Chapter Text
postscript. bobby and karen.
"You can't set up shop in my house," Bobby growled. "It's my house."
"I heard you the first thirteen times, Bobby Singer," Gabriel, archangel of the Lord, and sole commander of Heaven's Host, glowered at him from where he was sitting cross-legged in the armchair of the living room, a bowl of lemon cream cookies in his lap. Beside him, the four other angels seeking counsel also glared, clearly annoyed at the interruption.
"The light fixtures are busted! The telly doesn't work! I don't even want to talk about the phones..." Bobby paused, for a moment, and added, because you didn't get to be an old hunter without a wide streak of guile, "And when the oven shorts out, you won't have cookies anymore."
Gabriel abruptly looked worried, even as Karen poked her head out of the kitchen. "Now, now, Bobby, you can't be rude to our guests. Would any of them like tea?"
At Gabriel's pointed glance, all of the four angels glanced helplessly at each other, and nodded slowly. One enterprising one even mumbled a short 'thanks', albeit being nervous enough that she said it in Hebrew.
Karen, however, beamed at them and bustled back into the kitchen. Gabriel sighed. "Perhaps you have a point. I will have some sigils installed. They should correct the flow of energy. Then there should not be any further electrical problems. I will also pay for the damage. Satisfied?"
"Don't you people have a place in Heaven to hold court in?"
"We do. However, it does not have cookies," Gabriel said reasonably, as if that explained sodding everything. "I have already delegated several angels to take care of trivial matters."
"Now see here, you-" Bobby took in a deep breath, but Karen had already padded out of the kitchen, dusting her hands off on her apron, and her husband subsided sullenly when she pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"The big house gets lonely sometimes," Karen smiled, "And don't you feel safer with all these gentlemen around?"
"No," Bobby scowled. "They scare the h... the bejeezus out of me."
"Besides," Karen added placidly, "How many people out there can claim that angels talk to them?"
"Karen, when you talk to angels, that's praying. When angels talk to you, that's when people think you're crazy," Bobby glowered, setting his jaw even when Karen sighed, and then the phone rang. "Sorry. Hello? Rufus? Yeah. I've got a... what? The blood of pregnant women? Three pronged scar? I'll have to hit the books on that one... well, you have to wait-"
"That'll be a wight," Gabriel supplied, without looking up, through a mouthful of cookies. "You'll need sanctified iron. Cut off its head. It'll frequent someplace cold and dry." He nodded at one of the angels, who vanished. "Israfil will fetch it for your friend."
Bobby hesitated, and then Rufus abruptly yelped into the phone. "Er, yeah. Special courier. Just use that to cut off the monster's head. Likes to live in cold, dry places, apparently. Yeah. Angel DHL. F... well, sod you too, Rufus. Bye." Israfil reappeared next to Gabriel, looking as attentive as a f... sodding puppy that had just done a new trick.
"Okay," Bobby said gruffly as he put down the phone. "Maybe you can stay. For a few more days. If you fix the electricity. But we're going to have some house rules. Maximum of four minion angels at one time. No one breaks anything. And you can only be here between ten in the morning to four in the afternoon. And no talking in Enochian, I've had to replace the windows twice already."
"Agreed."
postscript. rachel.
Humans were sentimental creatures. About a couple of weeks after the dust had settled in the Nevada Test Site, the Winchesters had somehow talked Castiel into stealing Ananchel's empty vessel from the morgue of a small town in Arizona, and then Castiel had talked her into attending the 'funeral' in the woods close to Bobby Singer's scrapyard. Because Karen had made some cake specially for the occasion, Gabriel had also attended, and Balthazar had tagged along, presumably out of sheer curiosity.
The empty vessel had been cremated, and all in all, Rachel and the other angels hadn't quite understood the point, not even Castiel, who was close to Dean Winchester, or Gabriel, who had lived on Earth for centuries. It was sort of like burning a snail shell, or a snake skin. Ananchel had been far more than the sum of her vessel's blood and bones.
