Heaven Was Never Gentle

by ZephyrHearts

Summary:

Dean didn’t mean to find an angel half-dead in the woods, wings torn and grace flickering like a dying ember. He especially didn’t mean to bring him home. But there was something about the way the broken creature looked at him—like Dean was the only tether he had left to this world.

With Sam’s help, Dean patches him up, gets him back on his feet, even manages to see the shimmer of grace return to those blue eyes. But healing Castiel comes with consequences—namely, the angel’s unshakable fixation on Dean. He watches Dean like he hung the stars. He follows him from room to room, sleeps beside him like it’s the only way he can breathe, touches him like he needs it to stay sane.

Dean tells himself it’s just residual grace, angelic instincts, some cosmic imprint. But the longer Castiel stays, the more Dean finds himself leaning in—letting Castiel protect him, touch him, need him. And God help him, Dean wants to be needed like that. Wants to be watched. Touched. Claimed.

Maybe bringing an angel home was a mistake.

Or maybe it was the only right thing Dean's ever done.

Chapter 1: The Woods Always Take Something

The forest was quiet in that way that didn’t feel natural—like it was holding its breath.

Dean trudged forward through a narrow game trail, the last remnants of sun slipping behind the skeletal treetops. His boots sank slightly into the soft moss and mud, catching on twisted roots and fallen branches. A fine layer of sweat clung to the back of his neck beneath the collar of his jacket, and the air was cooling fast. Too fast.

Something in the trees was watching. Or had been. He hadn’t heard a damn bird in over an hour.

His left thigh throbbed from where he’d taken a hit—something sharp and fast, claws maybe. The Wendigo had come out of nowhere earlier, barely visible in the thick trees, fast enough to scratch but not kill. Yet. He’d gotten away, but not without cost.

The rip just above his jeans was soaked dark with blood, fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin with every step. His shirt was torn, one sleeve ripped open at the bicep where another gash ran raw and hot. Dried blood crusted along his forearm and caked beneath his nails. His ribs were bruised—possibly cracked from being slammed into a trunk about an hour back. Breathing was tight. Movement was worse.

But he didn’t stop.

His shotgun stayed steady in his hands, finger resting on the trigger guard, safety off. He wasn’t in the mood for surprises. Not again.

Dean paused near a clearing and leaned against a tree, letting his forehead rest against the rough bark as he tried to catch his breath. Every muscle in his body screamed. The wind brushed past him, rattling dry leaves that still clung stubbornly to low-hanging branches.

The daylight was nearly gone now, shadows dragging long fingers across the forest floor. The temperature had dropped a good ten degrees since sunset, and Dean could see his breath fog faintly when he exhaled. He needed to make a decision: keep tracking or find shelter and wait out the night.

He sniffed and tasted copper in the back of his throat. When he wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his flannel, the fabric came away streaked with red. “Great,” he muttered.

The Wendigo was still out there. But it wasn’t making noise anymore. No distant crunch of underbrush, no inhuman screeches echoing through the woods. Just silence and the occasional groan of branches shifting above him.

Dean pushed off the tree and kept moving, slower now, the limp more pronounced as he stepped through tall grass and ducked beneath low limbs. A part of him welcomed the pain. It meant he was still alive, still moving. Still hunting.

About a mile deeper in, the trees thickened again, forming a natural canopy that blotted out even the dim light of the rising moon. Dean flicked on his flashlight and the beam cut through the darkness like a blade, catching motes of dust and mist in the air. His breath was labored now, every inhale like dragging knives through his chest. He blinked sweat from his lashes and tightened his grip on the gun.

And then—he stopped.

Not because he saw anything. But because the air had changed.

The forest was silent, yes—but now it felt charged. Like something massive had passed through the trees and the world hadn’t caught up yet. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. His fingers twitched.

He swung the flashlight in a wide arc.

Nothing.

Just trees. Dirt. Fog.

And then—

A sound.

Not the crunch of animal footsteps. Not the rustle of something fleeing. But something... softer. Like wind sweeping through feathers. Like breath.

Dean pivoted sharply and aimed his flashlight toward the sound.

What he saw made him freeze.

Something slumped between the trees, half-buried in the underbrush. Large. Human-shaped. Broken.

It wasn’t moving.

Dean’s heart knocked hard against his ribs as he raised his flashlight and gun together, creeping closer with each tentative step. His boots sank into wet ground, his throat dry as he approached. His entire body tensed, ready for a fight. But as the light fell fully on the figure before him, everything inside him stilled.

It wasn’t the Wendigo.

It wasn’t even a person, not really.

It was a man—if that’s what you could call someone with massive, filthy wings sprawled behind him, splayed awkwardly over the forest floor like fallen shadows. The feathers were torn, matted with blood and dirt, tips bent at unnatural angles. His clothes—what was left of them—hung in shreds off his body. Bare skin was streaked with mud, blood, and something black and glimmering that wasn’t entirely human.

Dean’s flashlight trembled slightly in his grasp.

The man was breathing—barely. Chest rising and falling shallowly. His head hung low, chin against his sternum, tangled dark hair hiding his face.

Dean didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move. Just stood there in the dark, the light between them like a spotlight on something not meant for this world.

He wasn’t sure how long he stared before his own voice cracked through the silence.

“…Son of a bitch.”

The thing—no, the man, the being—was sprawled like a fallen statue carved from violence and grace. A monument half-swallowed by the forest. The wings alone should’ve been enough to convince Dean he was dreaming. Or dying. But the smell was too real. Blood, thick and copper-sweet, saturated the moss beneath the figure. The closer Dean stood, the stronger it hit him—like the inside of a butcher shop left too long in the sun. Sharp, warm, animal.

His breath caught as he took in the sight, slowly, unwillingly.

The wings weren’t white like he might’ve imagined. They were darker—soot-colored and heavy, feathers dragged through dirt and clotted with gore, half of them split or shredded like someone had ripped through them. They twitched faintly, just once, at the edge, as if responding to some distant pain. One was bent unnaturally at the joint, the other partially tucked beneath the man's bare torso.

Dean couldn’t see his face. Just the bow of his head, his chin touching his collarbone like someone had shut him off and left him in pieces.

He swallowed thickly.

This wasn’t the Wendigo. This wasn’t even human. Not anymore.

Dean had heard stories—muttered over whiskey in backwoods bars, scrawled in journals he’d inherited from hunters long gone. Angels. Not metaphorical ones. Real ones. Actual, winged warriors from on high, apparently powerful enough to level cities but mostly ghosting in and out of human affairs like rumors on smoke.

He’d never seen one. Never expected to.

But here it was.

Real.

Bleeding.

Broken.

Dean's hand, still clenched around the grip of his shotgun, began to tremble.

He had no idea what the protocol was for this. You didn’t train for celestial encounters in hunter boot camp. You didn’t learn how to handle seeing something ancient and sacred lying unconscious in the dirt like roadkill.

He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Could feel his pulse in his throat.

“…Jesus,” he whispered to no one.

The thing didn’t move.

Dean took a step forward, slow and quiet. His boots crunched against loose bark and old leaves, and still the thing didn’t stir.

He took another step.

Then, slowly, with deliberate care, Dean lowered the shotgun. The barrel touched the forest floor with a dull scrape and he set it gently down in the moss, the action louder than he intended.

The figure flinched.

Not fully—just a shiver, a ripple through the wings, like wind moving over a lake. The right wing gave a single, slow jerk, dragging a wet line through the dirt. The feathers twitched violently, then stilled. A soft grunt broke through the figure’s lips, barely audible over the rustling trees.

Dean froze.

His hand hovered over the gun instinctively, but he didn’t grab it. Instead, he crouched—low, cautious, watching the rise and fall of the man's ribs. The breath was too shallow. The trembling was too subtle. This thing was either dying, or not far from it.

Up close, the blood was worse. It clung to every inch of exposed skin—deep red, some dried brown, some still fresh. It leaked from wounds Dean couldn’t even see, soaking into the ground. One wing had a gash along the membrane near the shoulder joint, wide enough that Dean could see bone beneath the feathers. There were symbols carved into the flesh of the man's back—sigils Dean didn’t recognize, etched with something crude and hot. Some were glowing faintly, like coals pressed into skin.

Dean’s stomach turned.

He didn’t know who—or what—had done this. But it sure as hell hadn’t been human… so he thought.

His flashlight beam skimmed over the man’s back again, then paused at the nape of his neck.

Movement.

The man—or the angel—was lifting his head.

Not all the way. Just enough to expose a sliver of his face.

A swollen eye. A split lip. Dirt and dried blood smeared across the bridge of his nose. And then—blue.

Just a glimpse, like a shard of sky through storm clouds.

One eye cracked open and fixed weakly on Dean.

And in that second, Dean stopped breathing.

There was no threat in the gaze. No fury. No divine righteousness. Just a flicker of recognition—or need. A mute, haunting awareness. Like the angel knew who Dean was. Or maybe just hoped he did.

Dean’s voice came out low, unsure. “You… uh. You understand me?”

The angel’s lips parted.

There was no sound. Just a slow exhale. One that looked like it cost him something.

Dean inched forward on instinct. “Hey—hey, easy. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The angel blinked. His eyes rolled briefly upward and he winced, head dipping down again like it was too heavy to hold up. Another twitch passed through his wings, and the injured one folded tight in a convulsive shudder. Blood dripped from the ends of the primaries, thick and dark, and Dean flinched when it spattered near his knee.

“Shit. Okay. Okay.”

He looked around—pointlessly. No backup. No Sam. Just him, a half-dead divine being, and miles of woods that had already tried to kill him once today.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, fingers brushing through dried blood on his temple.

“Alright,” he muttered. “You’re real. You’re real and you're bleeding out and you’re not trying to smite me, so... that’s something.”

He hesitated another beat, then began to inch forward on hands and knees, leaving his gun behind.

The closer he got, the more the air changed—charged with something humming beneath the surface. His skin prickled. His ears buzzed. Like standing too close to a transformer right before it blew. His breath caught in his throat as he crawled toward that impossible body, eyes locked on the angel’s face.

Something old. Something beautiful. Something hurt.

Dean reached out, just short of touching. Just close enough to feel the heat radiating off his battered skin.

And in a whisper only the trees could hear, Dean said—

“…What the hell happened to you?”

Dean hovered over the being, breath tight in his chest as he reached out again, slowly this time. His fingers shook as they hovered near the man's jaw, watching for any sign of reaction. His hand was filthy—dried blood beneath his nails, knuckles split open, dirt ground into the lines of his palm—and it felt almost wrong to lay it against the angel’s skin.

But he did.

He touched him.

Gently.

The skin beneath his fingers was hot—feverish. Bruised. Alive. The moment contact was made, a pulse of something foreign rippled through Dean's fingertips, skimming down his arm like static under his skin. He froze, eyes wide, feeling the low hum of something—not violent or righteous, but wild and wounded and hungry. It curled toward him like smoke drawn to heat.

The angel flinched.

Dean pulled back instantly. “Hey, hey—sorry,” he whispered, palms up. “I’m not—I’m not gonna hurt you, alright?”

The angel didn’t speak. His breath was ragged, nostrils flaring faintly as he forced his eye open again. That same flash of cerulean pierced the dark. Still watchful. Still aching.

Dean waited, crouched in silence, heart beating wildly under his ribs.

Then, slowly, he reached out again.

This time, the angel didn’t pull away.

His face tilted slightly into the touch, like instinct, like muscle memory. Like he wanted it. Dean's thumb brushed just beneath his eye, where the skin was puffed and swollen. He inspected the damage—it was ugly, red and purpling in hues Dean recognized from too many bar fights and hunts gone wrong. But the bone underneath felt solid. Not broken. Not fractured. A small mercy.

“You’re lucky,” Dean murmured. “Or… maybe unlucky, considering.”

The angel didn’t respond. He simply blinked, slow and deliberate. His lashes were stuck with blood. His lips were parted but cracked. He looked so far from divine it made Dean ache.

Then, suddenly—like a whisper not meant for mortal ears—the voice came.

“Human.”

But it didn’t come from the angel’s mouth.

It bloomed inside Dean’s skull, low and vibrating and layered in some echo that wasn’t sound at all. It sent a chill skimming down his spine. The air went thinner for a second, like the forest itself had exhaled.

Dean’s eyes snapped up. “What?” he asked, voice sharp, throat tightening.

The angel stirred.

He grimaced as he lifted his head again, and Dean watched the tremble ripple through his shoulders, through his wing joints, through every exhausted inch of him. He tried to rise, legs pushing against the ground, knees trembling—but it was like watching a newborn fawn stand for the first time. Unsteady. Painful. Too much.

“Whoa, hey—” Dean moved quickly, slipping an arm around the angel’s waist just as he began to sway. “Take it easy, man. You’re gonna fall.”

The angel didn’t speak again, not out loud, not in Dean’s head. But his hands curled weakly into Dean’s jacket as he leaned into him. Not in aggression. Not even desperation. Just… surrender.

And then the wings moved.

Dean had seen a lot of shit in his life. Gory. Weird. Unexplainable. But nothing prepared him for the feeling of being wrapped in them.

The moment they lifted—high and trembling—and swept forward, he thought the angel was collapsing. But the motion didn’t stop there. The wings—dark and wrecked and bleeding—shuddered once, then folded in tight, around Dean. Encasing him. Drawing him close into a cocoon of feathers and body heat and something else entirely.

It wasn’t just touch.

It was pressure. Divine. Warm. Crackling beneath his skin like lightning waiting to strike. It didn't hurt—it didn’t even scare him, not exactly. But it owned the space it touched. Claimed it.

Claimed him.

Dean’s breath caught. His hands instinctively gripped the angel’s sides, one up beneath his arm, the other steady at the small of his back.

“Shit. Okay. You're… okay. I got you.” His voice dropped into something almost tender, afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing this was.

The angel slumped against him fully then, his face pressed into Dean’s shoulder, hair sticking to Dean’s neck with blood and sweat. Dean could feel his ribs hitching with shallow breaths, warm exhales fluttering against his collarbone.

His wings twitched around them, shivering like muscle memory had taken over. One of them trembled against Dean’s thigh, brushing his hand with the sticky softness of ruined feathers. The blood was soaking into Dean’s jeans now, warm and clinging. He didn’t care.

His body was still recovering from the Wendigo fight. His leg throbbed, his ribs ached, and he was in no condition to be dragging an angel through the woods—but that was the thing.

He didn’t want to leave him.

Didn’t want to step away. Didn’t even try.

“I got you,” he said again, softer now. “You’re safe. You hear me?”

Another breath. A tiny, weak nod. Or maybe just a shiver.

Dean turned his head and looked down at the top of the angel’s head, blinking hard.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you?”

The angel didn’t answer.

He just stayed there. Wrapped around Dean like a memory someone didn’t want to lose.

Dean stood there for a long minute, breathing through the weight of the wings around him, the angel’s body slack against his chest.

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

Didn’t know what to do.

The hunt had gone sideways. He was bleeding. His leg throbbed like it might give out. He didn’t even know if the Wendigo was still out there. And now—this. This feathered, holy mess in his arms. This celestial grenade waiting to go off.

Dean tilted his head down slightly, just enough to see the bruised face resting against his shoulder. The angel was so heavy in his hold, even though he barely looked it—compact frame, lean, solid—but there was a kind of weight to him that didn’t make sense. A spiritual gravity. Like Dean was carrying more than a body. Like he was shouldering something bigger.

“Okay,” he muttered, voice low. “Alright. Let’s think.”

The angel didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just breathed in those shallow, almost soundless gasps, his wings twitching faintly at the edges like they were caught in some half-formed reflex.

Dean shifted his grip and winced. “Fuck, you’re heavy.”

The angel gave no indication he heard, but something about his hand—barely visible in the mess of Dean’s jacket—clenched just a little tighter.

Dean huffed softly through his nose and looked up at the trees. “Okay. Alright. I can’t exactly leave your divine ass here, can I?”

The silence pressed back at him like an answer.

He licked his dry lips and gave a soft, bitter laugh. “God, Sam’s gonna lose his shit.”

Dean slowly crouched—awkward with the weight in his arms—and settled the angel down gently against the base of a tree. The wings slackened and spread slightly with the motion, brushing against the roots like spilled ink.

“I’ll come back for you in a second,” he murmured, already unshouldering his pack. “Just—don’t go nuclear or disappear or whatever the hell angels do when left unattended.”

The angel stirred faintly, head rolling to the side. But there was no real protest. No lightshow. No sudden vanishing act.

Dean dug through the bag with fast, purposeful hands, pulling out what little emergency medical gear he had—an extra shirt, a canteen, a field bandage—and zipped it shut again. Then he turned back, crouched, and looked down at the strange, broken creature at his feet.

“Okay,” he said again, like saying it made it more doable. “Okay. I’m gonna carry you. You’re not gonna like it. I’m not gonna like it. But we’re doing it.”

The angel didn’t argue.

Dean blew out a breath. His leg screamed as he braced it, arms sliding under the angel’s back and behind his knees.

“I swear to God, if you sprout a flaming sword halfway through this, I’m dropping your ass in a ditch,” he grunted, lifting him slowly, carefully, every muscle in his body straining to make it happen.

The angel let out a faint, pained exhale and tucked himself in, forehead resting against Dean’s collar again as his wings gave a weak flutter and then collapsed around them both once more—folded loosely, like the instinct to shield Dean hadn’t gone away even in this state.

Dean swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” he said, staggering one step forward, then another. “You really are somethin’, huh?”

***

The walk was brutal.

Each step sent pain lancing up Dean’s injured thigh. His arms burned. His breath came fast, short, and ragged. More than once he had to stop, shifting the angel’s weight and leaning against a tree to keep from dropping them both.

But he kept going.

Kept muttering to himself. Kept muttering to him.

“Never thought I’d be doing this,” he rasped. “Carrying a goddamn angel through the woods like some backwoods nursemaid. I mean, Christ. Is this normal? Is this your normal?”

The angel didn’t respond, but his grip remained steady, his breath warm against Dean’s throat. The wings dragged behind them now, trailing through moss and leaves, snagging on brambles and dead branches, but Dean tried not to let them catch. He adjusted as best he could.

“You’re lucky I’ve got a thing for strays,” Dean said, voice breaking into something half-laugh, half-growl. “I mean, seriously. You’re not even a dog. You’re a walking, bleeding celestial problem.”

A pause.

“…But I couldn’t just leave you. Not like that. Not when you looked at me like that.”

He kept walking.

The night deepened. Mist started to form low on the ground, swirling around Dean’s boots with every step. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. Another mile passed beneath his aching legs.

When the bunker was still too far and the Impala was all he had hope for, Dean finally caught sight of her between the trees—parked on the old service road, headlights long dead, her frame a dark, gleaming silhouette in the woods.

Dean nearly wept.

He stumbled toward her, body trembling, and finally reached the passenger side, awkwardly opening the door. With what strength he had left, he lowered the angel into the seat, careful of the wings, folding them in as gently as he could despite how awkward the motion was.

He could feel the angel’s eyes flutter open, just a crack.

Dean brushed the hair back from his face and looked at him closely. “You still with me?”

A faint nod.

A breath. And then—

“…Dean.”

Dean stilled.

His heart cracked in his chest like a fault line.

“…You know my name.”

The angel blinked at him, dazed.

It wasn’t just a name. It sounded like something remembered. Something important.

Dean stared at him, caught somewhere between fear and awe. “Yeah,” he whispered. “That’s me.”

He swallowed hard and reached for the seatbelt, pulling it across the angel’s lap with hands that trembled more than they should.

“You just hang in there,” he murmured. “We’re gonna get you somewhere safe. I’ve got you.”

The angel’s eyes drifted shut again, and Dean paused, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest, the faint glow of something otherworldly beneath his skin.

Dean shut the door, leaning against it for a moment, chest heaving, heart pounding.

He didn't know what this was.

But something told him it was only the beginning.

***

The drive back to the bunker was silent, but not peaceful.

The kind of silence that carried weight. Pressure. Like the calm before something irreversible.

Dean kept one hand tight on the steering wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers twitching every time his gaze flicked sideways. The angel sat slumped in the passenger seat, chest rising shallowly, wings curled awkwardly around the frame of the seat, pinioned in an unnatural angle between dashboard and door. Feathers spilled over the armrest, one bent beneath the gearshift, another fluttering weakly every time Dean hit a bump.

He looked like he didn’t belong here. And maybe he didn’t.

Dean cleared his throat.

“You good?” he asked softly, eyes on the road.

No response.

Dean bit his lip and tried again, glancing over. “Hey. Feathers. You still breathing?”

The angel shifted slightly, a faint sound leaving his throat—just enough to prove he was alive. Barely.

Dean sighed, turning his eyes back to the road. The tires hummed over cracked asphalt, trees passing like shadows outside the windows.

“This is the part where you tell me your name,” Dean muttered. “Or, you know, give me a little celestial guidance. Maybe explain what the hell you were doing bleeding to death in the woods.”

Nothing.

Just breathing.

Wings fluttering in the cold air.

Dean swallowed and leaned forward a little, glancing at the angel’s profile—the curve of his jaw smeared with blood, his lashes sticky, lips slightly parted. He looked... human. If you ignored the impossible. If you squinted. If you didn’t look too long at the way the grace under his skin pulsed faintly like light caught beneath water.

“You knew my name,” Dean said quietly. “Back there. You said it like you meant something by it.”

Still nothing. But the angel’s brow furrowed just a little.

