory—but this is different. How different is the question he mulls over while watching the muscles in Castiel’s back flex, the subtle weight of wings shifting between his shoulder blades, aching to be free. There’s a precision to his movements now, his footsteps calculated, breaths even and methodical—and his eyes, brilliantly blue normally, bore into Dean, eerily reminiscent to a time where they were enemies more than lovers, a time where Castiel was just an Angel and the only wings Dean had were on a bracelet, long since lost in a nondescript trash can somewhere in America.
What Castiel wants of him now, Dean has no earthly idea.
“Kneel,” Castiel says at last, but not in the tone Dean expects—cold and unfeeling, everything Dean fears. Swallowing back skepticism, Dean drops to his knees and tucks his feet up under him, head bowed. Whatever this dance is, Dean wants to renege, wants to go to bed and never face the day where Castiel kills him for his insolence, or worse, beats him.
But those blows never come. Instead, all Dean feels is Castiel’s palms on his cheeks as he lowers himself to the ground; a soft breath escapes Dean, both from relief and withheld anxiety. “Do you trust me?” Castiel asks. He scoots forward until their knees touch, and ever so gently, he places his hands on Dean’s thighs.
Terrified, Dean mirrors the position and nods.
“I need you to answer me verbally,” Castiel reminds him. “What I’m asking to do, I need your full consent. If any part of you doesn’t want this, then I’ll play innocent whenever the Angels come. But I need to know, Dean.” Again, he palms Dean’s cheek, and Dean falls into him, sighing through his nose. “Can I touch your soul?”
Soul—honestly, he should’ve figured that from the beginning. It’s the only reliable way for Castiel to measure just how much Grace he has, but it’s the process that terrifies Dean the most. Soul checks haven’t been pleasant in the past, and what would make him any different?
“’S probably not the time to ask if it’ll hurt or not,” Dean mutters, fisting his hands atop Castiel’s thighs.
Castiel shakes his head. “You know I can’t promise you that.”
“Didn’t figure you would.”
Breathing helps steady Dean’s insecurity, though not by much. In the interim, Castiel presses their foreheads together and places his hand to the middle of Dean’s chest, gentle enough to be a whisper. “Yes or no,” Castiel repeats. Lightly, he thumbs over the hairs dotting Dean’s chest, and over the freckles Dean can’t hide, no matter how many years he spent in the sun. “Can I touch your soul?”
Exhale—steady, steady. “Yes,” Dean affirms, eyes pinched shut. “I want you to touch it.”
After that, all Dean feels is the sting of penetration and his wings and feathers ripping free of his skin. Just barely does he muffle his scream, his breaths coming in hot, labored pants instead, glancing off Castiel’s lips. He might as well be on fire, from how far Castiel is inside him, Castiel’s Grace caressing the edges of Dean’s soul and curling inwards, delving deep. “So good,” Dean hears Castiel say. “You’re doing so well.”
After that, Castiel’s words are lost in a kiss, and all at once, Dean feels the spark, like the birth of the world itself in his chest. Every atom of his being sings out in unison and Dean’s eyes flare white, wings expanded at their full breadth—and he knows. The origin of the universe, the birth of creatures and humans alike, hope and joy and heartache and overwhelming loss, the blood on his hands and the salvation of his soul—all of it burns through his skin. Amidst the chaos, the pure essence of Castiel bleeds through, his memories both traumatic and innocent, looked back upon fondly in Castiel’s eyes: the last of the Angels to be created, the one who walked amongst the living thousands of years before Dean’s lineage was even thought of, the martyr. The pride of Heaven.
And inch by inch, Castiel stitches them both back together in the aftermath, until the blood no longer rushes in Dean’s ears and he can breathe again, easier now, like he was meant to. Like they were always meant to end up here, entwined and irrevocably bound.
He can’t help but feel bereft when Castiel finally pulls free, his hand once again resting comfortably on Dean’s chest, just over his wildly-beating heart. At his back, his wings twitch and flap, kicking up dust—and that’s when Dean sees it for the first time, the entire expanse of Castiel’s wings. All six of them spread out across the entirety of the tennis court, the feathers iridescent black and radiating scalding warmth into everything they touch.
And all Dean wants is to touch.
“It’s there,” Castiel says, breathless, visibly swallowing. “It’s not large, but there’s Grace in you.”
“Your Grace?” Dean asks, sucking in air. He covers the brand scarred into his arm for emphasis, the other clutching Castiel’s knee. “This is your Grace?”
In haste, Castiel nods. “It’s yours now. It’s up to you what you do with it.”