Afterwards, they'd buried the ashes, along with the ashes of Ananchel's wings that Castiel had been told to scrape up from the warehouse where she had fallen, in a little square plot of ground a short walk from the house, near the forest. When Sam Winchester had smiled nervously at Rachel and asked what she wanted written on the memorial stone, she had shrugged. There was nothing that could be said, not in Enochian, not in his mortal tongue. Angels did not quite understand loss as mortals did; grief, longing and regret tended to be human emotions.
In the end, and only because Gabriel had arched his eyebrows at her, she had carved a small sigil into the stone with the edge of her angel knife. It had been Ananchel's favourite, one of the few Enochian words for joy that were not linked intrinsically with service. In translation, it would have been serene-joy, contentment-peace. And then, vaguely relieved that the strange mortals' request had been completed, Rachel returned to Heaven to attend to her duties.
It was about a month later that she had been required to visit Bobby Singer's house, mainly to try and persuade Gabriel to return to Heaven to peruse a border overlap problem with two of the Boundaries, and out of whim she landed outside the house, at the plot of land. Rather to her surprise there was a small sapling, curling out of the earth, green and small and vulnerable, and she sat down before it, entranced, despite herself. This too, perhaps, was joy.
postscript. rufus.
Rufus had always thought of himself as pretty lucky. Old hunters usually were - that was how they got old, after all, and not dead in their mid forties with a werewolf chomping on their hearts.
Bobby's boys, however - they brought having luck to a whole new dimension. If they didn't strike Rufus as being good kids deep down under all the occasional stupid, he might even have been envious. Take right now, for instance. They were hunting nagas in Louisiana, because the boys had been the closest by when Rufus had called Bobby asking for backup, and it turned out that the Winchester boys were, in fact, definitely running with an angel. Two angels. Who kept arguing with each other.
"I don't see why you find this more interesting than Heaven," the one in the older looking 'vessel' with the British accent complained.
"Many things on earth are more interesting than Heaven. Ask Gabriel," the one who looked like a tax accountant retorted mildly.
"Seriously, you guys," Dean bitched, "We're trying to hunt here? Hello? Can we be professional?"
Dean and Sam tended to take turns bitching like little girls. Sometimes Rufus wondered if it was karma. Maybe their parents had wanted daughters.
"There's nothing in this stinking, damp place," Balthazar growled, "Other than far more insects than God must have intended," which was naturally the point at which an alligator made a poor life decision by way of thinking that an angel was edible.
"Hunting with you boys always makes life so much crazier," Rufus said dryly, standing on the bank with the Winchester boys and watching the fray.
"You don't know half of it, old man," Dean muttered.
postscript. gabriel.
"I don't want it," Gabriel had said to Dean Winchester, after the shock had worn off and the clouds had cleared. "I'm not returning to Heaven."
"Well, you have to," Dean was one of those curious humans, who was never respectful, never afraid of things far more powerful than he was, especially whenever convinced that he was in the right. He fit his title to the letter, and it was far more annoying than it should be. "There's no one else."
"Lucifer didn't even kill a quarter of us today," Gabriel had retorted sulkily, balling his fists. "You have no idea-"
"Gabriel," Sam Winchester, on the other hand, probably liked to think of himself as the reasonable one, despite demon blood, the Lilith seal, and a whole host of other poor life decisions. "All of your brothers, they're going to need some guidance. They're going to need help. Maybe once they're on their feet, you can go away again. Right now, they're probably disorganised and afraid."
"Angels don't feel fear," Gabriel had muttered, which was a lie, but he was used to lies by now; he'd made himself a God of them once, centuries ago out of a whim; mortals had called him Loki Liesmith and had feared him. "And Lucifer is gone. Heaven isn't needed, now."
"If you really like Earth," Dean had added, "Then you might want to make sure that all those nuclear capable siblings of yours are going to behave."
"It's going to be a disaster," Gabriel had predicted, because even when he had commanded his own garrison, at the beginning, he'd always deferred large tactical decisions to Michael. It had been easier then. "I don't even want it."