Dean blew out a breath. “Right. I’ll just take that as a yes.”

He tapped the steering wheel. They were twenty minutes out. Dean’s leg ached, sharp and hot, and he was starting to feel lightheaded—blood loss, probably. The bandage he’d wrapped around his thigh was soaked through.

“Sam’s gonna lose it when he sees you,” Dean said after a long pause, trying to fill the silence. “He reads all that angel crap. Thinks you’re all flaming swords and higher callings. He’s gonna shit himself when he sees a real one.”

He risked another glance. The angel’s head was tipped slightly toward him now, his eyes still closed. Not sleeping. Not fully.

Dean’s voice softened. “I’m not leaving you, alright? You got that? You’re not dying in my goddamn car.”

He gripped the wheel harder and focused on the road ahead.

Fifteen more minutes.

Ten.

Five.

Then finally—home.

Dean pulled into the hidden road, headlights washing over the massive iron-and-concrete entrance to the Men of Letters bunker. The Impala rumbled low as he parked and threw it into gear. The moment the engine shut off, the silence felt louder.

He sat there for half a beat. Just breathing. Just looking at the angel, whose head had now slumped against the window, lips barely moving with each shallow breath.

“Okay,” Dean muttered, voice cracking as he opened the door and stepped out.

His leg buckled slightly, but he forced himself to move. He rounded the car, pulled the door open, and hesitated only a second before reaching in and scooping the angel into his arms again. This time it was harder—his arms shook with the effort, sweat beading along his brow. But he managed.

The angel didn’t resist.

Didn’t even flinch.

Just stayed curled against Dean, breath ghosting over his collarbone.

Dean kicked the bunker door open with his heel and stumbled inside.

And then he screamed.

“SAM!”

His voice echoed through the stone hallway, sharp and ragged, bouncing off the walls like a warning bell.

“SAM! I need help!”

His bootsteps were loud, panicked, as he staggered into the main room, cradling the limp body tighter, the wings brushing along the hallway walls, feathers dragging like a funeral train.

“SAM!”

There was a loud clatter from the kitchen—something falling, a chair maybe—and then footsteps. Fast.

Sam came barreling into view, bare feet slapping the tile, half a sandwich in one hand, eyes wide.

“Dean—what the—” He froze mid-step, words dying in his throat as he took in the sight before him.

Dean. Bleeding. Pale. Holding an unconscious, blood-slicked man with wings. Sam’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

Dean didn’t wait.

“Help me,” he snapped, voice cracking. “Jesus, Sam—he’s dying—he’s—he’s some kind of angel—I don’t know—I found him out in the woods, he was bleeding and he said my name and I couldn’t just—fuck, Sam—”

“Okay. Okay.” Sam was already moving, rushing toward them, eyes scanning the body in Dean’s arms. “Put him down. On the map table. Gently.”

Dean did, lowering the angel onto the smooth wood, adjusting the wings, his own hands trembling as he stepped back.

Sam blinked fast, his voice low with shock. “Jesus Christ, are those… are they real?”

Dean looked up at him, breathless. “What the hell do you think, Sam?”

The angel groaned softly, head turning, one arm twitching. The table smeared with his blood.

Sam swallowed, taking a cautious step closer.

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know.” Dean’s voice was raw. “I found him in the woods. He just… he looked at me like he knew me. Said my name. Wrapped his wings around me.”

Sam’s brows furrowed. “That’s… significant.”

“Yeah,” Dean rasped. “No shit.”

There was a beat of silence. Dean sagged backward, leaning heavily against the wall, chest rising and falling. He watched the angel’s face like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“I think he was trying to protect me or something.” he said quietly.

Sam turned toward him, expression softer now, confused but focused. “Well… let’s protect him, too. Come on. We’ve got him now.”

Dean nodded. Once. Then again. His eyes didn’t leave the angel.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “We’ve got him.”

Sam worked like a man possessed.

His hands were steady, movements precise as he gathered what supplies he could from their emergency stash—clean towels, the first aid kit, a basin of warm water, a sponge, and a bar of unscented soap. He moved fast, methodical, but Dean could see the nerves under the surface. The way Sam’s eyes kept flicking toward the wings. The way his breathing stuttered every time the angel groaned.

Dean sat in a chair a few feet away from the war room table, elbows on his knees, blood-soaked hands hanging loose between them. He couldn’t stop staring. Not at the blood, not at the sigils burned into the angel’s skin. Not even at the wings, majestic and terrifying even in their ruined state.

No—Dean’s eyes were locked on the man. The body laid out before them, like a carved statue half-crushed under the weight of the world. His shirt—or what remained of it—had been cut away, revealing broad shoulders and a lean, muscular chest streaked with blood and bruises. The marks looked angry under the warm lighting, some fresh, others old, layered like a story only pain could tell.

But beneath all that damage… Dean couldn’t stop seeing the beauty.

The strength in the lines of his torso. The way his ribs moved, slow and rhythmic. The way his collarbones caught the light. The curve of his throat, mottled with fingerprints. The dark stubble along his jaw. His skin looked too human for someone not made of this world.

Dean shifted in his chair, jaw clenched. His leg bounced restlessly, but he didn’t take his eyes off him.

“Okay,” Sam muttered, dipping the sponge into the basin and squeezing it out. “Let’s clean him up first. I can’t treat anything under all this blood.”

He started at the neck, carefully dabbing away at the skin with long, patient strokes. The water in the basin turned pink almost immediately.

The angel shifted slightly, a soft groan escaping his lips—not in protest, but pain. One of the wings twitched behind him, feathers rustling faintly.

Dean bolted upright in his chair. “Is that normal? Is that—”

“It’s okay,” Sam said quickly. “He’s not resisting. He’s just… responsive. Which is good.”

Dean swallowed and lowered himself back down, watching like a hawk as Sam worked.

When Sam moved the sponge across his chest, clearing blood away from a jagged gash over his ribs, Dean could see the deep, ugly welt underneath. Sam gently pressed around the edges, inspecting the depth.

“No broken ribs,” Sam muttered, more to himself. “He’s healing, I think, but faster than we would.”

Dean nodded absently, eyes trailing the water sliding over the angel’s sternum, dripping into the groove of his stomach. It clung to him like sweat, like something earned. Like survival.

Sam worked in silence for a while, cleaning the worst of the blood from the angel’s chest, arms, and sides. Every time the sponge moved over raw skin, the angel’s face would twitch in pain—but he never fought it. Never flinched away. If anything, he leaned into the touches, like he trusted them. Trusted them.

And when Sam finally turned his attention to the wings, everything changed.

He paused for a second, like touching them required permission. Dean held his breath.

Then Sam reached out.

The tips of his fingers brushed one of the darker feathers, slick with dried blood. They were heavy. Thicker than Sam had imagined. More animal than holy. They twitched at the contact, but didn’t recoil. Sam moved his hand further along the edge, into the curve of the joint, where the blood was thickest and feathers had matted together.

The angel groaned again.

But the sound wasn’t frightened.

It sounded… tired. Relieved.

Like someone used to pain, now finally being touched gently.

“These are incredible,” Sam murmured, awe threading through his voice. “I mean—Dean. They're real.”

“No shit they’re real,” Dean muttered. “He wrapped ‘em around me like I was glass.”

Sam nodded slowly, running the sponge gently down one bent arch. “They’re torn to hell… but there’s structure here. Bone, cartilage. Ligaments. It’s like—avian, but… not.”

Dean said nothing.

His eyes stayed fixed on the angel’s back as Sam worked, watching as blood sluiced down his spine, over the sharp curve of his shoulder blades, through the tangled mess of feathers. The longer he looked, the less human the angel seemed. And yet, somehow, impossibly, the more intimate it felt to watch him like this.

Dean shifted again, sweat building at the base of his neck.

It shouldn’t have felt this personal.

Shouldn’t have felt like watching something sacred.

And yet—

The way the water slid down his skin. The way his lips parted with every low, breathy sound. The way the wings moved like they had their own will, twitching in slow, instinctual reactions to touch—Dean felt like he was watching something he wasn’t supposed to see. Something private.

Something holy.

And still, he couldn’t look away.

Sam paused, brow furrowed. “Some of these cuts… they’re not random. Look at these marks here.” He pointed to a series of deep gashes beneath one wing, jagged but evenly spaced. “This looks like it was done with intent. Blades. Maybe even ritualistic.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Someone did this to him.”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded grimly. “And they knew what they were doing.”

Dean stood, suddenly needing to move. His heart was pounding now, anger threading beneath the awe. He paced a few feet, then came to stand on the other side of the table, closer to the angel’s face.

He crouched slowly, searching the battered features for something—anything.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “You got a name? Anything? You wanna clue us in on what the hell happened to you?”

The angel’s lashes twitched. His lips parted. But no sound came.

Dean leaned in closer. “We’re not gonna hurt you. You know that, right?”

A breath. A shudder.

Then, hoarsely—barely audible.

“…Cas…tiel.”

Dean froze.

Sam looked up. “What did he say?”

“Castiel,” Dean repeated, staring down at the angel like the name itself was a revelation. “That’s his name.”

And for some reason… it felt like it meant something. More than just a name. Like a promise.

***

The shower was too hot.

Dean stood beneath the stream anyway, letting it beat against his neck and shoulders until his skin flushed red and the sting distracted him from the ache in his leg. The blood ran pink at first, then darker, then finally clear, swirling down the drain in delicate spirals that vanished into the pipes.

He braced both hands against the tiled wall and let his head drop forward, water slipping through his hair, over his bruised ribs, down the lines of his back.

He could still feel the weight of the angel in his arms.

Could still feel those wings—heavy and ruined—wrapping around him like instinct, like protection, like ownership. Even now, clean and bare, with no feathers clinging to his clothes, Dean felt… marked.

What the hell was that?

He hadn’t let go of it since it happened. Couldn’t stop seeing it.

The way Castiel had looked slumped in the forest—otherworldly even as he bled. The way he whispered Dean’s name like it meant something sacred. The wings… God, the wings. Huge and dark, soft at the ends but broken at the joints. Dean had seen animal traps, he’d seen dislocated shoulders, broken limbs—but there had been something different about those wounds. Something surgical. Deliberate.

Like someone tried to take his wings from him.

Dean’s hands clenched into fists.

He couldn’t explain the protectiveness that surged through his chest when he thought about it. Couldn’t make sense of the way the angel had looked at him, held him. Like he knew something Dean didn’t.

He turned his face into the water and let the steam soak into him, jaw tight.

By the time he finished scrubbing the last of the dirt and dried blood from beneath his fingernails, the mirror was fogged, and the ache in his leg was screaming. He shut off the water, toweled off, pulled on a fresh pair of boxers and gray sweatpants, and shrugged into a worn Henley that clung to his damp skin.

He still felt raw. Like the shower had stripped more than just blood and grime.

By the time he made it to his room, towel slung over his shoulders, he expected to find Castiel asleep. Or barely conscious. Sam had given him a sedative—just enough to ease the pain, not enough to knock him out for good.

What he didn’t expect… was for Castiel to be standing.

Right in the middle of the room.

Dean stopped in the doorway.

The lights were off. Just the dim orange glow from the hallway spilling in over Castiel’s shoulder, catching the angles of his bare chest and casting his face half in shadow. The sweatpants Sam had found for him hung low on his hips. His back was turned—broad and tall, posture unnaturally still as he stared at the weapons mounted neatly on Dean’s wall.

The wings were gone.

Dean’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“Castiel?” he said carefully, stepping in.

No response. Just a slight tilt of the head, like he was studying the silver glint of a pistol or the dark matte of a blade.

“Hey,” Dean said again, softer. “You alright? Your wings…”

Castiel turned around.

Dean froze.

They locked eyes in the dark.

Those same devastatingly blue eyes fixed on Dean like he was a target, like something ancient and unreadable was sharpening behind them.

Dean took an unconscious step back.

“Okay,” he muttered, lifting his hands slightly. “Hey. Let’s just take it easy, alright?”

Castiel stepped forward.

Slow. Measured. Predatory in a way that had nothing to do with threat—but everything to do with intensity. Dean’s back hit the wall before he realized he’d moved. His breath caught in his throat, heartbeat skittering into something sharp.

“Castiel—hey, stop, I—” Dean’s hand darted to his dresser, reaching for a blade tucked behind a stack of books, but Castiel moved fast, catching his wrist before he could grab it.

The grip was strong. Unyielding. Not painful—but inescapable.

Dean inhaled sharply. “Hey! Hey, stop—I saved you, remember? Let—let go!”

His voice cracked in the middle, the panic and confusion finally catching up to him. He tried to twist free, muscles straining, but Castiel stepped closer, pressing him gently—firmly—into the corner.

His chest brushed Dean’s, and the heat of him was unbearable. His wings may have vanished, but the power hadn’t. It lingered under his skin like electricity. It shimmered behind his eyes like dying starlight.

Castiel looked down. Not at Dean’s hand. Not at the blade he couldn’t reach.

At his throat.

At the vein pulsing hard under the skin, visible beneath the damp fabric of his shirt.

Dean held his breath.

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel said.

It wasn’t a question.

It was a statement. A vow.

“Y–yeah,” Dean rasped. “That’s me. Can you—can you let go now?”

His wrist twisted again in Castiel’s grip. Useless.

Castiel didn’t release him. Instead, with his free hand, he reached up—slowly—and laid his fingers gently against Dean’s throat.

Dean flinched.

But the touch wasn’t violent.

It was reverent.

Like a prayer.

“You found me,” Castiel said, voice low and raw.

Dean’s chest rose and fell quickly beneath the angel’s touch. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I guess I did.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Castiel closed his eyes.

And Dean, trapped between wall and angel, had never felt more unsure of what the hell was happening—only that something inside him had shifted.

Castiel’s eyes opened.

Dean almost flinched.

They were wrong—no, unbearable. They were the color of heaven seen through a dying storm. Not blue like water or sky, but something older, something brighter. And when they fixed on Dean—unmoving, unwavering—it felt like being seen for the first time. Not looked at. Seen.

Dean tried not to breathe too loudly. Not to move. His body was pinned against the wall, his heart beating in his throat, his skin burning beneath that steady hand at his neck.

He didn’t know what the fuck was happening.

Didn’t know why Castiel was standing so close, staring at him like this. Didn’t know why part of him didn’t want it to stop.

The angel’s fingers shifted—slow, soft—and traced the line of Dean’s jaw with his thumb before gliding downward.

Dean stiffened, his breath hitching. “Castiel,” he muttered, the name leaving his lips like muscle memory.

Castiel’s eyes flicked to his mouth, then lower.

The hand on Dean’s throat began to move.

Downward.

Slow.

Over the hollow of his neck, his collarbone, the ridge of his sternum. His fingers traced through the thin, damp fabric of Dean’s Henley like he was learning him by touch—charting muscle and scar, curve and breath. His hand was warm. Not just body heat—holy heat. Something living. Something vibrating beneath the skin.

Dean swallowed hard, jaw tightening as the fingers slid lower, pressing into the center of his chest. He didn’t stop it. Couldn’t. His body was frozen and burning all at once.

The touch skimmed lower, down over his stomach. Dean’s muscles jumped beneath it, breath catching in his throat.

“Castiel,” he said again, hoarsely.

Then—

Pain.

Sharp and sudden, flaring in his thigh as Castiel’s hand reached the source of it. Dean gasped, back thudding harder against the wall, his leg nearly buckling.

Castiel’s hand spread over the torn muscle beneath the sweatpants. The fabric parted with a faint warmth, like it yielded to him without resistance. Dean’s hands slammed against the wall to stay upright, his teeth grit against the noise crawling up his throat.

But then—light.

A soft, golden glow bloomed from Castiel’s palm, soaking into Dean’s skin through the thin material like sunlight through fog. The pain didn’t just fade—it evaporated. Replaced by warmth, by pressure, by something that wasn’t quite physical but grounded him in his body more than anything else ever had.

Dean’s head fell back against the wall.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

The heat in his leg receded, but the ghost of Castiel’s touch lingered long after. Dean’s skin felt branded beneath it—like grace had etched itself into the muscle and didn’t plan on leaving.

And just like that, Castiel stepped away.

The absence of him was immediate.

The space between them was suddenly too wide. The air too cold.

Dean’s body ached with the loss of it—not the pain, but the proximity. The quiet intensity. The steady hand. The eyes that had looked at him like he was something precious and breakable and his.

He blinked, chest rising and falling quickly. “You healed me.”

Castiel didn’t speak. He just stood a few feet away now, watching Dean like he was still reading him—like the data hadn’t finished syncing.

Dean reached down slowly and pressed a hand to his thigh. No pain. No swelling. No blood.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. Then, more cautiously, “Thanks.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, eyes tracking the movement of Dean’s hand like he’d done something extraordinary—but necessary.

Dean let out a quiet breath and leaned back against the wall, dragging a hand through his hair. His legs felt shaky. His chest felt hollow. He looked at Castiel again, at the steady rise and fall of his bare chest, at the bruises still visible on his ribs, at the line of his throat and the lashes that framed his too-bright eyes.

“You always this hands-on when someone saves your ass?” Dean tried, voice rough with too much emotion and not enough balance.

Castiel didn’t blink.

“You called me,” he said simply.

Dean’s mouth opened, then closed. “What?”

“In the woods. You called to me,” Castiel said. “Your soul reached me.”

“I didn’t—” Dean shook his head, confused. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Not aloud,” Castiel replied. “But I heard you.”

Dean stared at him, speechless.

Castiel took one step forward, then another, slowly reclaiming the space he’d given up. Not touching. Just standing close enough for Dean to feel his presence again. That warm buzz beneath his skin returned like a warning—or a promise.

“You found me,” Castiel said again, quieter this time. “I was dying. But you… saved me.”

Dean didn’t know what to say.

So he said nothing.

Just stared at the angel standing in his bedroom, close enough to touch, eyes bright enough to drown in.

And for the first time in a long time, Dean had no idea who the hell he was anymore—or what the hell he’d just let into his life.

Chapter 2: His Eyes Are Already On Him

Dean woke to the quiet.

No sounds of the bunker’s humming ventilation. No clatter of dishes or the low rumble of Sam’s morning routine. Just stillness.

His eyes blinked open slowly, reached over to turn the lamp on, his breath caught in his chest—and the first thing he saw was a pair of blue eyes staring directly into his own.

Dean jerked upright with a strangled gasp, heart thudding against his ribs like it had been shot from a cannon.

“Jesus Christ!”

Castiel didn’t move.

He sat at the edge of the bed, turned toward Dean, hands folded neatly in his lap. His expression was unreadable—but there was something in his eyes that made Dean feel like he was being examined. Not maliciously. Not even invasively. Just… thoroughly.

Dean’s breath came fast, dragging air into his lungs as he shoved a hand through his hair. His body felt hot all over, skin prickling with adrenaline.

“Jesus, Castiel,” he repeated, voice rough from sleep.

The angel blinked once. “No,” he said, calmly. “I’m just… Castiel.”

Dean froze.

Then let out a long, tired exhale, rubbing a hand over his face. “Okay. Right. Of course. Literal. Great.”

His pulse was still recovering, thudding hard in his throat. He could feel his own heartbeat in his fingertips.

Castiel tilted his head slightly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Dean let out a sharp, humorless breath and dropped his hand. “You didn’t—okay, no, you did. People don’t usually wake up to find someone watching them sleep.”

“I wasn’t watching you,” Castiel said plainly.

Dean gave him a skeptical look.

The angel reconsidered. “...I was observing your breath patterns and cardiac rhythm.”

“Okay,” Dean muttered, falling back against the pillows. “So yes. You were watching me sleep.”

Castiel looked mildly apologetic—but mostly curious. His eyes flicked over Dean’s face, pausing at the faint crease between his brows. “Your body was restless in sleep. You made sounds.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Dreams. That’s called dreaming.”

“You said my name.”

Dean’s mouth snapped shut. Silence settled between them again.

Castiel didn’t look smug. Didn’t look anything, really—just present. His gaze didn’t waver. Like he hadn’t just dropped a loaded sentence into Dean’s lap and waited to see where it landed.

Dean shifted, dragging the blanket up his chest before he sat up more slowly this time. His leg didn’t hurt—still healed. Still warm with the memory of Castiel’s hand and the strange intimacy of something holy pulsing beneath his skin.

He looked around the room. The clock on the nightstand read 9:06 AM. Dim light filtered in from the hallway, and the faint smell of coffee drifted in from somewhere distant. Probably Sam.

Dean looked back at the angel, still perched stiffly on the mattress.

“You, uh… sleep?”

Castiel shook his head. “I don’t require it.”

“Right.” Dean ran a hand down his face. “So you just… sit here. Quietly. Watching.”

Castiel shrugged faintly. “You seemed vulnerable. I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

Dean blinked at him, lips parting for a retort that never came. There was no judgment in Castiel’s voice. No pity. He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world. Like he hadn’t nearly scared the soul out of Dean the moment he opened his eyes.

Dean cleared his throat and looked down at his lap. The blanket was bunched around his waist, and his chest was still bare from the night before when he removed his shirt before bed. His skin was warm under the weight of Castiel’s gaze. His body remembered being touched. Remembered those eyes glowing in the dark, that hand on his throat, his stomach, his thigh.

He looked up again.

Castiel was still watching.

Always watching.

Dean swallowed hard. “You don’t blink much, do you?”

The angel blinked, slowly, almost in response. “Is it unsettling?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “A little.”