It’s his—It’s Dean’s Grace, but Castiel gave it to him, and all Dean wants to do with it is get closer to Castiel, as close as he possibly can. His body moves on instinct, crowding into Castiel’s space like he’s trying to crawl back inside, to make them whole again. “Fuck me then,” Dean begs, clutching Castiel’s shoulders, then his face, dragging him in for a kiss. “Want you in me, c’mon.”
After that, Castiel moves without reservation, a flurry of wings and limbs and teeth. Dean swallows each kiss with a moan, distantly aware that Castiel is pulling off his sweatpants and hurling them somewhere in the room. Dean can’t be bothered to care, not when Castiel is sucking marks into his skin and threatening to tear Dean’s wings apart with his enthusiasm. Even then, Dean arches into it and goads him on, tugging Castiel’s hair by the root.
“C’mon,” Dean sneers, spreading his legs in invitation. In reply, Castiel rushes forward and captures him in another kiss, his clothed cock rubbing against Dean’s bare skin. “C’mon, you want this—”
“I do,” Castiel says, rough in his throat, nearing a growl. “Too much.”
“Then get in me.” One-handed, he reaches down and grabs Castiel’s hip, shoving him closer, until Dean can feel the hard rise of his cock rutting against him. God, Castiel is hard, apparently not the only one affected by groping in Dean’s soul—if anything, it only turned him on more.
Logistically, this is a nightmare; there’s no lube, and spit can only go so far, especially so far away from Dean’s room. Castiel makes up for it in… other fluids though, namely an oily secretion from the base of one of his wings, the same nub Castiel had rubbed in Dean’s this morning. Dean’s glands are nowhere as big as Castiel’s though, probably due to wing size more than anything. What Castiel comes back with is thick and musky, and strangely warm when he shoves two fingers into Dean’s ass, merciless and hurried.
Immediately, Dean’s wings flatten and his back bows, the feathers around his wrists beginning to vibrate and expand; Castiel rewards Dean’s submission with more oil and a harder press inside, two fingers curled into Dean’s prostate with enough precision to leave Dean winded and shouting mindlessly into the air. His orgasm—if it can even be called that, based on how impossibly large he suddenly feels in his skin—is dry, but still, Dean clings to Castiel and rides his fingers with such single-minded focus that he can barely see straight.
Animalistic is what Dean will call it later, the senseless rutting of two creatures in the dead of night, lost to their inhibitions and uncaring if anyone witnesses the deed. Castiel fucks three fingers into him while whispering endearments into Dean’s ear, and Dean clings to him, cursing and baring his teeth, begging, pleading for more.
“My Angel,” Castiel says at one point, just as his pinky sinks inside, splitting Dean open wider than he’s ever been. “More than I ever expected, more than I could want.”
“Shit,” Dean howls, head thrown back.
His ear feathers crunch against the concrete and his back slides in his own sweat, but he can’t bring himself to mind. Castiel could shove his whole fist in there if he wanted, could sneak his thumb in and push, and Dean would be done for, would come all over himself before the words made it past his lips. And he wants it—oh God, he wants Castiel like this, wants Castiel to pin him down and fuck him senseless, if it means they can meld again, can converge and cling to each other in the throes of orgasm, sweaty and writhing and gasping names.
All too abruptly, Castiel pulls out and leaves Dean vulnerable underneath him, his ass clenching around nothing; his cock, abandoned for now, twitches against his flank and spurts more precome just at the sight of Castiel standing and shucking his pants off to reveal his cock, hanging heavy and incredibly thick between his legs. Dean gets to his knees before he can stop himself, grasping Castiel’s hips and sliding his mouth along the veiny underside of Castiel’s cock, just to feel how warm he is, to stretch his lips around its girth.
Castiel cradles his head as Dean sucks him down, just the tip, all he can manage to fit in his mouth in his excitement. Another day when they can think this through, Dean will try to blow him, will gag himself trying to take Castiel to the root, and he’ll love every second of it. Whenever that day comes, he’ll wait for it—for now, Dean lets Castiel pull him up for a kiss, filthy and laden in precome, before shoving Dean onto his stomach.
This patch of concrete is much cooler, but not for long, peaking his nipples and bringing an unexpected chill to his already overheated cock. Castiel, meanwhile, lifts Dean’s hips and positions him just where he wants, before rubbing the fat head of his cock against Dean’s rim. “I’ve wanted this for years, Dean,” Castiel hisses just as he pushes in, in, in, and all Dean can do is relax as much as he can and take it, all of Castiel, down to the base. “Wanted you for years,” Castiel says into Dean’s ear, husky and warm and dripping with lust, “and now I can have you.”