"Usually the best people for a job like this are people who don't want it," Sam had told him, trying to sound cajoling. "Gabriel, other than Castiel, you're the only angel we know who actually likes people. I think the world needs you up there."
"I could give it to Castiel." He had considered that for a moment, then he had shaken his head. Even if Castiel had been returned to Heaven, he was only one of the malakhim, and sadly, for creatures of celestial energy, angels tended to understand strength and hierarchy more than logic. There would have been civil war.
Besides, he wasn't entirely certain if Castiel liked people, as in people, or whether it was just that Castiel really, really liked Dean Winchester and thought that all the other humans could be along for the ride because they did things for Dean, like make pie. Angels tended to take obsession to levels unimaginable by humans, after all.
Eventually, he had sulked for a while more, while the Winchester brothers had bitched and nagged at him, and had given in. "Fine. I'll do it. For now."
He regretted his decision, in the days, in the months ahead; life had been far easier when he had lived just for himself. But there was more to existence than fun, more to existence than whim, and in a millennia after his own creation, Gabriel finally understood maturity. There was a sort of satisfaction in taking up responsibility, which was beyond the shallow pleasures of mere hedonism.
He would, however, never, ever tell the Winchester boys that they had been right. They'd never let him hear the end of it.
postscript. crowley.
Crowley became King of Hell, because it seemed like a good idea at a time. It didn't take him long to develop a closer, more nuanced understanding of his species - namely, that they were a bunch of two-faced, scheming, ungrateful, treacherous little bastards that would stab you in the eye rather than give you the time of day.
Crowley grew thinner, and his hellhound Growly grew fatter, until one day he found himself nursing a glass of whisky in some sticky little London pub, seriously considering closing down the whole damn operation, preferably while the operatives were still trapped inside it, and that was when the bloody nuclear reactor had pulled a stool up next to him.
"Go on, smite me," Crowley told Gabriel, not even bothering to look at him. "Put me out of my misery."
"Why should I?" Gabriel smirked. "It's been very restful in Heaven, now that civil war has become trendy down below."
"It's so nice to know that I'm being useful to the bloody Boy Scouts."
"It's not all fun and games being in charge of Heaven," Gabriel sighed. "Angels can be ungrateful, treacherous little bastards. And the worst part is, we're all technically family."
"Let me tell you about demons," Crowley grumbled, and then, because the world had clearly gone insane after the apocalypse, the King of Hell and the Prince of Heaven spent an hour or so bitching to each other about their subordinates over a bottle of very good scotch.
It was surprisingly cathartic.
Even though Gabriel was probably here to kill him.
"Incidentally," Gabriel added, as though it was an afterthought, "Should we accidentally learn Beezlebub's location on Earth - I hear he's been 'visiting' some old friends - some of us might accidentally crash his party. On pure coincidence."
Crowly raised an eyebrow. Beezlebub was one of the biggest thorns in his side; that ancient demon had been one of the first that Lucifer had created after Lilith, and he had certain old-fashioned ideas about hierarchies. "And why would you help me?"
"Help? Who said anything about help?" Gabriel could really work a wide-eyed look of innocence. "Some demons disappear, some particularly difficult angels get a bit of a work out, the world moves on."
Much to Crowley's surprise, the offer didn't in fact have a dagger hidden behind it, and the shaky truce slowly became a regular arrangement. Crowley consolidated his hold on Hell - he grew fatter, Growly grew thinner. The world moved on, and perhaps sometimes even demons got happy endings.
postscript .balthazar
At some point Balthazar seemed to have been appointed the unofficial Chief Gabriel Finder, which was unfair, because the boss liked to shoot the messenger whenever he was in a bad mood, sometimes literally, and if Gabriel was hiding from everything, including Karen Singer's concoctions, that usually meant that he was in a very bad mood indeed.
Besides, hunting for an archangel while holding a jar of strawberry preserve was, in Balthazar's opinion, an extremely undignified activity. He was older than the current oceans, after all. Older than some of the stars. And now he was sneaking through the Isle, because he had come to it often enough that he was attuned to its whispers, deeper and richer when the Isle knew that its master was home, heading for the apparent spot of nothing under the silver ash trees.