Castiel turned his head slightly, as if adjusting the angle might help. “I’ll try to blink more.”

Dean huffed a laugh under his breath and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “You’re weird.”

“I’m celestial.”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, standing slowly and grabbing a clean shirt from a chair. “Same thing.”

He pulled the fabric over his head, not missing the way Castiel’s eyes tracked the movement. Not with hunger. Not with lust. But intent. Like every new thing Dean did was being carefully categorized and remembered.

Dean looked at him. Really looked.

There was something steadier in Castiel’s posture today. Less shaken. His shoulders were still bruised, his lip still split—but the fire behind his eyes had come back. Less flicker, more flame. He looked like someone who had just remembered who he was, and wasn’t entirely sure why it mattered.

“You feeling better?” Dean asked, voice quieter now.

Castiel nodded. “Yes. The healing has stabilized.”

Dean let his hands rest on his hips, gaze lingering. “What happened to your wings? Last night they were just… gone. Still gone…”

Castiel glanced down at the floor. “I retracted them. The physical manifestation is… taxing. Especially in this state.”

Dean frowned. “So they’re still there?”

Castiel looked up at him again. “Always.”

Dean stared for a moment longer, then turned toward the doorway. “Come on,” he said, his voice softer now. “Let’s get you some real food. You look like you’ve been chewed up and spit out by a woodchipper.”

Castiel stood without hesitation.

Dean felt him fall into step just a little too close behind him as they walked out of the room. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t even silence. It was charged. Like something in the air had shifted the moment Dean said his name.

And whatever was unfolding now…

Wasn’t going to be simple.

***

The kitchen smelled like bacon and fresh coffee—warm, grounding, and achingly normal.

Dean stood at the stove, still barefoot, spatula in one hand, the edge of his henley lifting slightly every time he shifted. He was trying to keep it casual. Trying not to glance over his shoulder every five seconds. But he felt Castiel’s eyes on him like heat.

The angel stood just inside the doorway, still and oddly regal in his borrowed clothes—soft gray sweats and a dark Henley that clung a little too well to his broad frame. His hair was still messy from the mock shower, the bruises on his jaw casting pale shadows under the kitchen lights. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

Sam was already at the table, nursing a mug of black coffee, eyes flicking from Castiel to Dean and back like he was cataloging everything. He had that look on his face—the one he always got when something impossible had just become tangible.

Dean finally plated the eggs and bacon, tossing a slice of toast on for good measure. Without a word, he placed it across from Sam. Castiel stepped forward slowly to the table.

The angel looked down at it. Then looked at Dean. Then slowly pulled out a chair and sat.

He didn’t touch the food at first. Just stared at it like it might rearrange itself or reveal a secret if he waited long enough.

Dean watched from across the table, mouth full of bacon, sipping coffee between bites. “You do eat, right?”

Castiel’s eyes flicked up. “I don’t require sustenance.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Didn’t ask if you needed it. Asked if you could.”

Castiel blinked, then looked back down at the plate. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I can.”

Dean gave him a nod and took another bite. Castiel reached out and picked up a piece of bacon.

His fingers were careful. Almost reverent. He held it up, examined it for a moment, then took a bite. The crunch echoed in the quiet kitchen.

He chewed slowly.

Dean watched from the corner of his eye.

Across the table, Sam tried to keep his expression neutral, but curiosity practically radiated off of him. His eyes kept flicking to Castiel’s back. To the space where wings had once filled the bunker entrance like a divine storm.

Sam set his mug down and leaned forward slightly. “So… your wings. They’re… not visible anymore?”

Castiel nodded once. “I’ve hidden them.”

“But they’re still there, right?” Sam’s voice was low, cautious. “They’re just—what? Invisible?”

“They exist on another spectrum of reality,” Castiel said, lifting his fork, mimicking Dean’s motion as he stabbed into the eggs. “Not visible to the human eye… but perceptible.”

Sam glanced at Dean for a half-second, a wordless check-in, then stood and moved behind Castiel.

“Sam,” Dean warned, voice low.

“It’s fine,” Castiel said without looking up. “You may touch them.” Because he trusted them.

Sam hesitated. Then slowly reached out toward Castiel’s shoulder blades. His fingers passed through the air—and then stopped. He froze.

Dean watched Sam’s entire body jolt, eyes going wide.

“Oh my god,” Sam breathed. “They’re there. I can feel them.”

Dean swallowed a bite of eggs and stared. “What do they feel like?”

Sam didn’t answer at first. His hand hovered there, resting on something no one else could see.

“Like… velvet and steel,” he murmured. “Soft, but heavy. Warm. Like they’re alive. Different from… last night.”

Castiel turned his head slightly. “They are alive.”

Sam drew his hand back slowly and returned to his seat, visibly rattled. “That’s insane.”

Dean smirked faintly and nudged his plate closer. “Here, have some toast. Ground yourself.”

Castiel watched him. Watched Dean eat a piece of bacon, then mirrored him again—same bite size, same hand. Dean didn’t say anything at first, but his brow twitched.

He speared a piece of egg.

Castiel did the same.

Dean glanced up, chewing slowly. “You copying me?”

Castiel blinked. “You are experienced in this.”

Dean chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re something else.”

“I am.” The reply was instant. Sincere.

Dean let it go. He didn’t have the energy to get into a theological discussion over breakfast. Instead, he pushed his plate back slightly, wiped his mouth, and leaned back in the chair.

“So,” he said slowly, “you wanna tell us what you were doing half-dead in the woods?”

The kitchen stilled again. Castiel’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. His expression didn’t change, but something in the air did. The temperature, maybe. Or the weight of it. Castiel set the fork down gently and looked at Dean. Directly. Unflinching.

“I escaped,” he said.

Dean frowned. “From what?”

Castiel’s voice was quieter now. Low and steady. “From captivity. I was taken. Held hostage.”

Dean sat up straighter. Sam leaned forward.

“By who?” Sam asked carefully.

Castiel’s eyes dropped to the table. “Humans. Not all of them understood what I was. But some did. They… experimented. They tortured me, ran extensive tests, tried to remove my wings.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Jesus.”

“There were others before me,” Castiel continued. “They did not survive.”

A long silence stretched across the table. Dean’s stomach churned. He could still see the torn feathers. The blood at the joints. The sigils burned into flesh. The way Castiel had trembled when he first touched him.

He swallowed hard. “How long were you there?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel replied. “Time... felt distorted. I was kept in a space of iron and symbols. Cut off from the Host. From grace.”

Dean didn’t look at Sam.

Didn’t have to. The shared horror was already written in the set of his jaw. Castiel looked up at Dean again. The intensity in his eyes hadn’t dimmed. If anything, it had sharpened—laser-focused.

“But you found me,” he said again, like it mattered more than anything else.

Dean nodded slowly. “Yeah. I did.”

Castiel’s eyes held his. “I will not forget that.”

And Dean… believed him. God help him, he believed him.

Castiel finished the last of the eggs slowly, chewing with mechanical care, his gaze never leaving the plate though Dean could tell—feel—that his awareness stretched far beyond it. The silence grew dense again, like fog pressing in from all sides.

Dean cleared his throat. The sound cracked in the stillness, and both Sam and Castiel looked at him.

“You said I… called to you,” Dean said, voice low, uncertain. “Back in the woods.”

Sam turned in his seat, brows drawn together. “Wait, what does that mean? Called how?”

Castiel’s gaze shifted from Dean to Sam. There was no hesitation in him—just gravity.

“You were injured,” he said. “You’d lost blood. Your ribs were cracked. Your leg was torn open.”

Dean’s jaw flexed. He remembered the pain. The cold. The forest so silent it had felt wrong.

“You were alone, walking,” Castiel continued, softer now. “You didn’t cry out with your voice, but your soul did. Loudly. Desperately. I heard it.”

Sam’s lips parted, a subtle frown curling between his brows. Dean looked away for a second, rubbing the edge of his thumb along the rim of his coffee mug, jaw tight.

“I had just broken free,” Castiel said, his voice more distant now—like he was seeing it all over again. “The sigils they carved into my skin had weakened. They’d made a mistake. One of them left a door unlocked. I fought my way out, but I was injured. I couldn’t fly. I couldn’t even stand without agony. My grace was unstable… flickering, like a candle left too close to the wind.”

He drew in a slow breath, and Dean saw the slight tremble in his hand as he set his fork down.

“I followed your call,” Castiel said. “Crawled toward it. Through dirt, thorns, bone. I felt your pain like it was braided into my own. But I didn’t make it to you.”

His eyes dropped to his hands. “Not in time.”

Dean’s chest ached like something had settled there—a weight, or a guilt he hadn’t invited in.

Sam swallowed hard. “So, why were your wings out and they’re not now?”

Castiel continued.

“When angels approach death, our form begins to revert. Wings manifest. Grace flickers. We unravel into the truth of what we are. If Dean hadn’t found me when he did…” He trailed off.

There was no need to finish.

The air in the kitchen had thickened, grief blooming in quiet corners like ivy in shade.

“They would’ve found me again,” Castiel said, almost to himself. “Taken me apart piece by piece until nothing remained.”

Dean’s breath hitched.

“What did they do to you?” he asked quietly.

Castiel’s lips pressed together. “They kept me chained. Wings spread, pinned to a wall of iron and stone. Sigils burned into my flesh daily to suppress my power. They fed me lies. Prayers twisted into commands. Some wanted power. Others… just wanted to see what happened when something holy bled.”

Sam flinched visibly.

Dean’s stomach turned. His hands curled into fists under the table, nails biting his palms.

“They called me an abomination. One of them tried to pluck the feathers from my wings like souvenirs. Another wanted to clip the bones—to make a necklace.”

Castiel’s voice didn’t shake. That made it worse. He spoke like it was history. Like it had happened to someone else. But his eyes—those impossible, storm-touched eyes—were bright and quiet and burning.

Dean couldn’t sit anymore.

He stood abruptly, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape and pacing to the sink. He gripped the edge of the counter, staring down at nothing, water dripping softly from the tap. His throat burned.

“They were… human?” Sam asked quietly behind him, like he still couldn’t believe it.

“Yes.”

Castiel didn’t elaborate.

But that single word—flat and heavy—was enough.

Dean turned around, slowly, leaning back on the counter. “Why you? Why would they take you?”

Castiel’s gaze flicked to him again. “Because I was alone. Separated from my garrison.”

Dean looked at him, at the faint bruising still visible beneath his collar, the curve of his throat, the hollow at the base of his throat where a burn scar shaped like a sigil still lingered.

Something in him twisted. Dark. Protective.

“You said you felt my pain,” Dean said, quieter now. “That it led you out.”

Castiel nodded. “Yes. Like a tether thrown into the dark.”

Dean’s breath hitched again.

“You followed it?”

“I chose to,” Castiel said. “Even though I could barely walk. Even though it may have killed me.”

Dean exhaled, long and shaky, and looked away.

He didn’t know what to do with that. With the idea that something—someone—had come for him, even while bleeding, even while dying. Not because they’d been sent. Not because it was duty. But because they’d felt his pain. And cared.

The silence returned, but it wasn’t empty.

It pulsed.

Like something had shifted again.

Like they’d all stepped onto something deeper, older, and far less solid than they’d realized.

And Castiel—still as a shadow—sat with that awareness like it belonged to him.

***

Sam heard the soft, uneven echo of his brother’s foot steps down the hallway—the rhythm just a little too fast, like he needed to be anywhere else, just for a moment.

He didn’t follow. Instead, he turned back to the table, where Castiel still sat in the chair like a statue—hands resting calmly on the edge of the plate, eyes fixed on the small swirl of coffee left in his mug, as if divining meaning from the residue.

The silence that filled the kitchen now was different.

Less heavy.

More precise.

Sam watched him for a moment, studying the bruises across Castiel’s neck, the way he didn’t fidget, didn’t blink much, just existed in stillness like the air itself had to remember how to move around him.

Then, slowly, Sam pushed his chair back and stood. He walked to one of the side drawers near the far end of the kitchen, fingers skimming over the wood until he found the familiar brass handle. He pulled it open, rifled past rubber bands and old takeout menus, and pulled out a narrow, leather-bound journal. Blank. A field book. He grabbed a pen and returned to the table, flipping it open to the first page and clicking the pen with one practiced motion.

He looked at Castiel.

“I hope you don’t mind if I ask you some questions.”

Castiel turned to him, head tilted. “You already intended to. The action simply caught up with the desire.”

Sam offered a soft, amused huff and sat back down. “Right.”

He scribbled a header onto the page: Subject: Castiel – Angelic Grace, Hostage Recovery, Behavioral Notes.

Then, without looking up: “Do you remember… everything? From before they took you?”

Castiel was quiet for a moment.

Then: “Some of it.”

Sam glanced up.

“My memory fractured under the sigils. They used symbols not found in human lore—etched in enochian, mixed with blasphemous code. Meant to break connection between body, will, and grace. Like… blindfolding the soul.”

Sam wrote fast, his handwriting tight and slanted. “But you said you felt Dean calling you. That sounds like a form of resonance.”

Castiel nodded slightly. “Yes. Like a lighthouse through a storm. It wasn’t words—it was pain. Familiar pain.”

Sam paused. “Familiar?”

Castiel’s eyes turned slightly. “Dean has carried more weight than most humans I’ve encountered. He feels guilt in layers—bone-deep. When he called out, it resonated because I’ve… felt it before.”

Sam sat still, absorbing that.

He turned another page, then leaned his forearms on the table. “And grace. Yours—it’s still active? I mean, you healed Dean.”

Castiel lowered his gaze. “It is… wounded. Torn. They siphoned pieces of it while I was restrained. Tried to trap it. But grace is not a fluid. It is not something you can hold in a vessel.”

Sam frowned. “They tried to harvest it?”

“Yes.”

Sam’s pen stilled for a moment, hand tightening around the grip.

“What does that feel like?” he asked, voice softer.

Castiel blinked once. “Like being unraveled from the inside out. Like every thought, every intention, every cell is pulled into thread and fed through a needle that doesn’t know how to sew.”

Sam exhaled shakily and nodded, jotting that down almost verbatim.

Castiel’s eyes tracked the motion of the pen. “You’re documenting me.”

Sam hesitated. “I’m… trying to understand.”

“I am not offended. You’re a seeker of knowledge. Your curiosity is earnest. But it’s… intimate. The way you observe. Not unlike dissection.”

Sam winced. “That’s not the intent.”

“I know,” Castiel said gently.

They sat for another beat of quiet.

Then Sam said, “Is that how you see us? Humans? Curious things that cut too deep?”

Castiel considered the question.

“No,” he said. “Humans are extraordinary. You feel more in a lifetime than most angels do in their entire existence. That makes you fragile… and dangerous. But beautiful.”

Sam looked at him, truly looked at him, and felt something shift low in his chest.

“You’re not like any angel I expected,” Sam murmured.

“I’ve heard that before.”

Sam glanced at the journal, then at Castiel again. “You said they kept you pinned. With iron?”

Castiel nodded. “My wings were chained to the wall. Not physically—but metaphysically. Anchored with spellwork that tore at the grace-tethers. When I struggled, I burned. When I screamed, I shattered something inside my own head. Eventually, I stopped trying.”

Sam’s throat closed up.

He scribbled another line down, slower now.

“And the sigils. Are they still—?”

“Faded,” Castiel replied. “Dormant now. Dean’s proximity… quiets them.”

Sam’s brow creased. “What does that mean?”

Castiel looked away for the first time, gaze distant. “I don’t know. But I was unraveling until Dean touched me. Something in him… called my grace back to me.”

Sam stared at him.

The weight of the words settled like dust across his shoulders.

And the silence returned—thick with wonder, with ache, with questions Sam suddenly wasn’t ready to ask.

Not yet.

So instead, he flipped the page and wrote three simple words at the top:

Dean is important.

Sam turned another page in the journal, eyes trailing over the neat script he’d already filled. Notes. Observations. Descriptions of grace and pain and wounds that shouldn’t have been possible. The silence between them now felt like it teetered on the edge of something more fragile than before—less a lull, more a loaded breath.

But there was still one thing Sam hadn’t asked.

He hesitated, tapping the end of the pen against the edge of the table.

Castiel hadn’t moved.

He still sat with that uncanny stillness, hands folded in his lap, gaze lowered as if he could see something etched into the grain of the wood. But there was tension beneath the calm now. A tightness in his shoulders. In the slow rhythm of his breathing.

Sam drew in a careful breath.

“…Did you see anything?” he asked quietly. “When they had you. I mean—angels sometimes… you experience things differently, right? Visions? Hallucinations? Connections to the Host? I read… about that… somewhere.”

Castiel was still.

Too still.

Sam waited.

And then, with a voice like something torn loose from a stone, Castiel replied:

“Yes.”

That single word echoed like a cracked bell in the quiet.

Sam leaned in slightly. “Can you tell me?”

Castiel didn’t answer at first. His fingers flexed faintly—almost involuntarily—against his thigh. His eyes were darker now, less vibrant, like they’d pulled back into something buried and quiet.

“When I was restrained… I was cut off from Heaven. From everything. The sigils burned into my skin were designed to sever the divine tether.”

He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought:

“They were… effective.”

Sam swallowed and nodded, gently urging him to continue.

“I lost track of time. I couldn’t pray. Couldn’t reach the others. My grace—what was left of it—was forced to retreat inward. Like a wounded animal hiding in the bones. And when it turned inward… I began to see.”

Sam’s pen stilled.

Castiel’s voice grew softer. Slower. Like he was feeling each word as it came.

“At first it was only fragments. Sound. Wings beating. Screams that didn’t belong to me. I saw flashes of faces—angels I once fought beside. I think… some of them were already dead.”

Sam felt the chill crawl down his arms.

“I saw a gate. A burning gate of bone and light, where angels waited like shadows—silent, bleeding from their eyes. I think I was slipping toward it. But I didn’t go through. Something held me back.”

“Your grace?” Sam asked.

Castiel shook his head once. “Dean.”

Another beat of silence passed, and then Castiel continued, slower now, as if the words cost more.

“They wanted me lucid when they cut. They believed the fear made my grace more potent. One of them—her name was Lark—would hold my head in her hands and recite prayers in Latin while the others carved. Not real prayers. Twisted ones. Like mockeries of scripture.”

Sam flinched. His hand tightened around the pen.

“They studied my wings. Measured span and resistance. They would pluck feathers to watch me bleed. One of them—Gordon—claimed if he reached deep enough into the wing root, he could hold a piece of Heaven in his hands.”

Castiel’s jaw clenched. The memory flickered across his face like a shadow in a storm.

“And did he?” Sam asked softly.

Castiel’s eyes lifted slowly to meet his.

“No,” he said, and there was steel beneath the calm. “He reached too deep. And grace is not meant to be held by hands like his.”

Sam didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

But he saw it now—felt it. The stillness in Castiel wasn’t divine peace.

It was restraint.

Brutal, choking restraint.

He’d locked it down. All of it. Every scream, every cut, every violation, buried under that calm voice and watchful stare. But it wasn’t gone.

It was simmering.

Boiling beneath the surface.

And Sam, despite himself, had scraped too close to it.

Castiel looked away again, voice barely above a whisper now. “They asked me questions about my brothers. About Enochian codes. Locations. Hierarchies. They wanted access to Heaven’s vaults. I didn’t give them anything.”

His hands were shaking now.

Only slightly.

But Sam saw it.

Saw the slight tremble in the fingers that had cradled a piece of toast just twenty minutes ago.

Saw the blood in his knuckles from memories that hadn’t yet stopped bleeding.

“Castiel,” Sam said gently, closing the journal. “You don’t have to keep going.”

The angel stilled again.

But the silence that followed felt… broken.

Like glass cooled after being blown too thin.

Castiel looked at Sam, something unreadable in his eyes. “You wish to know what they did. So you can record it. Understand it.”

“I do,” Sam said, honestly. “But not like this. Not if it hurts you.”

Castiel’s head tilted slightly, almost like confusion. “You’re… worried.”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. “You’re not just some subject, Castiel. You’re not a lab specimen. You’re you. And this…” He gestured softly between them. “This is a lot.”

The words lingered in the air for a moment. Soft. Honest.

Castiel blinked slowly, like the idea had taken longer to land.

Then he nodded once. Almost imperceptibly. “Thank you.”

Sam sat back in his chair, exhaling slowly, letting the quiet settle again—but gentler this time. Warmer.

The silence wasn’t empty now.

It was protective.

And somewhere down the hall, they could both hear Dean’s feet echoing faintly through the hallway before he appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair damp with sweat, shirt clinging to his back in patches. His breath was shallow, chest rising and falling faster than it should’ve been from a simple walk.

Sam looked up from where he was thumbing through his now-closed journal, but it was Castiel who moved first.

He stood before Dean even fully crossed the threshold—his movement fluid, almost too smooth, like the stillness in him had only been waiting for Dean to return before releasing. There was no urgency in how he moved. No sound in the step of his bare feet across tile. But somehow, the weight of him—his presence—hit Dean like a pressure front.

Dean stopped in his tracks.

Castiel was already walking toward him.

There was no question of where his focus lay—those blue eyes locked onto Dean’s face with pinpoint accuracy, like a compass needle pulled forward without deviation. He wasn’t looking at Dean, he was reading him, seeing things under the surface that Dean hadn’t given permission to show.

And it overwhelmed him. Dean’s pulse picked up, body tight with something not quite fear but too sharp to be comfort.

Castiel slowed. He stopped just short of touching. Just far enough that the air between them sparked like an exposed wire.