“You got me,” Dean gasps. An arm around Castiel’s neck, he drags Castiel in for a kiss. “You got me, Cas. C’mon—”
Dean has had sex with men in the past—not very many, but he can easily count the number on both hands, and he can remember each one down to whether or not they even asked for his name. Castiel isn’t like any of them, he thinks as Castiel begins to thrust. Rough and needy, Castiel holds Dean down by the shoulders and pounds into him, skin slapping against skin, balls heavy when they smack against Dean’s ass, like Castiel is trying to mate him, or claim him, either one. Dean grunts with it regardless, reaching back to hold himself open, to feel more of whatever Castiel gives him.
Against his belly, Dean’s cock leaks profusely, wetting the floor even more than the sweat. He feels like he’s burning, and no matter how often he moans, Castiel never lets up, just keeps the same agonizing pace, alternating between slow, deep shoves and quick, wrenching thrusts that make Dean sob. Wings cocoon them, the arches tearing dents into the floor, gripping for any purchase they can get. “Please,” Dean grunts, teeth clenched and eyes shut, “please, more, Cas, shit—”
Castiel only lets up once, pulling out to rewet his cock with the oils dripping down his sides. Dean takes advantage of the lull by shoving Castiel onto his back, crushing his wings beneath him, and sliding down onto Castiel’s cock, taking him in fully. At this angle, Dean can feel every inch of him, down to how Castiel pulses and thickens, his orgasm not far behind. Dean is just as close, the fire building to a smolder the harder Dean rides him, gasping as he pushes down, just to pull up again, leaving only the head inside. Castiel holds Dean's hips for dear life, mouth agape.
Just once, Dean kisses him before he grabs Castiel’s wings and buries his hands into the feathers, twisting, and Castiel lets out a moan a porn star could be proud of, hips bucking up and nearly dismounting Dean. Still, Dean holds on, arching when Castiel snakes his arms around Dean’s back to grab the base of his wings, holding on tight.
“Come in me,” Dean begs, breathless, hips jerking in incremental movements—he’s so close, dripping all over their stomach, cock bouncing wildly. Releasing one of Castiel’s wings, he strokes himself, biting his lip to keep from shouting. “Oh fuck, Cas, come in me, c’mon—oh God, Cas—”
The air sparks between them, and at first, Dean isn’t sure who started it, not until he sees Castiel’s eyes burn bright blue and feels Castiel fuck up into him even rougher than before, mindlessly driven to the brink. Castiel’s orgasm drives Dean over the edge, just from feeling him thicken and spill, and the sudden rush of Grace that surrounds Dean and fills him even more than Castiel’s cock, down to his soul, his Grace. Convergence, coupling—whatever it’s called, Dean wants more, even after he’s drained himself dry and muffled his screams into Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel has done the same.
His shoulders ache by the time Dean comes down, confined into his skin again, still panting and sucking down air. Castiel hasn’t fared any better, currently clutching Dean’s wings, cock still buried deep, still as hard as ever. They could go again, if Dean weren’t so exhausted, body still shivering in the last vestiges of orgasm. “Holy shit,” is all he can manage. At least Castiel finds it funny, somehow managing to laugh in the haze. “Is that gonna be a normal thing?”
“I think we’ll go slower next time,” Castiel says, swallowing. Next time—next time is good. Next time, they can go all night and rattle the headboard, hopefully on a nice, safe mattress. “Dean, look up.”
Briefly, Dean does, only aware of the lights overhead and one burning even closer, distinctly silver among the fluorescent yellows. His heart skips, lungs fighting for air. “Is that—?”
“You have a halo,” Castiel says, mystified. Lifting a hand, he touches the outer band of the triangle—a triangle, really?—floating over Dean’s head, running his fingers along the edges. If anything, it tickles. Nice, though, like a really good hug or waking up in someone’s arms. “You really are beautiful.”
“Yeah.” Inhaling, Dean bows his head, pressing a kiss to Castiel’s jaw. “Yeah, guess I am.”
-+-
There’s not enough coffee in the world to cure his permanent state of exhaustion, Dean finds, cradling his second cup against his lips. Granted, he feels better now than he ever has in his life emotionally speaking, but somewhere along the line, his body traded euphoria for feeling like he got ran over by a tractor trailer, eighteen wheels and all. Never before has sex left him this tired—granted, he’s never had sex on a concrete floor before, either.
Bed next time, he decides, exchanging his coffee for a bite of ham and egg sandwich.
“You got some new feathers,” Sam announces when he enters the kitchen, hiding a yawn behind his fist. “Where’d you get those?”