When he got close enough, there was a grumble in Enochian, and Gabriel uncloaked himself. "You should not even know how to get in here."
"It was for the sake of security," Balthazar offered the jar glibly, and Gabriel snatched it from him. Gabriel had clearly grown very fond of his mortal vessel when he had been on Earth, wearing it all the time, even in Heaven, and his original garrison and some of the other angels had more or less promptly followed suit. Angels always tended to equate copying with flattery.
"You stole some things from me." Gabriel scowled, though he opened the jar and dipped his fingers into the preserve, filthy thing.
"I put them back. Also, if not for the things that I stole, you'd still be in Raphael's hands."
Balthazar regretted his words the moment he said them; Gabriel immediately sobered. Raphael and Michael - and even Lucifer - had been his brothers, after all. The ha-elyonim had once been close.
Right. Straight to business, then. "Elijah wants-"
"I'm not holding any further counsel today," Gabriel declared, licking jam delicately off his fingers, and Balthazar blinked. His vessel had reacted to that, in a small press of warmth deep in his belly. Strange. He was sure that he wasn't hungry. "I've just had to sort a protracted and incredibly mundane dispute between Sophia and Raziel. You can all go and fucking hang yourselves."
Red preserve smeared over Gabriel's mouth, as Balthazar stared, and then the archangel began to smirk. "Balthazar."
"... boss?" Balthazar shook himself, internally.
"Have you tried the mortals' version of sex?"
"No." Balthazar replied confidently. "I've never found it particularly interesting. Seems inefficient. Messy."
"Oh, my boy," A sly grin slowly spread over Gabriel's mouth. "Come over here. No, leave your wings where they are - we can play with them later."
"I will, if you'll see Elijah tomorrow. He's been an absolute pain about the requisition schedules, or whatever they are." And extremely persistent. Besides, Elijah was once Michael's treasurer, and it'd be nice to be owed a favour. A big, shiny favour.
"Sure, sure." Gabriel crooked his fingers.
They used the whole jar of preserve, for things that Karen Singer would have disapproved of. But at the end of it, sticky and filthy but sated, Balthazar had to admit that perhaps the humans had been on to something.
postscript. sam winchester.
The good thing about Castiel getting into a maybe sort of thing with his brother was that Castiel was now around just about all the time.
The bad thing about Castiel getting into a maybe sort of thing with his brother was that Castiel was now around just about all the time.
The angel's increased presence during hunts was the good part. Castiel's sudden, new and intense interest in whatever Sam was doing as of last week, however, was getting creepy, and Sam had no fucking idea why Dean had ever found it hot. Or something.
"Cas, I'm trying to read," Sam finally burst out, after an hour of Castiel asking him far too many probing questions about the book that Sam was furtively trying to read before Dean came back from his foraging turn and ridiculed him. "Why didn't you go out with Dean?"
"Apparently I 'spook the locals'," Castiel looked distinctly unhappy about that, but well, small towns were small towns, sometimes, and Castiel still had a shaky understanding of appropriate physical contact. Some mental images from the earlier stages of the 'maybe sort of thing' had been seared into his retinas forever. "Also, your book is interesting."
"Uh. Thanks." Sam was fairly sure that George Martin rated a higher accolade than 'interesting', but then, this was the non-human lover of a guy who thought that higher literature had skimpily clad women gracing the cover. The skimpier, the better.
"But your lives are so short. Why read and write about matters that do not exist?" Castiel asked, genuinely mystified, and by the time Dean returned to the motel room, Sam had surrendered his book and had scrawled a book recommendation list on the back of the motel invoice.
Dean dropped the paper bags of takeout on the table. "Dude, did you just give Cas one of your nerd books?"
"It's not a nerd book, Dean," Sam muttered, but this was an old argument between them, and he was already digging out his salad shake from the bag.
"He's not reading it anyway, look at him." Dean hooked the spare chair over with his foot and sat down next to Castiel, who was flipping through the pages at an impossible speed, even when Dean casually splayed a hand on his thigh.