Dean stared up at him, jaw tense, the heat from the walk now joined by a different kind of flush—tight across his chest, up the back of his neck. Castiel stood close enough for Dean to smell the faint trace of soap from the shower last night, mixed with something warmer—something clean and ancient and distinctly not human.

Castiel tilted his head, just slightly. “You’re unsettled.”

Dean’s mouth parted, breath catching. “Yeah, well… you’ve got a way of doing that.”

“I don’t mean to,” Castiel said quietly.

His voice was low. Not commanding. Not pressing. Just present. It wrapped around Dean’s senses like soft cloth over bruises.

Dean took a step back.

Just one.

Castiel didn’t follow.

But his eyes dropped, not in shame—never shame—but in gentle understanding. Like he’d expected it. Accepted it.

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face, then across the back of his neck, trying to hide the shake in his fingers. “You do that thing again,” he muttered, voice rough, “where you come at me like you know something I don’t.”

“I do know something you don’t,” Castiel said softly.

Dean tensed. The room went still behind them. Even Sam didn’t breathe too loudly.

Castiel stepped forward—not closer, but emotionally, spiritually, something unseen—and said, “I know what it feels like to be found. And I know what it looks like when someone’s lost… even if they don’t admit it.”

Dean didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Just stared at him.

And Castiel’s eyes… God. Those eyes.

They weren’t harsh. Weren’t pitying.

They were gentle.

Like oceans at night.

“I’m not here to overwhelm you,” Castiel said, barely above a whisper. “But I won’t pretend I don’t feel what’s between us.”

Dean’s mouth opened—but nothing came out. His heartbeat thundered behind his ribs, his mind a cacophony of no, no, no and God, yes, just don’t say it out loud.

Behind him, Sam looked down at his hands and stood.

“I’m gonna give you two a minute,” he said quietly, and slipped past, footsteps fading toward the hallway.

Dean barely noticed.

He felt like Castiel had filled the room again—not with wings this time, but with something invisible and heavy and aching.

“I don’t know what this is,” Dean said, voice strained. “I don’t know what you think this is.”

Castiel took a breath, and for a moment, it looked like he might speak again.

But instead… he simply nodded. And stepped back. Not in defeat. But in respect.

Dean watched him as he moved, jaw tight, chest full of static.

Castiel turned his back slowly and returned to the table, sitting down once more like the silence between them had folded in around his ribs and made a home there.

Dean stood there for a moment longer, staring at the place where Castiel had just been. The warmth still clung to him. The echo of it.

And the worst part?

He missed it already.

The chair scraped softly across the tile.

Dean sat down again—slowly, like gravity had tripled in the span of a breath. The air felt heavier now, thicker, humming with the weight of everything they hadn’t said. The distance between them was deceptively small—just a wooden table between two chairs—but it felt like standing on opposite sides of a confession booth. Close enough to feel the truth but too far to touch it.

Castiel sat like a man carved from silence, spine straight, hands folded neatly in his lap. His posture was calm, but not casual. It was too deliberate—like stillness was a form of control. Like if he moved too much, something else inside him might come loose.

Dean leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, fingers laced tight in front of him to stop them from twitching. His gaze hovered somewhere between Castiel’s face and the grain of the wood—he couldn’t look for too long without something in his chest tightening in response.

The man—angel—sitting across from him was impossible. Still. Serene. Lit softly by the dappled sunlight coming in through the high, narrow kitchen window. The bruises hadn’t faded, but they didn’t diminish him. If anything, they made him more beautiful in that strange, ineffable way Dean couldn’t shake. Like light striking stained glass in just the right place—broken, but holy.

Dean’s throat felt tight.

He didn’t understand any of this. Didn’t know why the air felt thinner when Castiel looked at him like that. Why his own thoughts had started to spiral the moment he’d left the room and hadn't stopped since. Why touching him in the woods had felt like more than just first aid. Like he’d done something, though he couldn’t name it.

And now here they were.

A heartbeat of quiet stretched between them, and then Dean’s voice slipped out, softer than he intended:

“Why me?”

Castiel’s eyes lifted.

Dean almost regretted asking it.

There was no dramatic pause. No angelic sigh. Just a look. One of those long, unblinking looks that felt like being studied on a molecular level.

Castiel’s fingers tightened faintly around the mug in front of him, then slowly released.

“When you touched me,” Castiel said, his voice quiet but unwavering, “in the woods… when your hand touched my face—I felt something awaken.”

Dean blinked, lips parting slightly. He had no words ready for that.

“I was unraveling,” Castiel continued, the tone of his voice like low thunder in a distant canyon. “My grace was splintered. My body… failing. But when you touched me, it was like a thread pulled tight in the dark—tethering me back to myself.”

Dean’s stomach dropped, heat crawling up the back of his neck. “I didn’t do anything,” he muttered.

“You did.” Castiel leaned forward, just slightly—his voice still steady, but there was something fragile beneath it now, like he was holding the truth with both hands. “You chose to carry me. You saw me. Not as a weapon. Not as a miracle. You didn’t want anything from me. And you didn’t fear me. Not really.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. He looked down at the table.

Because yeah. He was afraid now. But not of Castiel.

No, he was afraid of what Castiel made him feel. Afraid of how easy it was to remember that closeness—the weight of Castiel’s body in his arms, the way his wings had wrapped around him like instinct. Like belonging.

Castiel’s voice softened again. “Dean… when your hands touched me, I remembered purpose. Not mission. Not obedience. Purpose. As if something ancient in me had only been waiting for that contact. As if my body and my grace had always known you.”

The breath left Dean’s lungs in a slow exhale, like he’d taken a blow to the gut.

He gripped the edge of the table with both hands now, white-knuckled and sweating. His thoughts were scattered—too loud, too fast.

He’d touched him to save him. That’s all.

So why did it feel like more?

Castiel leaned back slightly, but his eyes never left Dean.

“You’re afraid.”

Dean flinched, and his eyes snapped up.

Then Castiel added, calmly—

“Your heart rate has increased. Your pupils are dilated. Your breath pattern is shallow. You’re not in danger, Dean… but you’re responding.”

Dean flushed hard, the tips of his ears burning. “Yeah, well, maybe don’t analyze me while I’m trying to figure out if I’m losing my damn mind.”

“You’re not.”

Dean scoffed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Could’ve fooled me.”

When he looked again, Castiel hadn’t moved. He just sat there—open, quiet, like he was willing to wait as long as it took.

Dean let out a slow, shaky breath and studied him—really studied him.

This strange, steady being who looked like a man but radiated something older than the sun. His eyes weren’t just blue—they were oceanic, layered with history, trauma, and some kind of bone-deep devotion Dean didn’t know what to do with.

And all he could say was:

“I don’t get it. I’m just a guy. A broken-down hunter with too much blood on his hands and not enough soul left to sleep through the night. Why the hell would you—why would any of that—recognize me?”

Castiel didn’t hesitate.

“You are not just a man,” he said. “You are Dean Winchester. The man who pulled an angel from death not by force… but by kindness. Who carried me, bleeding, not because you had to—but because you chose to.”

Dean didn’t have a response.

Not a single word.

And in the quiet that followed, he realized his heart was still pounding.

Dean stood up abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the floor behind him like a warning. He moved toward the coffee pot like it was the only lifeline in the room, like pouring a cup could somehow ground him, center him, keep the floor from shifting beneath his boots.

He needed something to do with his hands. Something simple. Familiar. The click of the machine, the scent of fresh grounds, the warmth radiating into the air—it was safe. Coffee never looked at him like that.

But he still felt the weight of Castiel’s eyes on his back.

That steady, unwavering gaze, like Dean was the only fixed point in a mapless universe. It burned between his shoulder blades, all the way down his spine, hot and focused and too much.

Dean kept his back turned as he poured the coffee, kept his breath even, kept his hands from shaking.

When he finally turned around, mug in hand, he found Castiel still watching him—exactly as he’d left him. Sitting at the table, head tilted slightly, eyes locked on him like he’d never once looked away.

Dean took a long sip, hoping the heat might clear the fog in his head. It didn’t. He sighed heavily, the kind that came from somewhere behind his ribs.

“Okay so… what’s next?” Dean asked, voice rough. “Is there… somewhere you need to be? Do you need me to take you somewhere? Back to… your garrison or whatever.”

His gaze lingered on Castiel’s bruises, the fading evidence of pain. “Since you’re all healed up.”

For a second, Castiel said nothing. Just stared at him.

Then, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the universe, he tilted his head a little further, that same questioning, thoughtful gesture that always looked so out of place on someone so powerful—and yet, so fitting. Like watching a lion try to figure out a puzzle box.

Dean swallowed.

Christ, he’s cute.

The thought hit him without warning, uninvited and sharp. He shoved it away, masking it behind another sip of coffee.

“I’m staying here,” Castiel said calmly, like the sky was blue and gravity existed.

Dean blinked. Choked on his coffee. Spluttered into his mug, then coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Come again?”

“I’m staying with you,” Castiel repeated, his tone as flat and certain as before. “Here. In your… home.”

Dean lowered his mug slowly. “You—you’re staying here?”

“Yes.”

Dean stared at him, waiting for some kind of punchline.

None came.

Castiel continued, tone unshaken. “We’re bonded.”

Dean’s brows furrowed. “Bonded?”

“Because of our encounter,” Castiel explained, as though this should’ve been obvious from the beginning. “Because of what passed between us. Your touch. My grace. We are linked now. I can feel you in ways I couldn’t before.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. His skin prickled.

“I have to protect you,” Castiel added simply. “From now on.”

Dean set the mug down too fast. It clinked against the countertop, coffee sloshing near the rim.

His voice came out tight. “Castiel… look, I—I didn’t mean for anything to happen, okay? I was just trying to help. You were bleeding out in the woods, and—”

“I know,” Castiel said, cutting him off gently. “That’s why it happened. It has to be given, not taken. And you gave.”

Dean’s breath hitched.

Something deeper settled into the room, threading through the silence. Thick. Tangible.

Sensual—not in a crass way, but in the way it filled his senses. Like the heat in the air was too close to skin. Like memory lived in muscle. The pressure of Castiel’s hand on his throat. The way his fingers had lingered on Dean’s chest, his thigh. The warmth that had moved through him when Castiel’s grace touched bone.

Dean could still feel it.

He met Castiel’s eyes again. The blue looked deeper now, like it held echoes of that divine connection Dean hadn’t fully allowed himself to acknowledge. And God, it made him feel seen. Exposed.

He took a step back toward the sink.

“So what, you’re just gonna stick around forever? My own personal angelic security system?”

“If that’s what you need,” Castiel said, voice softer now. “But it’s more than that. I don’t want to leave.”

Dean laughed once, but it didn’t hold. It cracked in the middle. “You say that like it’s normal.”

“I don’t understand normal,” Castiel replied, not missing a beat. “I only understand what I feel. And I feel… drawn to you. Anchored.”

Dean’s pulse thundered in his ears.

He didn’t know what to say. What to do. The angel’s honesty was too much. Too raw. It stripped away every excuse Dean wanted to make, every sarcastic deflection, every wall.

So he said nothing.

Just stood there, hands tightening around the edge of the counter, trying to ignore the heat rising in his chest, and the truth settling beneath it:

He didn’t want Castiel to leave, either.

And that scared the hell out of him.

***

The silence of the bunker pressed in like a thick fog, unmoving and electric.

Dean stood in the hallway just past the war room, keys in hand, boots heavy on the tile. His pulse was still spiked from the conversation—still riding high and unsteady, like a man trying to walk after being hit by lightning. He could feel it in his hands, in the hollow of his throat, in the tightness behind his eyes.

He needed to move. Needed to get out. Away. Just for a minute. Just long enough to clear the white noise building in his chest.

He turned toward the library where Sam had retreated, his voice low and clipped.

“Sam. I’m going for a drive, I’ll be back later.”

Sam barely looked up from the book open in his lap, but his brow creased. “Dean—”

“I’m fine,” Dean said, sharper than he meant to. Then added, quieter, “I just need some air.”

But before he could turn to go, another voice answered.

“I’ll go with you.”

Dean froze.

Castiel’s voice was calm, smooth—like it always was—but laced with something that vibrated beneath the surface. An undercurrent. A pull.

Dean turned to face him.

And realized, too late, that Castiel was right there.

So close that their chests brushed, barely but undeniably. So close that Dean could feel the warmth of him through his shirt. That radiant, low heat Castiel always seemed to carry—like a furnace banked behind skin.

Dean inhaled sharply, chest rising against Castiel’s.

His heartbeat kicked up in response, and he hated how easily his body betrayed him. How something in him leaned, even as his mind scrambled for distance.

“No,” Dean said quickly, voice quieter now, more breath than words. “You gotta stay here, man.”

Castiel didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Just blinked, slowly, like a wolf trying to understand the tremble in the deer’s muscles.

“I don’t understand,” he said plainly.

His voice wasn’t accusatory. It was just… true. Honest in that unfiltered, unrelenting way that made Dean feel flayed open and on display.

Dean stepped back—not far, just enough to pull air between them. The space felt colder instantly, but necessary. He couldn’t think with Castiel that close. Couldn’t breathe.

His eyes flicked up to Castiel’s face—those sharp cheekbones, that dark stubble, those impossible eyes—and he swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. His skin felt too tight.

He didn’t understand why his body reacted this way. Why Castiel’s presence filled the air like ozone before a storm. Like static crawling across his arms, waiting to spark.

“I just… I need to go alone,” Dean said, voice low, and he hated how soft it came out. How uncertain.

Castiel tilted his head again, and Dean’s stomach flipped.

“Are you in danger?” Castiel asked.

“No,” Dean said too fast. “I’m not. I just—I need space. Okay?”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed, not with frustration, but confusion. “But we’re—bonded.”

Dean groaned under his breath, hand running down his face. “Castiel. C’mon.”

“You’re upset,” Castiel said.

Dean laughed bitterly. “Yeah, I wonder why.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Dean dropped his hand and looked at him, eyes raw. “I know you didn’t. That’s not—God, that’s the problem.”

The words fell between them like a flare dropped in oil.

Castiel said nothing.

Just watched him.

And Dean could feel it again—that quiet pull in his gut. The same one that had led him into the woods, that had made him kneel beside Castiel’s broken body and cradle him like something precious.

That tether. That something.

Dean’s voice dropped again, so low it was almost a whisper. “You’ve been here two days, Castiel. Two days. And you already fill the whole goddamn room like I can’t breathe right without you in it.”

Castiel’s brows lifted just slightly, a flicker of realization passing through his features. But he said nothing. Didn’t reach for him. Didn’t move.

Dean looked down.

His voice cracked. “So yeah, I need to go for a drive. Alone.”

He didn’t wait for a response.

He just turned, walking fast, boots echoing down the corridor.

Behind him, Castiel didn’t follow.

But the pull never stopped.

It throbbed in his chest the whole way to the car.

Notes:

Surprise update. I have the next two chapters written and will most likely post again on Monday just to get myself on track. I tried to write out the whole story but for some reason that doesn't work for me. As usual, kudos and comments are gratefully appreciated! We find out more about the... bond they share in the next chapter, thanks to Sam and his dive into the lore 🙂‍↔️

Chapter 3: the Weight of What's Left Unsaid

Dean had been gone for hours.

The sun was nearly down by the time he returned, the Impala humming low as it slipped back into its hidden parking space outside the bunker. The summer air was cooler now, dusk settling like a worn blanket over the hills. A case of beer dug into the skin of his fingers as he popped the trunk, grabbed it, and made his way up the concrete steps to the iron door.

He hesitated before opening it.

Just for a second.

Then he pulled the lever, shouldered the door open, and descended into the quiet hum of home.

The bunker was dim—only a few lamps lit in the main room, casting long shadows across the war table. The air was thick with paper and old stone, the smell of dust and warm electronics familiar enough to calm him halfway.

Sam was seated at the war table, one hand wrapped around a beer, the other clicking steadily across his laptop keyboard. The glow lit his face in blue, and he didn’t even glance up when Dean stepped down the stairs.

“Enjoy your drive?” Sam asked, eyes still locked to the screen.

Dean set the case of beer on the table with a soft thud. “Yeah. Cleared my head a little.”

He peeled open the cardboard flap, grabbed a bottle, twisted the cap off, and took a long pull. The cold hit his throat like water in a desert. He didn’t realize how much he needed it.

He glanced around the room.

Something felt… off.

“Where’s…” Dean hesitated. “Where’s Castiel?”

That silence that followed was too sharp, too telling.

Sam paused in his typing, finally looking away from the screen to meet Dean’s eyes.

“He’s in your room.”

Dean blinked. “My room?”

“He’s been in there since you left,” Sam said, quiet. “Hasn’t come out. Barely moved. Just… sat there.”

Dean’s stomach gave a small, unexpected twist. He wasn’t sure what he expected after storming out—maybe for Castiel to pace the halls, to sit vigil at the library, to come to him the second he stepped inside like he had before.

The absence of that was louder than any welcome could’ve been.

Dean took the seat beside Sam, the beer still cool in his hand. He sipped again. Then sighed.

Sam watched him for a beat, then turned his laptop toward Dean.

“I’ve been looking stuff up,” he said, fingers hovering above the keyboard. “About… angels bonding with humans. Grace-based tethering. That kind of thing.”

Dean glanced sideways, brow furrowed. “And?”

“I found something,” Sam said, clicking a few keys, scrolling past a few ancient-looking text blocks on a digitized manuscript. “Most of it’s obscure—ritual-heavy, guarded—but there are a few scattered references. It’s rare. Dangerous. Sometimes intentional. Usually not.”

Dean took another drink. “That tracks.”

Sam looked at him carefully. “It says when a celestial being binds themselves to a human—especially through trauma or healing—it can leave a lasting imprint. The bond is psychic, metaphysical. Not just grace-based.”

Dean rubbed his jaw. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Sam said, turning the laptop fully toward him, “that Castiel might not be choosing to stick around. Not completely. Your grace and his connected at a critical point. It created a link. He probably feels your emotions now. Maybe even your pain. Definitely your location.”

Dean’s brows rose slowly. “So he’s got a GPS on my soul.”

Dean felt the heat creep up the back of his neck before Sam even said the next part.

Sam cleared his throat. “There’s… more. Some bonds remain spiritual. Non-corporeal. Protective. Like a sentinel.”

Dean exhaled. “Great. I’ve got a holy bodyguard.”

“But,” Sam continued, hesitating, “other bonds… develop into something more intimate.”

Dean blinked. “More intimate how?”

Sam looked away briefly, then back. “Sexual.”

Dean choked slightly on his beer. “What?”

“I’m just saying, it happens,” Sam said, raising both palms. “It’s in the texts. Sometimes the bond deepens in, uh, physical ways. Depending on the intent. Or the… intensity of the connection.”

Dean was already blushing, red creeping high into his ears and down his neck like someone had flipped a switch.

“I didn’t do anything,” Dean said defensively.

Sam held his gaze. “You healed him, Dean. You touched him. You carried him. You let his grace move through you. That’s not nothing.”

Dean shifted in his seat, uncomfortable in his own skin. “I didn’t sign up for this. I didn’t light a damn candle and draw a pentagram. I just—helped him.”

“I know,” Sam said. “But that might be exactly why it happened.”

Dean was quiet for a long moment, staring at the bottle in his hand.

He could still feel the warmth from earlier—the phantom pressure of Castiel’s body too close to his. The smell of him. The weight of those words: You fill the whole goddamn room like I can’t breathe right without you in it.

“Is there a way to break it?” Dean asked finally, but his voice was low. Strained.

Sam looked at him for a long second.

“You want to?”

Dean didn’t answer.

Not with words, anyway.

He just sat there, fingers wrapped too tightly around his bottle, jaw tense. His body was still, but it pulsed with the kind of restraint that made Sam press his lips together and return quietly to his screen.

Dean hadn’t said no.

And Sam had seen enough—read enough—to know that meant something.

He glanced at the thick column of text still open in the archive database, its language winding and archaic, most of it buried in footnotes or translated from half-burned scrolls. It took a few more clicks—refining the search, filtering out ritual magic—to get deeper into the angelic lore that had started this whole thing.

“Okay…” Sam murmured, eyes narrowing.

Dean glanced sideways. “What now?”

Sam didn’t answer right away.

He scrolled slower, tapping the arrow key, as he read aloud.

“...In cases of involuntary grace bonds, the celestial may imprint upon a human counterpart in stages, the earliest being the sentinel instinct—protective, alert, watchful. If the human accepts or reciprocates the connection, even unconsciously, the bond strengthens. Physical proximity becomes a requirement. Absence may trigger phantom pain, emotional distress, or a persistent sense of longing—felt by one or both.

Sam’s eyes darted toward Dean.

Dean was watching him now, brows furrowed, already suspicious.

Sam cleared his throat and kept reading, voice lower now:

“When two souls—mortal and immortal—resonate at the same frequency, they begin to echo. Grace calls to humanity, and humanity answers with desire. Longing. The need to be near is not always romantic… but often it becomes that way.

Dean’s throat moved as he swallowed.

Sam kept going:

“This longing intensifies in silence. Distance may fray the tether temporarily, but it will always tighten again. Particularly if the human has, even briefly, touched the grace of the angel… and allowed himself to feel it.”

The screen blurred for a second as Sam blinked, then looked up.

Dean was staring at him.

But his eyes weren’t angry. Just… wide.

Uneasy.