Feathers—he has new feathers? Carefully, Dean runs his fingers behind his ears, finding several downy feathers there, filling in the gaps; they can’t be more than an inch long, and they’re soft, resembling filler more than actual feathers. “Huh,” Dean wonders aloud, checking his wrists underneath the sleeves of his robe. There, he can actually see what he’s dealing with, an absurd amount of small feathers jutting between the gaps. It looks… more natural this way, he thinks, and not at all like he glued feathers to his skin.
He really is an Angel, wings and feather and halo and all. Said halo and wings are hidden for the moment, the rest of his feathers exposed. To get air, is his reasoning; in truth, he can’t be bothered to retract them, at least not until he has more caffeine in his system. “Popped up last night,” is all Dean says, shoving the rest of his breakfast in his mouth. “Didn’t hurt this time.”
“That’s great,” Sam says, not at all concerned. What concerns Dean, though, is how Sam lingers around him, eventually placing both hands on the kitchen table, elbows bent as he leans down. “Really, and you know I’m happy for you with whatever you do, but I had to wear headphones last night.”
Immediately, Dean’s face reddens all the way to his ears. Sam heard—oh God, Sam heard them. “Oh my god,” Dean groans, placing his forehead on the tabletop. “You—You heard us? All of it?”
“Just the beginning,” Sam shrugs. “I thought you were being attacked or something, so I started to run downstairs—”
“Oh God.” Dean covers his head. Not that it’ll protect him, but the darkness keeps him calm. “God, this ain’t how this was supposed to go.”
“Look, Dean.” Gently, Sam places his hand on Dean’s shoulder, not at all admonishing. Still, guilt roils Dean’s stomach, anxiety plaguing him in waves. “I’m not mad, okay? If you’re…” He stops, sighs. “I didn’t know.”
Eventually, Dean lifts his head, his eyes locked on his abandoned mug. “It’s never been that big of a deal,” he says. “Just… This is still new, alright? I got wings because I figured out I’m in love with Cas, and—”
“Wait.” Sam stops him by squeezing his shoulder. Dean freezes. “You’re in love with Cas?”
There’s no use in denying it, considering Sam just heard Dean’s first religious experience in full. “For a while,” Dean admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Whatever Grace I had in me manifested because I kinda… accepted it, I guess. I don’t know man, I barely get it myself.”
“Huh.” Sam releases his shoulder and sits, hands in his lap. As far as awkward morning after’s go, this one really sets an entirely new standard. “I mean, I thought there was something between you two, but I didn’t think you’d… Where were you, anyway?”
“Funny story,” Dean half-laughs, hiding his face. “We have a tennis court.”
Sam blinks, his original look of acceptance morphing to horror. “Oh, gross man,” he says, breaking into laughter. At least someone finds it funny. “I’m serious though, I’m happy for you two.”
“Happy about what?”
Dean turns to find Castiel in the doorway, nearly giving himself whiplash in the process. At some point in the morning, he stole a pair of Dean’s sweatpants and never bothered to dress beyond that, a litany of bruises and bite marks exposed along his collar and throat. And worse, Castiel doesn’t even seem to notice they’re there, or if he does, he doesn’t care. Dean’s face heats once again in shame.
Yet, Castiel regards him without scorn, just kisses his hair in passing and makes his way to the coffee machine, like Sam isn’t in the room.
This is our new normal, Dean thinks. Normal feels… strange. “Sam heard us last night,” Dean says, hiding his face.
Castiel hums for a long second, no hint of shame in his reaction. And why would he be? “I’m sorry if we disturbed you,” he says, setting his mug on the table. He pulls out the chair beside Dean, sighing as he sits, his eyes on Dean the entire time. “You have new feathers.”
Dean huffs. A smile cracks his lips nonetheless, spurred on by Castiel’s hand stroking along his thigh, out of sight of Sam’s wandering eyes. “I know,” he says, nearing a chuckle. “Sammy here wants some new headphones.”
Sam laughs, leaning back in his chair. “Please tell me you’re not gonna defile any more rooms? I kinda wanna find out what’s here without wondering if—”
“We know, we know.” Grinning, Dean throws his head back, looking to the ceiling. “We’ll keep it down next time, promise.”
“Good.” Nodding, Sam makes his way to the refrigerator, pulling out a carton of eggs. “Cas, what was that recipe you gave me the other day?”
“Oh, right. It’s—”
And Castiel leaves Dean with another kiss, this one to the lips with Sam’s back turned. Like nothing has changed, like it was always meant to be this way. A new normal. Dean touches his lips with three fingers, still relishing the taste of Castiel’s kiss, and reaches for his coffee, smiling behind the lip of his mug.
For probably the third time in his life, Dean is in love, and this time, he’s never letting go.