Usually, that was an invitation for the angel to start staring adoringly at Dean, but this time, Castiel merely continued to flip through the book. Sam had to hastily hide his grin behind his orange juice. Dean's expression was going to keep him warm at night.
Eventually, the angel read all the way to the end, and then he handed the book back to Sam. "Thank you, Sam."
Dean was halfway through his burger, and he swallowed hastily. "You were reading?"
"I was. The story was intricate and unexpected. I did not think that Ned Stark would-"
"Hey, no spoilers. I haven't finished it." Sam cut in, and had to hide another grin when Dean glowered at him.
"There are sequels," Castiel noted aloud, and disappeared.
"What the fuck," Dean said, slowly and incredulously, "Did you just turn my angel into an actual nerd?"
"You were all for 'expanding his horizons' yesterday, Dean," Sam replied calmly, eating his salad. "These motels don't have thick walls, you know."
Dean scowled at him. "Is this revenge? Because this is low, Sammy."
"He started it." Sam retorted. "You left him here. He used to just sit quietly in a corner and wait for you to come back. Now he asks me questions about everything."
Dean sucked in a breath, then something seemed to occur to him, and he grimaced. "Oh no. No way."
"What?"
"I might have once said, sarcastically, that you needed a friend," Dean admitted, and looked as though he had just bitten down on a lemon, when Sam began to laugh. Angels didn't understand sarcasm very well. "Fuck."
"Thanks, I guess," Sam said dryly. "Maybe I did." Outside of the small circle of hunters that he and Dean knew, they didn't have many other friends. And he certainly didn't know any who actually liked reading anything more than the journals of dead men regarding how to kill monsters, or had any interest in what he did if it didn't have to do with guns and back-up. It was... nice. Maybe.
"If he doesn't want to have sex tonight because he'd rather read about wizards, I'm salting your clothes with itching powder."
postscript. castiel.
An angel's memory is photo-perfect, and for this, Castiel gives daily thanks to a God who no longer listens.
He remembered the first time he had seen Dean's wings. Their perfection would have been a surprise for any other angel, but not Castiel. Wings were a reflection of the angel as a whole, and they were never this perfect; even in Heaven, existence and Time would take their mark, fray pinions, pluck feathers. Dean had been in Hell, and he had been no innocent, but what he had done had been fated, what he was, was still holy, and what he would be would change the world. Castiel had been in love with Dean long before he had ever seen Dean's wings, but at that point he had first known selfishness. When he had asked Dean to hide his wings his request had not so much been driven by ingrained etiquette but by covetousness; he wanted to be the only angel who would ever see them. He had wondered if this was a chance to be the only angel who would show Dean their other uses. For this, too, he had thanked God.
He remembered their first kiss, grace to grace, the shock of it, the radial of gentle pleasure, the disappointment he had felt when he had realized that it had been an accident. The next had been better, more, and he recalled every moment of it, the way his vessel had fit against the hard lines of Dean's body, the way they had rubbed blindly together until their bodies had achieved a physical completion to accent the cerebral. It had been too much for Dean, the first time, and he had held the unconscious frame of his beloved, tucked Dean's head under his chin, and marvelled at his luck. For this, too, he had thanked God.
He remembered the first time he had taken Dean into his mouth, the weight and the taste of it, the stretch in his vessel's throat. There had been mistakes, at the start, but Dean had been patient, and there was no better joy for an angel than pleasing someone he loved, to be told how good he was, to feel Dean's thighs shake under his palms. Castiel had lived outside of flesh for millennia, and far from it being primitive, his first indoctrination to the sensation of pure physical ecstasy had been divine, when Dean had curled his fingers into Castiel's hair and bucked and cried out his name like a desperate prayer. For this, too, he had thanked God.