Like someone had just explained to him why he hadn’t been able to breathe right since stepping out that door.

Sam set the laptop down gently. “Dean.”

Dean didn’t move.

His voice was quiet. Uncertain. “You said—longing.”

“Yeah.”

Dean looked away, blinking hard, like trying to focus on something else might make it go away. “So… this is why?”

Sam nodded slowly. “Could explain a lot.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, one hand on the beer, the other pressed flat against the table like he needed to feel something solid beneath his palm.

His voice was thick when he said, “I kept thinking about him.”

Sam waited.

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Like… more than normal. Not just the guilt-trip kind of thinking. It was like—I don’t know, like my chest ached. Like I’d left something behind. Something important.”

Sam stayed quiet, letting him work through it.

Dean continued, quieter now. “I kept hearing his voice in my head. Smelling him on my jacket. Thinking about the way he looked at me. Like I meant something. And it wouldn’t stop. Even when I was driving. Even when I turned the music up. It was like…” He exhaled sharply. “Like his absence was a goddamn bruise on my ribs.”

Sam’s heart twisted.

It made sense now.

“Dean…” he started carefully, “bonds like these don’t form without some kind of resonance. This thing between you two—” he hesitated, “it wasn’t one-sided. Not if it settled that deep.”

Dean rubbed the heel of his hand over his chest. “Yeah, well. It feels one-sided now.”

Sam frowned. “What makes you say that?”

Dean shook his head, voice sharp with something that sounded like self-protection. “Because I’m the one who left. I’m the one feeling like a lunatic for needing to see him again when I was the one who pushed him away.”

Sam hesitated, then asked quietly, “Do you want to go talk to him?”

Dean didn’t answer right away.

But the silence was louder than a yes.

He stood after a long pause, and turned toward the hall. His shoulders were drawn tight, posture stiff—but his eyes looked different now. Less afraid. More pulled. Like a man walking toward the source of a sound only he could hear.

Sam watched him disappear down the hallway.

Then turned back to the screen.

There was more.

A section he hadn’t read aloud.

“If the bond remains unacknowledged or resisted, it can become volatile. Both parties may suffer: the angel, destabilized by rejection; the human, overwhelmed by proximity and emotional confusion. Harmony is only achieved through consent—spoken or unspoken—and proximity. Touch. Affection. Vulnerability.”

Sam sat back in his chair.

And wondered if Dean was finally ready to stop fighting it.

***

Dean paused outside his bedroom door, fingers curled loosely around the knob. He could hear nothing from the other side—no footsteps, no shifting, no sign of movement—and yet the air was thick with something unspoken, something weighty that pressed into his lungs before he even stepped inside.

He exhaled, slow and shaky, then pushed the door open.

The room greeted him with shadows and warmth. The lights had been dimmed to a soft amber glow, and the familiar scent of leather, soap, and clean cotton hung in the air. But there was something else layered beneath it now. Something warmer. Something that made the hair on Dean’s arms rise.

His eyes found Castiel instantly.

The angel was sitting on Dean’s bed, his back propped against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, head resting slightly to the side like he’d fallen into a kind of meditation. His eyes were closed, lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks. His hands rested palm-down on his thighs, relaxed but still. Still in the way only something otherworldly could be.

But he wasn’t wounded anymore.

Not even close.

The cuts, the bruises, the raw swell of damage that had once colored his skin—all of it was gone. His lip, once cracked and dark with dried blood, had returned to a soft, whole pink. The sharp line of his jaw, no longer discolored or tender, carried the weight of his features with pristine clarity.

Dean stood there in the doorway, watching him.

Staring.

And for the first time since bringing Castiel home, he really looked at him.

His heart squeezed tight.

Castiel looked... divine.

But beautiful, too. Human-beautiful. Like a man painted in oil under golden light, framed in the quiet hush of reverence and awe. Strong arms, long fingers. The way his chest rose and fell in slow, even rhythm. Dean’s breath caught, and his gaze dropped—just for a second—to the way the fabric of his shirt hugged the lines of his torso, the soft indent where his collar dipped into shadow.

And then—traitorously—Dean’s thoughts slipped, just a little.

His body betrayed him.

His mind wandered into filth.

He imagined what that chest looked like bare without bruising, what that mouth tasted like, how it would feel to be pressed up beneath those hands, under that body, to be surrounded by him entirely—grace and heat and want and him.

And then—like Castiel had heard it, felt it—the angel’s eyes opened.

Dean didn’t even have time to move.

One blink. One breath.

And suddenly Castiel was there.

Right there.

Pressed flush against Dean’s chest, a solid wall of heat and muscle, pushing him back against the door with a force that wasn’t aggressive—but absolute. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

Dean gasped, startled—but it wasn’t fear that gripped him.

It was the fact that Castiel fit against him like he’d always belonged there.

Every inch of him warm and grounding and overwhelming. The press of his palm against Dean’s chest was scorching, as if his grace had pooled beneath his skin and was leaking into Dean’s body through touch alone. Dean’s legs went weak, knees locked tight, hands twitching at his sides.

His heart thundered against Castiel’s hand.

“Cas—” Dean managed, but the name cracked in his throat, breathless.

Castiel didn’t speak. Not yet.

He leaned in, forehead resting gently against Dean’s, their mouths just shy of touching. His fingers curled into Dean’s shirt, like he was holding on—not in desperation, but devotion. Like Dean was his now. Like Dean had always been his.

The angel’s breath came hot against Dean’s cheek, slow and calm despite the storm brewing beneath his skin.

Dean’s head tipped back against the door, his throat exposed, pulse racing.

The need—raw and gnawing—roared up in him again, louder now. Clearer. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just longing. It was that pull again, that tether deep inside him stretching toward the man—the being—now folded so intimately against him.

And it felt like drowning in warmth. In want.

“You called to me again,” Castiel murmured.

Dean’s mouth parted. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t have to mean it,” Castiel whispered, his voice a low hush. “I feel you. Always.”

Dean stood there, trembling, caged in by something too powerful to name.

His breath came shallow and hot in his throat, caged in by Castiel’s body, heart thundering against the hand still resting on his chest. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t move. His pulse beat against his skin like it was trying to break through, to scream the truth he couldn’t say out loud.

Castiel leaned in closer, his voice a velvet drag across Dean’s senses.

“Your body reacts to mine,” he murmured.

The words ghosted against Dean’s ear—low, rumbling, intimate—and the heat of Castiel’s breath made Dean shiver.

A muscle jumped in Dean’s jaw as his spine pressed harder against the door behind him. Every nerve in his body felt flayed open, overexposed. The blood in his veins was molten now, pulsing through him in dizzy, staggering waves.

He swallowed, the sound loud in the silence between them. His body trembled, subtly at first, and then not so subtly. His knees were softening. His fingers twitched at his sides. There was a raw ache blooming in his stomach that he couldn’t name.

“Castiel…” he whispered, breath hitching. “I don’t—”

“You don’t want this?” Castiel pulled back just enough to look into Dean’s eyes, his own gaze steady, unreadable but burning. The space between them was barely a breath, but it felt like a chasm.

Dean’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked down at Castiel’s lips, then away again.

“I—I…” The words wouldn’t come. Not with that closeness. Not with him standing there like that—like temptation wrapped in stillness.

Castiel’s head tilted, dark hair casting shadows across his cheekbones.

“Your heart rate is skipping,” he said quietly. “Your body is trembling.”

His voice wasn’t teasing.

It was observational. Honest.

Unforgiving in its truth.

Dean’s lungs locked. He felt seen—dissected under that gaze. Like Castiel was peeling the layers back one by one, all the bullshit bravado, the armor, the practiced control. Tearing it open and showing him exactly what he looked like underneath.

Naked want.

Need, sharp and hungry and unrelenting.

And then—just as gently as he had come—Castiel began to pull away.

His weight lifted, and the cool air rushed between them like a slap.

Dean felt it instantly, the absence. Felt the ache of it.

And something in him snapped.

His hand shot out without thinking.

He caught Castiel’s wrist.

Firm. Desperate.

Castiel stilled instantly, his hand still halfway through pulling back. His body froze, and his eyes flicked down to where Dean gripped him, then slowly rose again to meet his gaze.

Dean stared up at him, jaw tense, lips slightly parted, his chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a mile.

Castiel said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

Because Dean’s hand didn’t loosen.

If anything, he held tighter. Like letting go might break something inside him.

His thumb brushed along the underside of Castiel’s wrist—skin soft, impossibly warm—and the tremble in his hand betrayed the storm in his chest.

The heat between them was visceral now. A slow, rising burn that had nothing to do with grace or fate and everything to do with want. With restraint. With the unbearable pressure of two bodies just shy of colliding.

“I don’t understand what… this is,” Dean said hoarsely, voice cracked and low. “But I can’t… I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“About me?” Castiel asked softly.

Dean nodded once, his breath shuddering. “Yeah. You. The way you look at me. The way it feels when you’re close. It’s like—it’s like I can’t get enough of it. And I don’t even know what I’m asking for.”

Castiel stepped forward again, slow and deliberate. The air between them sparked, charged.

“You don’t have to know,” he murmured, and then lifted his free hand to Dean’s chest, spreading his palm flat over Dean’s heart again. “You’re already asking.”

Dean’s head hit the door behind him, eyes fluttering closed.

He hated how good it felt.

How right.

He wanted to fight it. Wanted to say no, or wait, or I’m not ready—but none of those things were true.

He was already in freefall.

Castiel leaned forward again, so close their noses almost brushed.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispered.

Dean’s fingers twitched around Castiel’s wrist.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that—him pressed to the door, hand wrapped tight around Castiel’s wrist, Castiel breathing quietly in the space between them.

Everything around them felt suspended. Slowed. Like the room itself was holding its breath.

Dean’s chest rose and fell with deliberate tension, trying to keep his breath steady even as it caught and stuttered. Castiel was still so close, too close, the warmth of his body radiating through Dean’s clothes like sunlight under skin.

Dean’s fingers twitched again.

And slowly, he let go of Castiel’s wrist.

Only for Castiel to touch him again—this time gently, with a kind of reverence that made Dean’s pulse stutter all over again.

The angel’s hand lifted to his collarbone, palm open, tracing the line with the softest brush of fingertips—just barely there. Like he was committing Dean’s shape to memory. Not in a rush. Not demanding. Just… feeling. Worshiping, maybe.

Dean’s mouth parted with a shallow breath, lashes fluttering.

“This,” he rasped, barely above a whisper. “Sam said something about this.”

Castiel didn’t speak, but his fingers paused over Dean’s sternum, pressing in just slightly—urging him to go on.

Dean’s eyes flicked up to meet his.

“He was looking up lore. Said angels—when they bond—it can be…” Dean swallowed, and his voice dropped. “It can be romantic. Sometimes.”

The word romantic lingered in the air like a flare, a heat flash between them.

Castiel didn’t answer with words.

Instead, his hand moved lower. Unhurried. Deliberate.

It ghosted down the center of Dean’s chest, slow enough to make every breath catch. And when he reached Dean’s stomach, he spread his palm there—broad and warm over muscle, over trembling flesh.

Dean gasped softly.

His back arched away from the door just slightly, like his body wanted more contact without his permission. His skin felt electric beneath the angel’s touch, every nerve screaming in recognition and need. And still—Castiel was gentle. Like handling something precious.

Dean’s hand came up then, shakily, resting over Castiel’s.

He didn’t push it away.

If anything, he pressed it closer, like he was grounding himself with it. Accepting it. Asking for more.

His voice was strained when he finally spoke again. “Why does it feel like this?”

Castiel leaned in, his forehead brushing Dean’s again, his breath mingling with Dean’s in the narrow space between their lips.

“Because I am yours and we’re bonded,” he whispered.

Dean flinched like he’d been struck.

His stomach clenched under Castiel’s hand, and his eyes slammed shut.

He wanted to deny it. Wanted to argue, to deflect, to laugh it off—but his body wouldn’t let him. Not when it was already betraying him with every shiver, every pulse.

“I don’t…” Dean shook his head. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Castiel didn’t pull away.

He didn’t press harder either.

He just slid his other hand slowly along Dean’s side, over the curve of his hip, fingers barely skimming the hem of his shirt.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “You only have to feel.”

Dean’s breathing faltered.

He felt himself sinking into the touch, hips nudging forward without meaning to, his chest trembling with restraint. His fingers tightened around Castiel’s wrist again, this time not to stop him—but to anchor himself.

It was a pull-and-push in his chest. A war.

He didn’t want to want this.

But he wanted it.

Needed it.

So badly it hurt.

Castiel tilted his head, eyes fixed on Dean’s lips.

“I can stop,” he murmured, “if you say so.”

Dean’s lips trembled. “But you don’t want to.”

“No,” Castiel admitted. “I want to stay. Right here. With you.”

Dean opened his eyes.

And what he saw there in Castiel’s gaze wasn’t domination or seduction.

It was commitment.

And somehow that made it worse.

Better.

More dangerous.

Dean licked his lips, still panting softly.

His body was already leaning into it—into him.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes wet at the corners.

Castiel’s hand moved then—not lower, not faster—but firmer.

Still over his stomach, the pressure like a promise.

Dean exhaled a low, wrecked sound and let his head fall forward against Castiel’s shoulder.

And this time… he didn’t pull away.

Castiel’s hands slid down, steady and possessive, until they found Dean’s hips. Not grabbing. Not pushing. Just there—anchoring him, holding him in place like he belonged right there beneath those palms.

Dean’s breath hitched.

The contact wasn’t overtly filthy, but it didn’t need to be. The press of Castiel’s fingers into the soft dip where hip met waist was enough to short-circuit thought. The heat. The certainty. The sheer presence of it.

Castiel stepped in closer, aligning their bodies more fully, chest to chest, thighs brushing. Dean could feel every breath, every twitch of restrained strength rippling beneath Castiel’s skin. The angel’s grace buzzed faintly against him, low and humming like a storm cloud held back by willpower alone.

Dean’s hand lifted, finally, as if it had a mind of its own.

He reached around Castiel’s back—not hesitant now, not anymore—and pressed his palm right between Castiel’s shoulder blades.

He felt solid muscle there, warmth, the faint beat of something other just beneath the surface. And then—just a fraction to the left—Dean’s fingers brushed something soft.

Something living.

Castiel sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, and a sound escaped his throat—low, guttural, primal. It made Dean’s knees buckle slightly, just enough that he had to brace himself against Castiel’s body. Had to hold on.

Holy shit. His wing.

Dean’s fingers moved again, slower this time, tracing the shape beneath Castiel’s borrowed shirt, following the tendon, mapping out the bone. The feathers twitched under his touch, tangible even through the veil of invisibility, as if responding directly to Dean’s reverent stroking.

Castiel exhaled hard, forehead lowering to rest against Dean’s.

Dean stroked upward again, this time dragging his fingertips gently through the curve of the invisible feathers. He felt the way they curled toward his hand, like they were reaching for more, craving the contact. The slight vibration in the air intensified, like Castiel was struggling to keep his grace from spilling loose.

Dean’s body trembled, breath ragged now.

He could feel the tension coiling tighter between them with every pass of his hand.

He was touching something sacred, and it responded like it wanted him. Craved him.

Castiel sighed, long and trembling, and his fingers dug slightly into Dean’s hips like he was grounding himself, like the sensation of being touched like this was overwhelming. But not too much. Not unwelcome.

Dean pulled back just enough to look at him.

He watched the angel’s face—eyelids heavy, lips parted, jaw slack with barely restrained need. His cheeks were flushed, not with blood, but with something deeper, something celestial. Something older than lust. Need, yes—but reverence too. Want, buried beneath centuries of stillness.

And Dean wanted to kill them.

Whoever had done this to him.

Whoever had touched this being with cruelty instead of awe. Had harmed something that should’ve been honored. Had torn into the same wings Dean now touched like a prayer.

The thought flooded him like a tide. Thick. Furious. Helpless.

Castiel’s eyes opened slowly, sensing the shift instantly.

He tilted his head.

“You’re angry,” he said, voice low, like velvet over gravel. “Do you not like this?”

Dean’s eyes snapped up. “No. No—not at you.” He shook his head, voice tight. “I was just... thinking about what those animals did to you.”

Castiel blinked slowly, his expression unreadable. But something flickered in his gaze—something hot and soft and aching all at once. His hand slid from Dean’s hip to his side, then up, curling around Dean’s back in return.

“Don’t think about them,” he whispered.

His voice had dropped, deeper now, heavier with something molten.

“Think about me,” he said, his lips almost touching Dean’s. “Think about this.”

And Dean did.

God, he did.

Because every stroke of his fingers across Castiel’s wings drew a breathy noise from the angel’s lips. Every sigh sent a wave of heat through Dean’s chest. And the way Castiel leaned into his touch now—pressing closer, moving his hips just subtly against Dean’s as if pulled by instinct—made Dean’s mouth go dry.

They were still clothed. Still restrained.

But every part of it screamed more.

A sacred ache building slow and unbearable between them.

Dean didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was both of them.

But he found himself tilting his head, nose brushing Castiel’s cheek, breath catching as their lips hovered just shy of meeting. His hand splayed against Castiel’s back, holding tight to that wing that shuddered under his palm.

And Castiel... waited.

Waited for him to want it.

To choose it.

Dean’s breath hitched—his mouth dangerously close to Castiel’s, the space between them humming with pressure, with promise. He could feel Castiel’s body molded to his own, warm and strong and steady, a quiet force of gravity pulling him in.

For a suspended second, Dean wanted to fall.

But then—at the last possible moment—he pulled away.

Just slightly.

Just enough to break the thread that had stretched taut between their lips.

He turned his face, gasping, pressing his forehead to Castiel’s shoulder instead. His whole body trembled like a live wire, the weight of denial sinking heavy into his bones.

“I can’t,” he whispered, voice raw and shaking.

He hated how broken it sounded. How needy.

He felt Castiel shift, not backing away but adjusting—adjusting with him. Still holding him. Still there.

A moment passed, filled only with the sound of Dean’s shallow breathing and the deep, steady heartbeat in Castiel’s chest.

Then Castiel moved his hand.

Slowly.

He slid it down Dean’s back, the warmth of it searing through the thin fabric of his shirt. Dean shivered, unable to stop the way his muscles twitched under the angel’s palm.

Castiel didn’t slow down.

His hand dipped beneath the hem of Dean’s shirt, skin against skin now—his fingers tracing the curve of Dean’s lower back, dragging upward slowly, grazing over the ridges of muscle and spine like he was exploring Dean’s body with reverence.

Dean’s breath caught again. His hips jerked, barely perceptible, but enough for Castiel to notice.

“You like this,” Castiel said softly, like a knowing observation rather than a question.

Dean didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because his body was already answering for him—arching into the touch, skin tingling, heat rising in waves that made his knees threaten to give.

Castiel’s hand kept moving. The pads of his fingers smoothed over Dean’s ribs, mapping the space there with aching tenderness. There was no rush in it. Just patience. Curiosity. Possession in the form of affection.

Dean’s lips parted, another shaky breath escaping as his head tipped back again—eyes fluttering shut.

“Your pupils are dilated,” Castiel murmured, and his voice—God, his voice—sounded like a low purr, like velvet dragged across the inside of Dean’s mind. “Your body is reacting so beautifully…”

“Cas—” Dean choked out. “Castiel, we can’t… I—I can’t—”

But Castiel didn’t stop.

His hand slid down again, this time to Dean’s hip, gliding over the dip just above his jeans. His thumb brushed the waistband, and Dean gasped as if the touch had cut straight through him.

Then—without hesitation—Castiel’s hand ghosted forward, across the front of Dean’s jeans, fingertips grazing the ache that had been building for what felt like hours.

Dean shuddered violently.

“Stop,” he whispered. But his voice was unconvincing. Shaky. Ruined.

Castiel tilted his head again, reading him. He changed the way he touched—gentle now, slow. He didn’t press hard. He didn’t grope.

He soothed.

His hand softened into a massaging rub, just barely there, the heel of his palm pressing lightly over Dean’s arousal with featherlike rhythm.

Dean whimpered. A humiliating, aching sound that broke out of his throat before he could swallow it down.

Castiel leaned in, lips brushing his ear as he murmured again, low and calm:

“You don’t like this.”

It wasn’t sarcasm. It wasn’t teasing.

It was compassionate.

And Dean could have cried from it.

His hands gripped Castiel’s fucking strong biceps like a lifeline, holding on as his forehead dropped again against the angel’s collarbone.

“I shouldn’t,” he breathed, voice tight, ragged. “I shouldn’t want this.”

“But you do,” Castiel said, just as quietly, his hand still cupping Dean with unbearable gentleness.

Dean’s whole body trembled.

He didn’t move. He didn’t pull away.

He just held on.

Caught between the cliff’s edge and the quiet relief of falling.

“Cas…” Dean gasped, the word barely holding shape on his tongue.

It was all he could manage—half a plea, half a warning—as Castiel’s hand cupped him again, squeezing just enough to make his knees threaten collapse. His body arched traitorously into the touch, and for a flickering second, Dean was ready to fall, to burn, to lose himself in that impossible warmth.

But something snapped—not loud, not dramatic. Just a quiet, desperate tug inside his chest.

He lifted his hands and pressed them flat against Castiel’s chest.

It was like touching the surface of a star—hot, pulsing, and deceptively still. Dean could feel the beat of Castiel’s grace beneath his skin, a soundless rhythm like ancient music, vibrating through his fingers. It hurt to push him away.

But he did.