He remembered the first time Dean had kissed him, mouth to mouth, without the press of grace between them, the sweetness of it, the surprise. Castiel had never thought that it could be better than the touch of grace to grace, in its own way, a physical connection rather than a spiritual one. It seemed unbelievable at first, until he had belatedly recalled symbolism. Human actions tended to be laced with symbolism; a gesture in one culture could mean another, elsewhere, and for Dean, the simple press of lips had been far more than flesh on flesh - it had been trust, it had been tenderness, it had been affection beyond lust. For this, too, he had thanked God.
He remembered the first time Dean had taken him to bed, after everything, the way he had hidden his nervousness under bravado. It had been fumbling, at first, and then Castiel had put his mouth on him, and then it was easier. Dean touched him with his face buried in the crook of Castiel's shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, hand in a fist around the vessel's primary external sexual organ, and afterwards, he had seemed disappointed. At first, Castiel had been concerned, then he had realized that Dean had been waiting for his grace to unfurl, like before, when they could meet grace to grace, and he had smiled, amused. Intimacy came in many forms, and this was already more than he had ever wanted. For this, too, he had thanked God.
The Righteous Man decides the ending, and the beginning, and because of this, Dean Winchester's life would never be simple, would never be easy. His lifetime will be one short blink in the span of Castiel's entire existence, but it will be spent with Castiel by his side, and for this too, Castiel will thank God.
postscript. dean winchester.
It was about a year or so after the apocalypse had been averted that Dean had finally stumbled on what made Castiel tick. Or actually, what made the part of Castiel that was older than humanity tick. On hindsight, he probably should have figured it out earlier - it had been so obvious.
They were in a motel, in between hunts, and Sam had given him one of his bitchy eye-rolls when Dean had none-too-pointedly asked him to stay out late that night. This was usually a large enough clue for Castiel, and indeed once they were alone in the motel room, Castiel had pulled him close and kissed him, all eager, grasping fingers. Castiel was always like that, like he could never wait. Once Dean had laughed and told him that they had all the time in the world, and the angel had merely replied, soberly, that they did not. That Dean did not.
Dean had never thought of eternity as being lonely before.
Dean liked undressing Castiel. The angel didn't seem to understand the eroticism in slowly unwrapping someone, peeling away the layers, but he endured it, allowed Dean to carefully tug out his tie, slide off his coats, unbutton his shirt, push him onto the bed and run his hands over the curve of his shoulders, the arch of his ribs, the lines of his flanks, the dip of his thighs. This form of worship Castiel understood, at least; the angel squirmed under his touch, hands twisting in the sheets, cock swelling between his legs. Dean didn't bother telling Castiel that he was beautiful, like he would if this had been a one night stand with some pretty girl from a bar. Castiel was more than Jimmy Novak's shell, more than flesh. The words would have been meaningless.
The vessel was a good conduit, though, to the angel tangled within it, and Dean had so far had an entire year to figure out Castiel liked, and what Castiel really liked. He pressed his tongue into Castiel's navel and kissed upwards, chuckled as Castiel whined and pushed his hips against Dean's still-clothed belly, moaned and tugged urgently at the sheets as Dean closed his mouth on a nipple and scraped his teeth over the tip.
Castiel let out a sound that could only be described as a breathless squeak, and Dean smirked and pressed his tongue over pebbling flesh, worked at it until it was a swollen red and Castiel was writhing, his breaths in tight gasps, and then the angel moaned as Dean merely licked over to the other nipple and did it all over again.
"You liked that?" Dean asked - he always asked - when he kissed back up Castiel's jaw to parted lips .
Castiel tried to press forward for a kiss, but Dean tilted back, until the angel whimpered and frowned, focusing. "Yes, Dean."
Dean gave Castiel his kiss, licking deep into his mouth until fingers skittered over his shoulders, skirting his own hands down to Castiel's hips. "I want you to do something for me," he murmured, an inch away from parted lips, when he pulled back. "Can you do that?"
The angel shuddered, gorgeous blue eyes dilating. Angels liked service, Dean had found; they were, after all, manifests of functions. Orders were part of it all. He'd once thought that it was just a matter of power, and then he'd learned, afterwards, that it was something else altogether. Angels liked serving those they loved.