Reluctantly.

Castiel obeyed without resistance, stepping back a pace.

The absence hit Dean like a gust of cold air.

“I can’t,” Dean said softly, his voice thin and raw, as if scraped over gravel.

Castiel stood still, the weight of his gaze settling over Dean like a heavy quilt. Not suffocating. Just full. Full of questions. Full of want.

“You don’t want me?” Castiel said at last, though it wasn’t a question. It was a wound, cloaked in calm.

Dean’s eyes snapped up, panicked. “No— I mean yes— God, Cas, yes—but not right now, I can’t just... We can’t just do this. Cas... Castiel.”

The correction stumbled off his lips like a child trying to walk a balance beam.

Castiel tilted his head, a movement so subtle and birdlike it made Dean’s chest ache.

“You need time,” he said, simple and sure.

Dean didn’t answer with words. Just a nod. Small. Barely there. But enough.

Castiel’s expression didn’t falter. He looked down once, then away—but not far. Just to the space between them, where tension still clung like static in the air. His body had stilled again, but Dean’s eyes—traitorous, starved—drifted lower.

And there it was.

Obvious. Brazen. Undeniable.

A sharp outline against the fabric of the borrowed sweatpants, thick and hard and entirely unbothered by rejection. The sight sent a shock through Dean’s spine, and he looked away too quickly, ears flushed with heat.

“We just…” Dean began, licking his lips. “We gotta talk first. About… us. About this. About you. About our…”

He struggled with the words, like they were knives in his throat.

Castiel stepped closer—just enough that Dean felt the heat again, but not enough to touch.

“Our profound bond,” Castiel finished for him, calm as water under moonlight.

Dean blinked.

His breath stalled in his chest. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Whatever you want to call it, Cas. Castiel. Sorry.”

Castiel studied him again. Eyes impossibly blue, like they could see through the cracks in Dean’s soul and didn’t flinch.

“You like that shortened version of my name,” he said, no accusation in his voice—just soft, curious observation.

Dean blinked again, caught off guard by how small his own smile felt.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I mean… your name is a mouthful.”

Castiel’s head tilted again.

“You may call me that,” he said. “If you wish.”

Something about the way he said it—like he was offering Dean more than just a name—unraveled Dean just a little further. Like this wasn’t just about permission. It was trust. It was him saying, I am yours to name.

And Dean felt it, sharp and real, settle in his chest like a second heartbeat.

He took a deep breath and looked at Castiel, really looked at him. The lines of his face. The quiet ache in his body. The careful restraint in his hands. The devotion in his stillness.

“Thank you,” Dean said at last, and the words came out quieter than he meant.

They stood there for a beat too long, heavy silence stretching between them. But it wasn’t awkward. It was full. Expectant with everything left unsaid.

And when Castiel turned slightly, making his way to the far side of the room without another word, Dean finally exhaled.

His body still ached. His blood still simmered.

But the fire had been given room to breathe.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d be brave enough to touch it again tomorrow.

***

Dean lay tangled in the blankets, only half-conscious, the steady hum of the bedside lamp casting a flickering halo of amber light across the room. It wasn’t harsh—just enough to give the corners a soft, golden haze. His pillow was warm beneath his cheek, and his body, though worn down to the bone, had finally begun to let go. The air was still, thick with the scent of soap and night sweat, and the faintest remnant of blood beneath his fingernails.

Beside him, Castiel didn’t move.

He didn’t sleep.

Didn’t fidget.

Didn’t even blink.

He was a statue of warmth and intent, lying perfectly still at the edge of the mattress, close enough that Dean’s body could sense him but not quite touching. Castiel watched the way Dean breathed—slow, rhythmic—and how his back rose and fell with a kind of innocence that seemed impossible for a man like him to possess. Watched the way Dean’s lashes fluttered against his skin. The way the muscles in his jaw remained tight, even in rest.

Castiel didn’t need sleep.

But he couldn’t look away.

The room was so quiet, the silence pulsing like a heartbeat between them. Somewhere far off in the bunker, the soft thud of Sam’s footsteps echoed once, then faded. Dean stirred, a low sound slipping from his throat as he rolled onto his side, his face burying deeper into the pillow.

“Hey Cas…” Dean mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep, the syllables barely shaped.

Castiel moved immediately.

He sat upright with swift, sudden precision—like a soldier answering a call to arms, eyes scanning the shadows as if expecting danger to burst from the walls. His hand twitched toward Dean’s side protectively.

“Yes,” he answered, breath held like a coiled spring.

Dean groaned softly and turned his head toward the lamp.

“Can you turn the light off?” he asked, half-heartedly reaching toward the nightstand before his hand flopped uselessly onto the mattress.

Castiel followed the movement with his eyes, then turned his attention to the lamp. The small chain dangled, swaying slightly in the wake of Dean’s failed attempt. He stared at it with furrowed brows, as if determining whether it was a mechanism or a puzzle.

“Pull the chain,” Dean muttered, face still buried in the pillow. “Not complicated.”

Castiel reached out, tentative but exact, pinching the chain delicately between his fingers and tugging it downward. The click was immediate, followed by darkness swallowing the golden light in a single breath.

He remained sitting upright, rigid in the dark, back straight and still as a shadow carved from marble.

Dean exhaled beside him, the shift of the blankets soft and sleepy.

“You can lay down, y’know,” he muttered, voice more awake now. A little firmer.

“I don’t need sleep,” Castiel replied, voice hushed in the new darkness, like speaking too loud would shatter it.

“You can still lay down,” Dean repeated, this time with that familiar gravel in his tone—the one that meant: stop being weird and just do it.

Castiel hesitated for the briefest moment. Then, slowly, he eased himself back down onto the mattress, awkward at first, arms still at his sides, like he didn’t quite know how to inhabit the same space as a man who trusted him enough to sleep beside him.

Dean shifted once more, turning to face away, his back curving into the mattress as if seeking warmth. Castiel watched, then lowered his gaze, folding into the quiet.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then, blindly beneath the sheets, Dean’s hand reached back—fingers barely brushing Castiel’s arm before retreating, a wordless gesture. An invitation. Or a thank-you. Maybe both.

Castiel closed his eyes.

Not because he needed rest.

But because in that moment, it felt like belonging.

***

The room was drowned in stillness. The only sound was Dean’s breathing—slow, steady, until it wasn’t. Until something shifted.

It began subtly.

A twitch of his fingers. The muscles in his forearm tensing beneath the covers. His lips parted on a shallow gasp, his breath catching like it had somewhere to go and couldn’t find the exit.

Then he whimpered.

Low. Guttural. Fragile.

His hips shifted beneath the sheets, slow at first—an unconscious grind, a lazy friction as he chased something only his sleeping mind could see.

Castiel remained beside him, utterly still. But his eyes were open now.

And they glowed.

A faint, ethereal blue—just beneath the surface, pulsing in time with the arcane energy radiating from his body. Grace leaked from him in thin silver wisps, nearly invisible in the dark. They slipped through the air like smoke with intention, curling, trailing, seeking the warmth of Dean’s skin.

And they found him.

The wisps touched Dean’s temples first. Then his chest. His throat. Like fingers brushing a lover's pulse.

Dean moaned again, head rolling against the pillow. He was flushed now, a faint sheen of sweat beginning to gather at the hollow of his throat, the tendons in his neck tightening with each ragged breath.

Inside his dream, it was chaos.

Warm breath against his ear. A mouth on his throat. Hands—firm, strong, reverent—gripping his hips and pulling him apart. He was on his knees in the dark, back arched, and someone was behind him, touching him like they already knew how he liked it. Like they’d watched him for years. Whispered things he couldn’t make out, but felt in his spine.

Feathers brushed against his skin in the dream—soft and electric. The heat of it made his cock ache, and he thrust into nothing, gasping again, fingers clawing at the sheets.

Castiel’s eyes never left him.

He watched as the dream tangled around Dean’s mind like a storm, watched as Dean’s body arched and writhed, responding to something he could not see—but could feel in his grace. The bond between them had grown stronger. The threads were luminous now. Not visible to Dean’s eyes, but Castiel saw them. Glowing lines stretched between their bodies—his grace, Dean’s need—threading tighter with every passing moment.

“Dean…” Castiel whispered, but it was not spoken aloud.

It was felt—a pulse in the air, a breath against Dean’s throat inside the dream.

Dean whimpered again, louder this time. He was panting now, trembling.

The blankets had slipped low around his waist, revealing the muscles of his stomach tensing, twitching, quivering under phantom touch. His cock was thick and straining inside the fabric of his boxers, damp at the tip, twitching with every breath.

Castiel shifted slightly closer—not touching, just near enough to feel the heat. His own body was responding now, traitorous and slow, need pooling low and coiling tight.

This was not lust.

This was longing—celestial, ancient, and impossibly intimate. It was the language of connection. Of something sacred and primal.

Dean gasped again, one hand slipping low beneath the blanket, grinding into the friction of his own palm.

Still dreaming. Still lost.

Still with Castiel inside his mind, inside his blood.

The room shimmered faintly with supernatural energy—barely perceptible, like heat waves rising off pavement. And Castiel… he remained seated beside Dean, aglow with restraint, lit from within by a longing he could not yet name.

And then—abruptly—Dean let out a soft sigh, almost a whine and his eyes snapped open.

Chest heaving. Mouth open. Eyes unfocused, disoriented, lost in the fog of something too real to be just a dream.

Castiel’s eyes dimmed instantly.

The glowing wisps retracted like smoke sucked back into a lung, curling once before vanishing inside the stillness of his body.

Dean blinked in the dark.

He didn’t speak. Just panted. Swallowed. Stared at the ceiling like he was afraid to look anywhere else.

His body was still flushed, still hard, still humming with the echoes of something otherworldly.

And beside him, Castiel remained unmoving.

But his voice, when it came, was low and sure and quiet in the dark.

“You were dreaming.”

Dean didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it.

Couldn’t.

He just lay there, heart pounding, body strung tight like a bow. The bond between them pulsing softly beneath the surface, waiting.

Dean’s chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile barefoot through snow.

He stared up at the ceiling, jaw clenched, lips parted—trying to pull in breath through the thick fog of arousal and confusion strangling him. His body felt wound too tight, his cock pulsing against the damp fabric of his boxers, throbbing with the kind of ache that didn’t come from a regular wet dream.

This had been different.

Too different.

He reached down under the sheet, tentative, and his palm brushed the outline of his erection—still hard, still leaking, the tip soaked through and making a damp spot that clung to his skin like heat. He hissed through his teeth, biting back a sound.

“What…” he managed, voice hoarse. “What the hell just happened?”

From beside him, Castiel’s voice came calmly—low and steady, but with something softer underneath it. Almost… tender.

“You were having a dream,” Castiel said again, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I was helping you.”

Dean bolted upright, flipping over in the dark and grabbing for the lamp chain. The light clicked on with a sharp metallic rattle, spilling the room in golden haze and casting stark shadows against the walls.

Castiel sat exactly where he’d been. Upright. Rigid. Hands resting on his thighs like he didn’t know what to do with them.

But his eyes—those eyes, impossibly blue and open—drifted low.

Dean followed the gaze.

Shit.

His cock was still pitching a tent in his boxers, shameless and soaked, clearly outlined against the fabric. He yanked the sheet up over his lap like a guilty teenager, cheeks burning, throat dry.

He sat up with a groan, running a hand over his face, through his hair. The air was thick—humid with arousal, with grace, with something other.

“You were… helping me?” he asked, voice tight, brittle. “Helping me how, exactly?”

Castiel turned his gaze back to Dean’s face, head tilting with the same quiet curiosity he always carried—like he genuinely didn’t understand why Dean was upset.

“I was influencing your dream with my grace,” he said. “You were restless. I sensed your arousal, and… I responded.”

Dean stared at him.

“You responded,” he repeated.

Castiel nodded, expression utterly sincere.

“I allowed my grace to connect to your mind. Not fully, only gently—like a breeze through an open door. I meant to soothe you. But your body… your body responded differently. Intensely. So I stayed.” His voice dropped an octave, almost reverent. “You liked it. Your body liked it.”

Dean cleared his throat roughly, looking away. “Jesus…”

He gripped the edge of the blanket like it might anchor him. His thighs twitched under the sheet, his body still tense, still wanting—despite the rising panic curling in his gut.

“Okay, Cas…” he said, trying to steady his voice. “We gotta… we gotta set boundaries.”

“Boundaries,” Castiel repeated, his head tilting to the side again.

“Yeah,” Dean snapped, softer than anger, more like pleading. “Because this isn’t… normal. You can’t just—go diving into my head and making me feel shit without…without my consent man.”

Castiel blinked slowly, and for the first time since Dean had met him, he looked… uncertain.

“I wasn’t trying to harm you,” he said softly. “I thought it would bring you peace. You were dreaming already. I only… steered it.”

Dean looked at him again. Really looked at him.

Castiel was sitting with his hands curled loosely in his lap, shoulders squared, but his eyes—his eyes betrayed something vulnerable, something that didn’t quite have a name. Like a child who just realized they broke something fragile without understanding why it mattered.

Dean swallowed, hard.

“Cas…” he tried, more gently this time. “It’s not that I didn’t like it. I mean—clearly…”

He gestured vaguely at the mess in his lap, flustered.

Castiel’s eyes flicked downward again, but not lasciviously—just curiously, like he was studying a symptom, not a sin.

“It felt good,” Dean admitted. “Too good. That’s the problem.”

Castiel tilted his head again, slower this time, like he understood a little more. Like the edges of Dean’s anxiety were starting to make sense to him.

“You’re overwhelmed,” Castiel said quietly.

Dean didn’t answer.

Didn’t confirm nor deny it.

Just stared at the far wall, eyes glassy with the weight of it all. With the ache of his body and the tension still crawling under his skin.

“I won’t enter your dreams again without permission,” Castiel said. “I didn’t know it would overwhelm you.”

Dean nodded, jaw tight.

“Thanks.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the tension slowly bleeding into something else—softer, but still taut. Still close.

And then Castiel added, almost shyly:

“But… if you ever want me to… I would. I would do it again. Not to cause pain. But because… I want to be close to you.”

Dean swallowed thickly, heart hammering behind his ribs.

He didn’t know what to say.

So instead, he lay back down.

Turned off the light.

And stared into the dark.

The silence pressed in around them, thick as ever. But now, there was something unspoken lying in the space between their bodies.

Waiting.

***

The next morning, the bunker felt different.

The yellow lights filtered down the staircase in lazy stripes, catching dust motes in the air like a spotlight on an empty stage. The war room smelled faintly of coffee and leather and Dean’s cologne—the same one still clinging to Castiel’s borrowed shirt.

He sat at the edge of the table, hands folded neatly in his lap, watching as Dean and Sam moved around the room, packing weapons, muttering about salt rounds and machetes and backup clips. Castiel wore a faded navy t-shirt that fit too snug across his shoulders and a pair of jeans Dean had tossed him from the back of his dresser. The denim hugged his hips in a way that made Dean glance away every time he looked.

He still hadn’t quite met Castiel’s eyes this morning.

Not since the dream.

Not since he woke up aching and shaken and burning from the feel of grace in his blood like a drug he hadn’t meant to take.

“You’ll stay here,” Dean said briskly, voice gruff as he zipped up his bag. He didn’t look at Castiel when he said it—just slung the duffel over his shoulder and busied himself with gathering the rest of his gear.

Castiel blinked slowly from his seat.

Sam looked up from where he was checking the inventory in the weapons box.

“Dean,” he said with a frown. “We can’t just leave him here.”

“He’ll be fine,” Dean muttered. “Right, Cas?”

He turned to look at Castiel for the first time that morning—and instantly regretted it.

Castiel was staring at him with that tilted-head expression, like Dean had just tossed a Rubik’s cube at him mid-sentence. His blue eyes flicked between Dean’s face and his own folded hands, then back again.

It was like Castiel had felt the hesitation in Dean’s voice. Like he remembered, too.

The dream. The touch. The way Dean had whispered his name into the dark and then yanked the covers over himself like shame was a blanket he could hide beneath.

“I can go with you,” Castiel said after a beat, his voice calm and patient.

Dean and Sam both paused.

“I’m pretty resourceful,” Castiel added. “And I can protect you.”

Dean opened his mouth, then shut it again. The words didn’t come as easily today.

There was something caught in his throat. Some phantom feeling left over from the night before, curled tight like a bruise just beneath the surface.

He finally looked at Castiel again—and this time, held it.

The t-shirt was clinging to his collarbones. The jeans were tight in the thighs. His hair was still a little mussed from sleep, and yet he sat with the stillness of something ancient and powerful trying its best to pass for human.

And Dean’s body remembered every second of that dream.

“Cas…” he started, then faltered. His voice came quieter this time, more vulnerable. “We can’t have you out there in the open. What if those assholes—those humans—what if they find you?”

Castiel blinked. “You’re hunting a nest of vampires. They’re not the ones who harmed me.”

Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, Cas, I know that. But it doesn’t mean you’re safe out there.”

Sam stepped in, voice gentle. “Dean, we can’t leave him here alone. He doesn’t know how to—” Sam gestured vaguely, “exist without supervision.”

Castiel tilted his head again, still looking at Dean. Like every part of his attention belonged to him. Like he was studying the trembling corners of Dean’s restraint.

Dean cleared his throat and shifted his weight, suddenly hyperaware of the way Castiel’s eyes moved over him. He tried not to blush, but it prickled at the base of his neck anyway.

“We’re not gone long,” he said gruffly, more to Sam than anyone else. “It’s just a quick sweep. In and out. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t need to be supervised.”

But the argument had no heat. Dean was already second-guessing it. Because deep down, he didn’t want to leave Castiel. Not after last night. Not after the way it made him feel—wanted, overwhelmed, known.

And Castiel seemed to know it, too.

“You’re nervous,” Castiel said softly.

Dean’s eyes snapped to him.

“I can feel it,” the angel continued. “Your heart is… jittery. Like a trapped moth.”

Dean scowled and turned away, mumbling, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Dean’s hands clenched on the strap of his duffel.

Sam looked between them, sensing something unspoken and thick, like smoke in a sealed room. Whatever had passed between Dean and Castiel last night, it hadn’t left.

“Dean,” Sam said carefully.

Dean didn’t respond. Just stared at the floor, then at Castiel’s bare feet beneath the table.

Finally, he let out a long breath.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But you stay close. And you listen to everything I say. No disappearing. No vanishing into dream space or whatever the hell that was.”

Castiel nodded once. “Understood.”

Dean shouldered his bag again, still not meeting Castiel’s eyes.

But as he passed, he felt it—just the faintest brush of grace against his skin. Not enough to touch. Just enough to remind him:

I’m still here.

Notes:

I have Chapter 4 already written, so I might update this week instead of Monday if I can swing it! Kudos and comments are gratefully appreciated!!

Chapter 4: Divine Interruption i

The ride was quiet.

Stiff.

Too many thoughts, too many bodies in too little space. The Impala rumbled steadily down the two-lane road, cutting through dense woods like a knife through soft fruit. Trees flanked either side like watchful sentries, the sun long gone behind them. The low hum of the engine was joined only by the scratchy sound of rock music playing just barely through the speakers—quiet, as if Dean couldn’t handle anything louder than the blood in his ears.

Castiel sat in the back seat.

He hadn’t said a word since climbing in.

Just sat there—silent, unmoving, hands folded loosely in his lap. But Dean could feel him back there like a pressure behind his ribs. Like heat crawling up the back of his neck.

Power clung to him in the silence. Even restrained, even seated—Castiel’s presence filled the car like fog. Not visible, but felt. His grace was leashed, pulled so tightly inward it seemed to buzz under his skin. Like it was pacing inside him. Hungry. Restless.

The air around him was subtly warped—warmer, heavier. Dean noticed the way the leather creaked around Castiel like it didn’t know how to settle beneath him. The faint smell of ozone still clung to his skin, masked beneath the scent of Dean’s detergent.

Sam kept sneaking glances at him from the passenger seat, eyebrows tight with unspoken questions. He was leaning slightly toward the window, shoulders stiff, eyes cutting toward Castiel every few minutes like he was waiting for him to suddenly levitate or burst into song.

Castiel didn’t meet his eyes. But he knew.

He could feel the glances.

After a long moment, his voice came, soft and low.

“Is there something on my face?”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“You keep staring,” Castiel said plainly. “Is there something… wrong?”

Sam blinked again, looking momentarily caught. “No, I just… I guess I’m curious. You’re not exactly the average backseat passenger.”

Dean’s hands tightened on the wheel.

"Sam, stop staring at him like he's some social experiment," he snapped.

Sam’s brow furrowed. “I can’t help it. I’m curious.”

Castiel tilted his head, the motion subtle in the mirror. “Curiosity is natural,” he said, tone without accusation.

But Dean felt the shift in the air again.

That delicate edge of pressure. Like a tuning fork humming just under the surface of sound.

Dean clenched his jaw, the tension in his forearms bleeding into his grip on the wheel.

Because Castiel wasn’t just there. He was everywhere. In the faint flicker of static across the radio. In the way the metal of the car seemed to hum a half-note higher than usual. In the way the lights of the dashboard dimmed ever so slightly when Castiel exhaled.

It wasn’t hostile.

It wasn’t even intentional.

It was just… him.

His power coiled behind his ribs like a storm barely held back by skin and sinew. A presence that didn’t belong in something as small and human-shaped as a borrowed t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

And Dean couldn’t stop thinking about last night.