"Yes, Dean," Castiel whispered. "What do you need?"
"I want you to try not to come until I say so, all right?"
This was usually one of the harder ones, and Castiel hesitated, until Dean added, as reassuringly as he could, "I'll help you."
"I won't come until you give me the word," Castiel agreed, then, and God but it was always hot, hearing that. Dean smiled and kissed Castiel between the eyes.
"Good," he said, and a tremor of pleasure shook through Castiel's frame. In some ways, angels were really easy. "You're so good for me, Cas."
"I want to be," Castiel replied, simply, and Dean had to bite down on a groan as he pulled off his own clothes with jerky fingers. The angel watched him quietly, hungrily, until Dean had kicked off his shoes and boxers, then he reached for Dean's hardening cock.
"Not today," Dean batted Castiel's hand aside. He wouldn't last long enough to do what he wanted if Castiel got his hands, or worse, that mouth of his on Dean. Dean had experienced great blowjobs before, from girls who really, really liked sucking dick, but Castiel was something else. It wasn't just the lack of a gag reflex; it was the way Castiel kept moaning when Dean was pressed all the way down his throat, the way he kept trying to look up, as if to check if Dean was also enjoying it, the way he'd always end up humping the bed or Dean's leg or his own hand if he thought he could get away with it. God.
Dean had to squeeze the base of his cock and take in a deep breath just at the thought of it. When he'd calmed down a little, he took the small tub of lube from the nightstand, and Castiel smiled and spread his legs. If Dean let him, Castiel would probably try and take him dry, he was that impatient, but Dean wasn't really a fan of pain, and besides, the way Castiel always dug his heels into the bed and tried to push himself down on the two lubed fingers that Dean pressed into him? That was hot.
"Look at you," Dean liked to talk while he worked, scissoring his fingers. "How are you this hungry, Cas? You had my dick this morning, in the shower, in your mouth and then up your ass, didn't you?"
Castiel squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, his voice hitching, probably taking a brief dive through memory lane. Apparently angels had picture-perfect memory, which was a fun thing to use in bed. Dean crooked his fingers, and Castiel yelped, bucking. "Oh!"
"Answer me, Cas." Dean began to thrust his fingers into the tight, clenching heat, three fingers now, ignoring the angel's prostate, and Castiel whimpered, squirming again.
"Yes. It was good, Dean." Castiel told him breathlessly. "You always make me feel so good."
"Keep talking," Dean instructed, tucking Castiel's ankles around his waist. "You're doing well."
"I want more," It had taken Castiel a long time to figure out appropriate pillow talk, and for that Dean blamed whatever the hell it was that Balthazar had suggested that the angel 'research'. The first time Castiel had said something straight out of a really bad porno, with words like 'spear' and 'impale' and 'raging shaft', Dean had laughed so much that he'd had to have a glass of water. "I want your cock inside me. Makes me... makes me feel good, Dean."
Dean had to take another breather at that point. Or two. When he had edged off the brink again, he kissed Castiel again, sloppy this time, marking time with the thrust of his fingers, the angel bucking eagerly under him, palms squeezing his shoulders, then a hand fit itself against the brand, and Castiel muffled a thick moan against his mouth. Without his borrowed grace, Dean no longer felt anything special when Castiel did that, but either the angel did, or Castiel had a marking kink. It was also usually a sign that Castiel was close.
"Hey, Cas," Dean nipped at his lower lip. "Remember what I wanted you to do."
"I do, I do," Castiel whined when Dean pulled out his fingers. "Please. More."
"Yeah," Dean took in a breath, and then he sat up against the headboard. "C'mere, Cas."
"My pace?" Castiel asked hopefully, as he scrambled up to straddle Dean's hips.
"No." The last time Castiel had ridden him on the angel's own pace, Dean had ended up bruised, the bedsprings had broken, and the metal headboard had fingerprints dented into it. It had been awesome, but reception had given them weird looks when they'd checked out. "Mine."