The way grace had poured into his body like smoke and warmth and want.

The way it still lingered in his veins like a phantom breath against his skin.

The silence dragged on, thick and heavy.

Sam eventually looked away, fiddling with his phone, trying to give the conversation up like a lost cause. Castiel returned to staring out the window—but even that looked unnatural. Like he was trying to pretend he was something he wasn’t.

Dean exhaled hard through his nose.

This wasn’t going to be like any other hunt.

He could feel it in his bones.

And in the back seat, Castiel blinked slowly, his eyes meeting Dean’s for half a second in the rearview mirror.

And something passed between them.

Not words. Not even emotion.

Just pressure.

Recognition.

The road narrowed the farther they drove, a broken stretch of gravel laced with early frost and pine needles. Trees loomed on either side like silent giants, casting crooked shadows across Baby’s hood as she ate up the miles.

The air inside the car had barely shifted—still heavy with too many unsaid things, and something even weightier humming just beneath the surface: longing.

Dean hadn’t looked in the rearview mirror since Castiel’s gaze caught his. It rattled something in his chest—something small and wild and cornered.

But he felt Castiel watching him.

Not just looking—watching.

Like he could read the heat building at the nape of Dean’s neck. Like he was counting every breath, cataloguing every twitch in Dean’s jaw. That fucking angel didn’t miss anything.

Sam broke the silence, his voice a little softer this time.

“So… Castiel,” he said, careful not to turn fully in his seat, “how much of your grace came back after you healed? I mean… are you functioning at full power again or…?”

There was a beat.

Dean risked a glance at the mirror, and found Castiel calmly looking at Sam now, hands still folded in his lap like he was sitting in church pews.

“My grace is… fractured,” Castiel replied, voice as smooth as ever. “But it’s reforming. Slowly.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Sam pressed.

“It means,” Castiel said, eyes flicking toward Dean for a heartbeat too long, “that I am still dangerous.”

Dean’s hands twitched on the wheel.

Sam blinked. “Dangerous to us?”

“No,” Castiel said with a clarity that settled hard between them. “Never to you.”

Dean licked his lips, felt the heat creeping into his collar, and cleared his throat.

“You feel like a loaded gun in my back seat,” Dean muttered. “Can’t say that’s comforting.”

“I’m trying to suppress the overflow,” Castiel said softly. “But proximity to you makes it… difficult.”

Dean stiffened, jaw clenching.

Sam raised his eyebrows slightly but didn’t speak.

“You mean me specifically,” Dean said after a pause.

“Yes.”

Dean bit down on the inside of his cheek and stared hard at the road.

“Because of this whole bond thing.”

Castiel didn’t answer at first.

Then:

“Because of you.”

Dean blinked and had to look away from the mirror again.

The next few minutes passed with the radio humming low in the background and the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires like brittle bones.

Dean could feel it again—Castiel’s grace—rolling off him in soft waves, brushing against Dean’s neck, sliding down his spine like fingers barely touching skin. It wasn’t deliberate. That was the part that drove Dean crazy.

Castiel existed in a state of intimacy.

Every breath he took was a whisper against Dean’s boundaries. Every blink of those blue eyes was a rope being slowly coiled around Dean’s chest.

Dean sighed through his nose and turned the music up just one notch.

They pulled off the road about ten minutes later.

The Impala coasted to a stop behind a screen of trees, gravel crunching beneath her tires as Dean killed the headlights. The clearing ahead was barely visible between the trunks, but the structure was there—a rundown farmhouse, swallowed up by ivy and decay, its bones sagging under the weight of time and rot.

“Alright,” Dean muttered, killing the engine and grabbing his bag. “We’re here.”

Sam climbed out first, checking his weapons. Dean followed, shotgun slung across his back, machete at his hip.

Castiel stepped out last.

The second his boots touched the ground, the world shifted.

The air went taut. Crisp. Heavy.

Like the trees themselves were holding their breath.

Dean turned to look at him—and stopped dead.

The air around Castiel shimmered slightly, just for a second, like heat rising off pavement.

And his eyes…

For the first time, they didn’t look quite human.

They glowed faintly—barely perceptible, like dying starlight—but the color was impossibly deep. Too blue. Too vast. Like they were made of sky and nothing else.

“You good?” Dean asked, his voice a little rough.

Castiel nodded once. “Yes.”

But the earth felt different beneath Dean’s boots.

He felt the hair on his arms raise, his chest constrict. And it wasn’t fear. Not exactly.

It was the visceral, instinctual reaction to something bigger than himself standing just inches away. Something that had once fallen through galaxies and still wore the shape of a man.

Dean swallowed thickly.

“Let’s go.”

They moved as one—Sam flanking left, Dean taking center, Castiel a few paces behind but always near.

The house was quiet. No obvious signs of movement. But something about it felt wrong. The kind of wrong Dean had learned to trust—thick, metallic, like the taste of blood before the hit lands.

They crept through the broken door and into the rotting foyer. The smell hit first—copper and dampness and rot. Sam motioned upstairs. Dean nodded.

That’s when they heard it.

A hiss—wet, gurgling—and the skitter of feet. Not human.

Dean spun toward the sound just as two vamps rounded the corner—fangs bared, eyes bloodshot.

He raised his shotgun—

But he never got the shot off.

Because the air behind him exploded with heat and light.

Castiel moved.

He didn’t run. He shifted. One second he was behind Dean, and the next he was slamming his hand into the first vampire’s chest with a flash of golden light.

The thing screeched—a noise that wasn’t natural—and then crumpled to the ground like its bones had vanished.

The second lunged for Sam, but before Dean could even turn, Castiel reached out, and something invisible snatched the vampire mid-air and slammed it against the far wall with a shuddering crack.

Silence.

The room smelled like burnt ozone and blood.

Dean stared, wide-eyed.

Castiel stood in the center of the carnage, breathing evenly, his eyes still faintly glowing. Not a drop of blood on him.

Sam looked like he was trying to come up with a theory in real time.

Dean swallowed hard.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

Castiel blinked. “Still not him.”

Dean let out a breathless laugh and shook his head.

“Remind me never to piss you off.”

Castiel looked at him then. Really looked.

And Dean felt the aftershock of that power curling low in his belly.

Because for all that Castiel had just done—he hadn’t even unleashed yet.

Not really.

And Dean was beginning to understand just how thin the leash actually was.

***

Back in the bunker, the quiet was almost too much.

It echoed. Thick. Pressed against Dean's ears like cotton, like the muffled heartbeat of something not yet ready to speak its name.

He dropped his bag by the door, kicked it half-heartedly toward the wall, and shrugged off his jacket. Castiel followed silently, footsteps soundless despite the weight of his presence. The scent of smoke, old blood, and cold night air clung to both of them.

Dean made for the kitchen, letting his boots thud deliberately against the floor just to fill the space with something. Anything. He opened the fridge and grabbed two beers. Cracked one. The hiss was sharp in the silence.

He turned, the second bottle already in his hand.

“You want one?” he asked, voice pitched low, not looking.

When Castiel didn’t answer, Dean risked a glance over his shoulder—and nearly jumped when he saw the angel right behind him. Closer than expected, as always. Like gravity had shifted in Castiel's favor.

“I do not require alcohol,” Castiel said, voice softer than it had been in days. “But I like the way you ask.”

Dean’s stomach fluttered—god, stupidly—and he held the bottle out anyway, avoiding Castiel’s eyes.

The bottle was accepted, but Castiel didn’t drink. He just… watched.

Dean cleared his throat. Tried to focus on the cold glass in his hand. On the condensation rolling down his fingers.

“You said your grace is tied to me,” he said. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Castiel’s head tilted slowly, the way it always did when he was trying to find the words humans could understand. The low light from the kitchen reflected off his skin like moonlight—pale and still bruised at the edges of his jaw.

“It means my grace responded and anchored itself to you.”

Castiel paused. His gaze fell to Dean’s collarbone, like he was seeing it for the first time.

Dean's fingers twitched on the neck of the bottle.

“You’re saying… I’m your battery charger now?”

“You’re my tether,” Castiel replied calmly. “My grounding point. My… anchor to existence.”

Dean let out a laugh, brittle and short. “Great. No pressure.”

“You’re frightened,” Castiel said, not as an accusation, but as a fact.

Dean gritted his teeth. Looked away.

“I’m…” He swallowed hard. “I don’t know what the hell I am.”

“You’re overwhelmed.”

There was something devastatingly gentle about the way Castiel said it. Like he wasn’t guessing—like he knew. Like he’d felt the overwhelmed pressing into Dean’s ribs and still wanted to come closer.

Dean looked up, finally meeting Castiel’s gaze—and that’s when something cracked.

The vulnerability there was unbearable.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered. “Yeah, I am.”

And then Castiel moved, just a fraction, enough for the space between them to shrink like it had never been there at all.

His fingers came up, deliberate and slow, and settled against Dean’s chest—just over his heart. The touch was so light it might have been imagined, but Dean felt it. Not just the fingers—the warmth.

A flicker of grace, like golden static behind his ribs.

Dean's lungs stuttered.

It didn’t hurt, but it seared.

Not skin. Not flesh.

Soul.

“I am not here to take from you,” Castiel murmured, and his hand didn’t move, didn’t press. “But I can’t pretend I don’t want… more.”

Dean’s fingers were numb around the beer bottle. He set it down blindly on the counter, not trusting himself to speak yet.

“More of what?” he managed, barely more than a breath.

“More of you.”

Dean’s entire body jolted. Like the words had struck something inside him that had been waiting.

He stepped back. Not because he wanted to—but because if he didn’t, he was afraid he wouldn’t stop.

“I need to shower,” he mumbled, voice cracking.

Castiel didn’t stop him.

But Dean could feel the heat of that handprint on his chest long after he’d walked away.

The hunt was over.

But something older, deeper, and far more terrifying had just begun.

***

The water hit him like a second skin.

Hot, steady, rushing over the curve of his back, down the line of his spine, pooling at his feet. Dean stood under the showerhead, arm braced against the tiled wall, forehead pressed to his forearm. He could barely feel the bruises anymore, the leftover sting of the hunt washing away with the steam, but the tension—that stayed.

It throbbed low in his chest. Coiled between his ribs.

He sighed shakily, letting his eyes close, steam rising thick around him, like it could drown out the feeling.

The bond. The fucking bond.

Dean wanted to believe it was just adrenaline. That the way his heart had slammed in his chest when Castiel’s grace had flared had been instinct. Biological. Just another brush with death.

But it wasn’t.

Not when his body still remembered how Castiel’s fingers had pressed against his chest—like he belonged there. Not when Dean could still feel the ghost of that warmth deep under his skin.

What the hell does he even see in me? Dean thought, jaw tightening. Why me? Why this? I’m not—

A soft flutter. Almost delicate. Dean’s eyes opened immediately, his stomach lurching.

He didn’t need to look.

He already knew.

But he turned anyway.

Castiel stood on the opposite side of the large, tiled room. Silent. Now barefoot on the cold tile, wearing only the jeans and t-shirt Dean had given him earlier. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his eyes—his eyes—were locked on Dean with quiet reverence.

Dean’s breath caught.

Every inch of him tensed.

He was naked, completely exposed under the warm spray, water cascading down his back and chest, steam curling around his legs. He felt raw. Unarmored.

“Cas,” he said, voice lower than he meant it to be.

No response. Just the sound of the water. And the steady, unbearable presence of him.

Dean turned his face back into his arm, heart hammering. Shame prickled over his skin like a second kind of heat.

What is he doing? Why is he looking at me like that?

He wasn’t sure if it was anger or panic or… something else pressing into his throat.

I can’t think when he’s near me. I can’t breathe when he’s not.

The flutter came again. Closer. Like an echo wrapped in heartbeat.

Dean turned again—and this time, Castiel had taken a step forward. The light caught the shadow of his wings, faint and golden in the mist. Not visible to the eye, but there. Felt more than seen.

“Why are you here?” Dean asked, voice hoarse.

Castiel blinked slowly. “You needed me.”

“I need to be alone.”

Castiel tilted his head, his voice impossibly soft. “But you’re not.”

Dean’s lips parted. He stared.

He couldn’t deny the aching pull in his chest.

Couldn’t ignore the way his body, traitorous and shaking, wanted.

Wanted to be near him.

Wanted to be seen by him.

Wanted to be touched.

Dean leaned his forehead harder into his arm and groaned under his breath.

You’re losing your goddamn mind.

But when he turned again, Castiel was still there—quiet, constant, unmovable.

And Dean’s resolve was cracking.

He tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on the stream of water beating against his back, the way it sluiced over his skin, hot and steady—but all he could hear was the sound of Castiel stepping closer. Slow, deliberate. Like the pull between them was gravity, and Dean was the one drawing him in.

He didn’t know what came over him. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the ache he hadn’t named yet. Maybe it was the bond—that damn bond—but suddenly, Dean turned around.

Fully.

The water hit his chest now, trailing rivulets down his torso, and Castiel stood just feet away. Silent. Still.

And looking.

His eyes moved over Dean’s body like a caress—slow, unhurried, stopping at his groin. Dean felt heat crawl up his neck, and his cock twitched under the weight of that gaze.

“Cas… I can’t—” Dean’s voice cracked, wet and broken against the tiles. “You gotta… come here.”

It wasn’t a demand.

It was a surrender.

Castiel stepped forward without hesitation. The bottoms of his borrowed jeans soaked instantly. Steam curled around his legs like fog, and the thin cotton of his shirt clung to his chest, darkening, outlining the lines of his body. His hair was damp now, soft waves curling faintly at the ends.

Dean’s breath hitched. His lips parted. His eyes were bloodshot from the heat of the shower, pupils blown wide with need and something dangerously close to awe.

He reached out—he couldn’t stop himself—and grabbed Castiel’s wrist. The angel didn’t resist. His skin was warm, pulse steady beneath Dean’s fingers, and Dean tugged him forward, closer, until the water was hitting both of them.

Now they stood chest to chest.

Dean glanced behind Castiel’s shoulders—and bit his bottom lip.

He could see them. Barely.

The outlines of Castiel’s wings shimmered faintly in the steam, the water revealing the black, iridescent edges like a silhouette behind glass. The feathers twitched under the pressure, real and unreal at once.

“Can I see them?” Dean asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Castiel tilted his head. “You want to see my wings?”

Dean nodded slowly. “Yeah. I do.”

The angel’s expression didn’t shift much, but something behind his eyes softened. Then he lifted his free hand. Dean flinched—only slightly—when Castiel reached out and pressed two fingers gently to his forehead.

And the world narrowed in.

Dean’s knees buckled under the sudden weight of sensation—vertigo crashing through his senses like a wave—and he would’ve hit the tile if Castiel hadn’t caught him.

In an instant, Castiel’s arm wrapped around his back, holding him upright, and his soaked body pressed full against Dean’s, pinning him to the wall with gentle but undeniable strength.

Dean gasped, blinking rapidly, heart pounding in his throat—and then he saw them.

Majestic.

Towering.

Real.

Castiel’s wings unfurled slowly behind him, spreading wide in the mist and low light. Midnight black, soaked and glistening, each feather catching the water and reflecting it like obsidian glass. The tips twitched faintly, like they were still waking up, and the sheer size of them was staggering—each one arched high above his head, curving toward the edges of the room like a dark cathedral ceiling.

Dean couldn’t breathe.

They weren’t just wings.

They were power. Grace made flesh. A quiet violence wrapped in beauty.

“I…” Dean couldn’t finish the sentence. His mouth was dry despite the water hitting it. He looked up at Castiel, whose face was just inches from his own.

“You’re trembling,” Castiel said softly.

Dean hadn’t noticed until now—his hands were shaking where they clutched at the angel’s shirt, fingers knotted in the wet fabric. His entire body was quaking under the closeness, under the sheer divinity pressing into him like a tide.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Dean whispered.

“No one has,” Castiel replied. His voice was a vibration in Dean’s chest. “Not like this.”

The wings shifted again, enclosing slightly behind them—less spread now, more… protective. Almost possessive.

Dean could feel the heat of Castiel’s breath against his jaw. Could feel the pulse of power in the air between them. Could feel himself slipping, unraveling under the weight of it all.

And still, he didn’t step away.

He couldn’t.

He didn’t want to.

Dean’s fingers trembled as they moved.

It started as instinct. A need to feel something real beneath his hands. He lifted his palms, dragging them slowly up beneath Castiel’s damp shirt, skin meeting skin—hot, solid, divine.

Castiel didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, even.

His body was impossibly still under the touch, like he didn’t want to scare Dean off. Like he’d been waiting for this for a very long time.

Dean exhaled shakily and pushed the wet fabric higher, inch by inch. The shirt clung to Castiel’s skin, reluctant to part, steam making it tacky and stubborn. Dean’s hands worked it over the smooth stretch of his chest, the curve of his shoulders—until it caught briefly at his wings.

Dean’s breath caught. “How the hell does this not… get tangled?” he muttered, voice a low rasp, mostly to himself.

The wet cotton finally slipped free, and Dean tossed it aside. It hit the tiled floor with a wet slap, forgotten.

And then—

Dean looked.

Really looked.

Castiel stood bare-chested before him, body lean and carved like a sculpture come to life. Not perfect—not smooth—but etched with something holy. Scars that weren’t scars. Markings, faint and shimmering, traced into the skin like sigils or celestial runes. Ancient. Unreadable.

Not wounds.

But words.

And somehow, Dean could almost hear them.

He reached out, entranced, and touched one along Castiel’s ribs, following the line with reverent fingers. Castiel’s body tensed, a soft sound escaping him—a flutter of breath, maybe a moan. Behind him, his wings reacted, twitching hard in response, a low rustle of damp feathers brushing the steam-heavy air.

Dean's breath hitched at the sound.

“You’re so beautiful,” Dean murmured, the words slipping out like truth he couldn’t hold in anymore.

He stepped forward, pressing closer. His arms slid up around Castiel’s bare back, fingertips trailing between his shoulder blades, finding the warm ridge of tendon where muscle and wing met. He traced along the base of one wing and—

Castiel sighed.

It was quiet, deep, and so raw with contentment that it shook something loose in Dean’s chest.

He did it again—stroking softly, following the path with his palm—and the wings responded, curling slightly inward, not aggressively, but welcoming. Wanting. Dean could feel the warmth radiating off them, like the sun behind a veil. The feathers, slick and dark, brushed lightly against Dean’s sides.

Dean pressed his face to the space between Castiel’s neck and shoulder, breath trembling. He felt Castiel’s skin damp and hot beneath his lips, the angel standing utterly still but humming with restrained energy, like lightning caged in a jar.

He could feel everything.

The grace vibrating under the surface.

The way Castiel leaned into his hands.

The tension strung between them, so thick it was almost sound.

And still—neither of them said it. Neither dared name what this was. What it was becoming. A “profound” bond didn’t even seem accurate.

Dean just held him tighter, thumbs stroking reverent circles near the wings’ joints, and felt Castiel’s entire body react like the ocean rising to the pull of the moon.

Like Dean was the moon.

And Castiel… was his tide.

And Dean didn’t mean to move.

Didn’t mean to lean in.

Didn’t mean to tilt his head and press his mouth—tentative, trembling—against the warm, damp skin of Castiel’s neck.

But he did.

A quiet kiss, feather-light. Almost unsure.

And Castiel shuddered.

Not just his body—but his wings.

The enormous, wet feathers fluttered in a staccato twitch, brushing Dean’s arms, curling forward like they wanted to hold him too. Dean’s fingers had never stopped moving—stroking the ridged joint where wing met flesh—and now, when he kissed Castiel again, deeper this time, the wings responded like they were sentient. A slow pulse of motion, a quake of restrained power.

Dean’s lips parted slightly. He licked into the hollow of Castiel’s throat, and the taste of his skin—warm, clean, rain-washed—sent a dizzy pull through Dean’s stomach.

He was naked against him.

Stark. Exposed. Wet from head to toe, water cascading down his spine, down his legs, and he forgot—forgot everything but this. His cock pressed against Castiel’s thigh, thick and aching, rubbing raw against the soaked denim clinging to Castiel’s leg. The friction made his breath catch in his throat, made his hips twitch forward without thought, and Castiel let out a noise—low and fractured.

Dean froze at the sound.

Pulled back, just an inch, forehead hovering near Castiel’s.

And then—

A pulse.

A ripple, electric and ancient, rolled out from Castiel’s chest. Dean felt it—deep in his sternum, in his lungs, in the marrow of his bones. Grace. Holy and wild. It slithered along his skin like a thousand hands dragging heat up every inch of him.

It didn’t hurt.

But it did burn.

Not his body—his restraint.

Dean groaned. He rocked forward instinctively, pressing harder into the line of Castiel’s thigh. His cock throbbed, leaking against the soaked fabric, and the friction made his knees weak.

Castiel looked down at him, chest rising and falling with something barely contained. His hands came up, trembling now, and settled on Dean’s hips.

“Dean…” he murmured, voice low, wrecked. “You feel everything I feel. My grace… it’s reaching for you. I can’t pull it back.”

Dean’s breath shivered out of him. “I don’t… I don’t want you to.”

Another kiss—this one open-mouthed and needy—pressed just below Castiel’s jaw. Dean licked the water from his throat, from the edge of his collarbone, and Castiel's hands tightened reflexively on his hips.

Dean’s arms slid back around him, fingertips curling just beneath the wings again, and that did it—Castiel gasped aloud, wings expanding behind him with a violent rush of steam and air. Dean swore he could feel the grace in them, like static kissing his spine.