Castiel never took it slow if he could help it, sinking down greedily, his face slack with pleasure and his hands curled so tightly in the bar of the headboard that there were probably going to be dents again. Dean was always the one who'd have to keep his hands on Castiel's hips and keep count in his mind until Castiel relaxed around him. He set the rhythm, measured at first, ignoring how Castiel whined and squirmed and dug his feet into the sheets, then gave him more until the angel forgot speech, crying out as Dean began to pound into him, dragging the thick head of his cock over the gland within him with each thrust until he began to shake.
"Dean-" Castiel warned, biting down hard enough on his own lower lip that he had split the skin, "I-"
"Yeah, I see that," Dean's voice was broken to his ears as he forced Castiel down, made him sit on his lap and wait, and sucked in a tight, hitching breath when Castiel clenched around him. Fuck, but Castiel always felt so good like this. "Don't move. We'll wait until you can take more."
"Oh. Oh." Realization dawned slowly, then Castiel let out a breath that was more like a sob, his cock leaking a slick smear over Dean's belly, and Dean ached from it, release a tight spring in his gut, but he waited until Castiel finally bowed his head and rocked tentatively against him. "I... I have control."
"You're doing good, Cas," Dean told him encouragingly, pulling him over for a kiss, "Very good."
The second time Dean brought them both off the edge, Castiel begged him. "Please... Dean, I need it, please, I need release, it hurts, please," and he nearly gave in. He didn't usually deny Castiel anything. But he kissed the angel instead until Castiel stopped talking and simply squirmed and trembled in his grasp. He took it slower, after that, but it wasn't long before even shallow thrusts were making Castiel's breathing hitch and his shoulders grow taut, and at the third time, Castiel was almost sobbing from it, all wrenching gasps, his voice stuttering as he promised Dean anything, everything, if Dean would only let him come, and Dean would probably have come right there and then if he hadn't dug all of his fingertips deep into his own palms. Fuck.
It was by the fourth time that Dean finally found what he was looking for, the both of them drenched in sweat and all but shaking in exhaustion. Castiel had merely looked at him when Dean had held him down, all simple, pure adoration and acceptance, like nothing mattered more to him now than Dean and he didn't give a fuck whether he got to come or not; Castiel always loved at an intensity that frightened Dean at the best of times, but now, broken down, cast together, it was perfect.
"You can come," Dean told Castiel, and kissed him, slow and tender, and traced the sigil he had just learned over Castiel's chest with a forefinger. Enochian didn't have many words for love that weren't tied to God, Heaven, or service; this one was more of a question-promise of devotion rather than a statement, for the future, and he felt Castiel start against him as he recognised it, then shake, and then just as Dean thought that maybe he'd overdone it and barged into sap territory, Castiel reared back with a cry and clapped his palm over Dean's eyes.
The outward sweep of Castiel's grace as it surged outwards and wrapped tight around his soul was just as crazily fucking intense as Dean remembered, searing through every corner of his soul and locking his mind in an ecstatic spin of free fall. Passing out was always kind of a relief.
Castiel was curled against him when he came to, twitching and rubbing at his eyes. His throat felt raw, as though he'd screamed it broken. "Wow. I didn't expect that. Thank you, Rachel."
"You asked Rachel to teach you Enochian?"
Dean might have had a very awkward conversation with Rachel which he would never admit to and which Rachel had taken all too seriously. He'd had no choice: he would rather have died than ask Balthazar or Gabriel, and he didn't know any other angels. His question to Rachel had been, namely, other than grace to grace, was there anything else that angels liked? And then Rachel had blown his mind with her answer. Lots. Of Answers. Apparently ancient creatures with eternity on their hands could be fucking kinky. He was never going to look at the other angels quite the same way again.
"Just a few basics. Enochian is more than just a language to you guys," Dean carefully shifted Castiel so that circulation could return to his arm. "It's more like code, isn't it? Instructions. You'll feel it all the way down, where nothing else can get to you."
"It is," Castiel said, almost shyly, and pushed himself up onto his elbows, "And this is my answer." He leaned over, to press their lips together, and traced the sigil for acceptance over Dean's heart.