“You make me…” Castiel’s voice was hoarse now, shivering with restraint. “You make me feel… human.”

Dean rested his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder, gasping into his skin. “Then be human. Just… for a little while.”

Another pulse of grace. Stronger this time. It spilled between them like liquid heat, and Dean moaned helplessly, body trembling with the ache it left in its wake.

He wanted this.

God, he wanted this.

His body knew it before his mind ever caught up.

He didn’t care about the walls he’d built. Not here. Not in the warmth. Not when the man holding him had wings like the night sky and a voice like thunder trying to speak softly.

Dean pressed a kiss over Castiel’s pulsing vein and whispered, breathless:

“Take what you need.”

And Castiel didn’t move—

Not yet.

But his wings twitched again.

His grace shimmered hotter.

And his hands were still on Dean’s hips.

Waiting.

The water still thundered around them, but Dean only heard his own breathing—ragged, shallow, tangled in the heat building behind his ribs. His cock throbbed against Castiel’s thigh, the ache so sharp now he couldn’t think straight. And Castiel’s grace pulsed against his skin like a second heartbeat, humming beneath the surface of the world.

Castiel didn’t move at first.

Not in the way Dean expected.

Instead, his wings—those impossibly black, soaked wings curling inward, surrounding him—skimmed his bare thighs, feather-light and reverent, like they wanted to touch everywhere all at once and didn’t know where to start.

They shifted behind him—slow, deliberate—curling in a wide arc as though drawn by instinct. The thick, soaked feathers began to move forward, enclosing Dean in a dark, shivering cocoon of heat and shadow. Dean’s eyes fluttered open at the sensation—at the weightless drag of wingtips brushing his lower back, slipping down over his thighs, tickling the tender skin just above his knees.

It made him shiver.

Not from cold.

From need.

The wings curled tighter.

Protective.

Possessive.

Teasing.

Dean gasped when a single feather—just one—glided between his legs. It didn’t push, didn’t demand, but it knew. It felt. The edges of the feather grazed his inner thigh, impossibly soft and reverent as it brushed too close to his cock without quite touching. Dean moaned under his breath, body arching slightly, pressing himself shamelessly into Castiel’s thigh just for some relief.

And then Castiel spoke—his voice hoarse and cracking like thunder behind velvet.

“Dean… may I… touch you?”

Dean blinked.

It was the hesitation.

The way the angel, who could command storms and light and time, was asking—with breath in his throat and trembling hands.

Dean felt his face go hot.

He turned his head into Castiel’s shoulder to hide it, trying not to let the strangled laugh escape his throat. “You’re already touching me, Cas.”

“Not like that,” Castiel whispered. “Not the way you need me to. Not the way I… want to, you needed permission.”

The words crashed into Dean’s chest like a goddamn freight train. His body jolted, heart pounding so hard it felt like it would leap from his ribs. He pulled back to look Castiel in the eye.

Blue. Unrelenting. Glowing faintly now—just barely—like his grace couldn’t quite be contained anymore.

“I—” Dean swallowed, throat dry. “Yeah. I mean… yeah, Cas. You can touch me.”

He said it, and then immediately dropped his gaze to the side like a bashful teenager, pink blooming across his cheeks like the heat finally had somewhere to land.

Castiel’s mouth quirked up—just a flicker of something soft. “And… may I kiss you?”

Dean definitely choked then. He laughed—a dry, breathless little noise—and buried his face against Castiel’s jaw, shoulders trembling.

“You’re asking me permission for all this?” Dean muttered into his neck.

Castiel’s voice was low. “Consent is sacred to you, you set a boundary.”

Dean pulled back again, this time slower, softer—and for the first time, he let himself look at Castiel not just as a being, not just as a savior, but as a man.

His man.

His… angel.

“Yeah I guess… I did say that huh…” And then—Dean leaned in and pressed their mouths together.

Castiel sighed like it was the first breath he’d taken in centuries.

The kiss was wet and desperate, all steam and slick mouths, the warm tile behind Dean’s back replaced now by the heat of Castiel’s body. The wings curled tighter, fully enclosing them, tips brushing up the backs of Dean’s thighs, teasing, brushing between them again and again.

Dean groaned into Castiel’s mouth as the feathered edge ghosted over his leaking cock, light and maddening, and his knees nearly gave out.

Castiel caught him.

Held him, water still pouring around them like rain caught in a baptismal blaze.

And still—Castiel paused, hand ghosting just above Dean’s chest.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered. “What you need.”

Dean trembled.

“I need you,” he said, eyes wide and wet, “to stop asking for permission and just fucking touch me already.”

Castiel didn’t need to be told twice.

And the wings flared wide behind him—hungry, ready, divine.

Dean couldn’t take his eyes off them—those wings.

Now fully unfurled, they curled around him like a dark, velvet sky folding into itself. Midnight black, dripping water in heavy droplets that clung to the glossy feathers like dew on obsidian. They shielded him from everything else—the cold tile, the fluorescent lights, the entire world outside this space. It was like stepping into a holy place. Sacred. Quiet. His.

The wings flexed slightly, then softened—tips dragging over Dean’s skin with the weight of a promise.

Castiel leaned in.

One hand lifted to cup Dean’s face with a gentleness that ached. His palm was warm, grounding. His thumb stroked the edge of Dean’s cheekbone, reverent in the way one might handle a holy relic.

And then Castiel kissed him.

This time, there was no hesitation. No pause. No breath.

His lips were hot and desperate, mouth opening against Dean’s in a deep, claiming kiss that stole the air from his lungs. His tongue slid in, coaxing Dean’s open with a confident stroke. Dean gasped into him, hands fisting in the soaked denim of Castiel’s jeans as his head fell back against the tiled wall, spine arching into the press of the angel’s body.

And then—a touch.

Dean gasped when Castiel’s hand slid down his chest, gliding over his ribs and stomach. The fingers paused, featherlight, over his nipples—thumb brushing one gently, then circling with quiet fascination, watching Dean’s entire body react like it had been set alight.

Dean let out a strangled groan and bucked slightly, hips jerking forward without conscious thought.

Castiel’s eyes darkened.

“You’re sensitive,” he whispered like it was a discovery, like it was precious. “Do you enjoy this?”

Dean managed a shaky, “Yes—fuck, yes—Cas—”

Before he could finish, Castiel’s hand dipped lower, over his stomach, his protruding hipbones… lower…

His fingers wrapped slowly around Dean’s cock, and Dean howled—a raw, broken sound that echoed off the tile. The sensation sent a jolt of arousal tearing through him so violently his knees gave a warning buckle. Castiel caught him easily, bracing him with his free arm while the other continued its gentle, devastating rhythm.

Dean’s head dropped forward onto Castiel’s shoulder, panting, trembling.

The angel's grip was firm but exploratory, testing pressure and rhythm. Grace shimmered in the air now—scentless but thick, crackling like heat lightning. It hummed against Dean’s skin, wrapping around his spine like a thread pulling him taut.

“You sound so beautiful,” Castiel murmured into his ear. “Like every sound you make has been waiting for me.”

Dean groaned, his body twitching in response as Castiel’s fingers curled slightly tighter around the hard length in his hand. Every move felt like it was studied—as if Castiel was learning the map of Dean’s pleasure by touch alone. His face was so close now, eyes flickering down to Dean’s parted lips, the flush on his cheeks, the glint of tears at the corners of his eyes.

His wings moved again, curling tighter, until Dean could feel the damp feathered edge brush the insides of his thighs, teasing—just enough to make him gasp. The whisper of grace moved too, pulsing between them, reverberating like a low hum of power vibrating through Castiel’s palm, up through Dean’s cock, and into the marrow of his bones.

Dean’s entire body was trembling, suspended on the precipice between need and not yet.

Softly—tentatively—Dean began to roll his hips forward, pushing into the rhythm of Castiel’s hand. It was instinct, pure and desperate. Like breathing, or praying. The angel’s touch was reverent but sure, fingers wrapped just tight enough to make Dean feel like he was losing his goddamn mind.

Castiel felt it, too.

The subtle shift in Dean’s hips. The hitch in his breath. The way his body chased the friction with a need that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with longing.

And Castiel watched.

His head tilted down, eyes tracking the slow slide of Dean’s cock through his fist, mesmerized by the way the flushed length disappeared into his palm and reappeared, glistening and hard. There was something awed in his expression. Something ancient and humbled—like he was witnessing a miracle.

Dean moaned, breath catching.

The grace curled around him again—thick and golden like warm honey, flowing into every crevice of his being. It seeped under his skin, soaked into his bones. It pulsed down the arch of his spine, poured through his chest and lower—lower—until Dean could feel it settling in the heat of his arousal. A warmth that burned, surged, expanded—curling around the ache inside him like it wanted to fill him from the inside out.

His balls were tight now. Heavy. His cock flushed and leaking, twitching in Castiel’s palm with every roll of his hips.

And then—Dean looked up at him. Swallowed hard. Voice cracking like a confession.

“Can I touch you, Cas?”

For a moment, Castiel didn’t respond with words.

Instead, his hand tightened around Dean’s length in a slow, deliberate pull that made Dean gasp.

That was all the permission Dean needed.

With shaking hands, he reached down. Fingers trembling as they found the hem of Castiel’s soaked jeans. The denim clung to him, heavy with water, but Dean worked them open—slow, determined—and when he freed him, when his hand brushed over hot, rigid flesh, he felt Castiel shudder.

The angel’s wings jolted behind him, a violent twitch that sent water flying off the soaked feathers like black fire. His head dropped back, lips parted, and a low sound spilled from him—not quite a moan, not quite a sigh, but something old. Something raw. Like he hadn’t been touched in centuries. Like the contact was a shock to his system, grounding him in ways even his grace couldn’t.

Dean stared—entranced.

His hand wrapped gently around the weight of him, and the contrast between them felt surreal. Angel and man. Heat and vulnerability. Dean stroked once, and Castiel made that noise again—throat bared, wings twitching, hands fisting momentarily against the tile before finding their way back to Dean’s hips.

“I didn’t know,” Castiel whispered, voice rough and low.

Dean looked up at him.

“Didn’t know what?” he asked softly.

“That... this is what it’s like,” Castiel murmured, eyes dark with something between reverence and hunger. “To be wanted. This way.”

Dean froze. Breath caught. Blood rushing in his ears louder than the water overhead.

Castiel opened his eyes slowly, finding Dean’s.

Dean’s breath hitched—his chest rising in a stuttered swell, his body taut, trembling. Every nerve lit up like kindling. Castiel’s grace pulsed again—soft and molten, threading through Dean’s spine, curling behind his ribs, pooling between his legs with a heat that was almost unbearable. His body wasn’t just reacting—it was craving, answering a call it didn’t fully understand.

Castiel’s hand never faltered. Gentle, sure, reverent. Not just jerking him toward release, but holding him there—cradling him through it. Every stroke slow and firm. Like Castiel knew how to break him down piece by piece, until nothing remained but need.

Dean’s head dropped forward, resting against Castiel’s bare shoulder, lips brushing damp skin, and his hips gave one final thrust—

And then it hit.

A wave crashed through him—violent and warm and wild. His whole body locked, his moan muffled against Castiel’s skin as he came hard into the angel’s hand, hips twitching. He felt the tremble in his thighs, the burn in his belly, the dizzying overload of pleasure that made the world narrow down to now.

Castiel followed—just moments after.

Dean didn’t even have to touch him again. As Dean’s release spilled across his stomach and between their bodies, Castiel let out a low, guttural sound that was all breath and strain. His wings flexed hard behind him, a sudden crack of movement like the recoil of something divine. They surged wide, haloing them both in a rush of wind and warm mist from the shower. His head tipped back, face carved in pure, shocked surrender—like the sensation had snuck up on him, like it unraveled something ancient inside him.

And then the wings fell forward. Draping around them like a curtain, the massive feathers soft and heavy with water, casting them in a dark cocoon of warmth and quiet.

Dean collapsed into Castiel, utterly spent.

Chest heaving. Eyes half-lidded. Hands clinging to wet skin like he might fall without it. He didn’t speak—couldn’t. There was nothing to say. Just the echo of his heartbeat in his ears and the rise and fall of Castiel’s chest against his own.

Castiel held him. Wordless.

One hand still curled around Dean’s back, the other smoothing up his spine slowly—grounding him. Gentle. Present. The angel didn’t speak. Didn’t move to pull away. He simply let Dean sag into him, let him rest his weight like it was something sacred.

Dean’s lips brushed against his collarbone.

A silent thank you. Or maybe a prayer.

He didn’t know which.

The shower water had long since turned cold, but neither of them noticed.

 

***

Dean didn’t dry off. Not properly.

The towel hung loose around his hips, barely clinging to his skin as he staggered from the bathroom, barefoot and blinking under the hallway’s dull light. His hair dripped. So did his thoughts.

He could still feel it—him.

The weight of Castiel’s body, pressed against his. That strange, unreal feeling of grace seeping into him, warm and thick like syrup, buzzing just under the surface of his skin. Every nerve still flared like a warning. Every cell still sang like it wanted more.

He moved quickly at first. Like he could outrun it.

Outrun the image of wings unfurled. The velvet curve of Castiel’s mouth. The sound—Christ, the sound—that escaped the angel’s throat when Dean touched him like that, like he’d been waiting centuries for it.

Dean cursed under his breath. His footsteps slowed.

It had been a mistake.

No—it hadn’t. That was the problem.

It had felt right. Dangerous and holy and heavy in the way a sky gets before it splits open and drowns everything. It had felt like stepping off a cliff and realizing halfway down that you want to hit the bottom. Hard. He dragged a hand through his wet hair, heart thudding.

Behind him, he heard footsteps.

Soft. Steady.

He didn’t look. Didn’t have to.

Castiel.

Always Castiel.

There was no sound, no breath, no words—but he knew the angel was there, trailing him like a shadow, silent and watching. Dean could feel it, the way his skin prickled under the weight of that gaze. The way his spine burned, like Castiel’s eyes had traced every inch of his back and memorized it.

Dean turned a corner and stopped. Leaned against the wall.

What the hell had he done?

What were they now?

It hadn’t been sex—not really—but it hadn’t been innocent either. It had been intimate. Raw. Overwhelming. Like something inside Dean had been peeled open, slowly and deliberately, until Castiel could see everything. And instead of pulling away, the angel had wrapped his wings around him and said stay.

Dean's chest ached. Not from shame. But from want.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head back against the wall, the stone cool against his scalp.

He wanted to want to push Castiel away. To tell him it meant nothing. That it was grace-induced heat-of-the-moment bullshit.

But Castiel was still behind him. Silent. Unwavering.

And Dean didn’t say a word.

Because that would make it real.

Dean walked into his room like a man walking into his own interrogation. The soft glow of the television flickered on the wall, but the sound was barely audible—just enough to fill the silence that roared in his head. He opened his drawer with more force than necessary, yanked out a pair of soft pajama pants, and tossed them on the edge of the bed like they might anchor him to something solid.

Behind him, Castiel’s presence hovered like a stormcloud. Not threatening. Just… undeniable.

Dean could feel the angel’s gaze on the back of his neck. The way it made his skin prickle. The way it stirred something in his chest he didn’t want to name.

The door clicked softly as Castiel entered the room—completely, utterly, unashamedly naked.

Dean’s breath hitched in his throat.

"Jesus, Cas—get in here before Sam sees you,” he muttered, grabbing Castiel’s wrist and dragging him inside like he wasn’t already inside everything. His thoughts. His skin. His blood.

He let go quickly, as if touching Castiel too long might make something worse happen.

Castiel looked at him, calm and unashamed, steam still clinging faintly to his damp skin. The curve of his hip, the way the light kissed the wet edges of his collarbone—Dean tried not to look. Tried.

He was failing.

“Grab a pair of pajamas, man,” he said hoarsely, sitting on the edge of the bed. He stared at the  screen now, resisting the urge to turn off the TV just to stop it from highlighting all the parts of Castiel that were far too easy to stare at.

Castiel obeyed, padding barefoot across the room. Dean’s eyes followed him despite himself—drawn to the way the angel’s body moved. Strong. Fluid. Calm in a way Dean never felt.

He pulled open the drawer and retrieved a pair of flannel pajama pants, slipping them on with practiced ease. Dean watched, swallowing thickly, jaw clenched.

The wings were gone. But not gone. Dean felt them. A phantom pressure. Like heat just over his skin.

Castiel stood across from him again, still watching. Still steady. Still unreadable.

“You’re angry,” the angel said softly.

Dean didn’t respond at first. He kept his eyes on the television like something important was happening, like it wasn’t just a rerun of a documentary he’d seen ten times. A distraction. A mask.

Castiel stepped closer.

“Your blood is boiling with... with anger. I can feel it.” His voice was softer now, almost hesitant. “I’ve upset you.”

Dean turned his head, just barely. “No… no I’m not upset, Cas,” he muttered, like the words themselves were reluctant to come out. “I’m just… confused.”

He scrubbed a hand down his face and leaned forward, elbows digging into his thighs.

“I don’t understand this thing we have going on,” he continued. “I found you half-dead in the woods, and now… now you’re in my bed. You’re in my head. You’re pushing your grace into me, making me want you. Making me want it more. I don’t even know what part of this is me anymore and it’s—it’s screwing with my head, man. I don’t know where you stop and I begin anymore. I don’t know if what I want is even mine to want.”

His voice trembled at the edges. He hated that. Hated that Castiel had this effect on him without even trying.

The angel tilted his head gently, as if trying to decipher a code etched into Dean’s skin.

Dean sat back, rubbed the back of his neck, and looked anywhere but at Castiel.

“Sam looked some stuff up,” he said after a beat. “About angel-human bonding.”

The silence that followed was louder than anything else had been that day.

Dean’s eyes flicked to the nightstand, like maybe the answers were there. Like maybe if he focused hard enough, he wouldn’t notice the heat building behind his ribs.

“He said it can be broken.”

Castiel didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just let the words hang in the room like a slow leak of oxygen.

“Yes,” he said finally, voice like velvet stretched thin. “It can be broken.”

Dean nodded, once. Mechanically. Like his body was trying to go through the motions while his mind stumbled backward in a panic. But instead of relief, the words made his heart stutter. It can be broken.

And then what?

Dean didn’t know. All he knew was that the idea of breaking it—of severing whatever strange, powerful thread had been tying him to Castiel since that day in the woods—left him cold.

The thought of Castiel not being there… not being his…

It felt like pulling the trigger on something he didn’t fully understand. Something sacred. Something too rare to find again.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Castiel hadn’t moved. He just watched Dean like he was watching the weather shift—like he could feel every current of emotion ripple through the room. “Do you want… to break it?”

Dean’s throat tightened. His lungs burned.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

“Would you like me to break our bond?” Castiel asked.

His voice was soft—too soft. Like silk fraying under strain. There was no accusation in it, no bitterness, but something in the tone laced itself around Dean’s chest and squeezed. A quiet kind of hurt. The kind that came from not understanding why something sacred was being questioned.

Dean could feel it—the pulse of confusion radiating off the angel like heat off cracked pavement. Castiel wasn’t angry. He was just… lost. Like he couldn’t comprehend why Dean wouldn’t want this, why the human who had pulled him from death, who had touched him so gently, who had whispered his name with reverence, would even consider severing something that felt eternal.

Dean sighed, his breath catching at the tail end as he sat upright against the headboard. The TV buzzed in the background, forgotten. His own heart sounded too loud in his ears. He ran a hand through his hair and patted the empty side of the bed.

Castiel moved without question.

He crossed the room with that quiet, eerie grace of his and settled onto the bed beside Dean, mirroring his posture. Back straight. Hands folded in his lap. Wings still hidden but somehow there, pressing their phantom weight into the room.

Dean glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. The angel looked impossibly calm, but Dean knew better now. He felt better now. The grace that lingered in his blood let him sense the tight pull beneath Castiel’s composure. The way the angel’s body betrayed him in subtle ways—the twitch in his jaw, the slight tremor in his fingers. Tells that most people wouldn’t catch.

Dean exhaled again, the words heavy on his tongue.

“Maybe it’d make more sense if you told me how you feel about everything,” he mumbled.

Castiel blinked, slowly, like he had to take a moment just to compute what the question meant.

“How I feel,” he repeated.

“Yeah.” Dean shifted, his eyes fixed somewhere near the TV but not on it. “Do you even want this, man? Or are you just… doing it because someone told you that’s how it’s supposed to go? Because I happened to be the one who found you. The one who didn’t run away screaming.”

His voice tightened at the end, curling in on itself like a wound.

The silence between them stretched taut. Dean could almost hear the gears turning in Castiel’s mind, or heart, or grace—whatever it was that made the angel him.

Finally, Castiel spoke, his voice a hush barely louder than a breath. “I want this.”

Dean’s jaw clenched.  “Because we’re bonded—”

“Yes,” Castiel interrupted gently, “but I want this. Not because I’m supposed to. Not because of obligation. Because of you.”

Dean turned his head, locking eyes with him.

“But do you want to be bonded to me?” he asked, quieter this time. Raw. He felt stripped bare under the question, like something inside him was waiting to be destroyed.

Castiel didn’t answer immediately. His eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger—but in focus. In reverence. Like he was searching Dean’s face for the answer to a different question entirely.

And then he said nothing.

Just stared at him.

And somehow, the silence was louder than anything he could’ve said. Because Dean felt it—that deep, swelling pressure in the space between them. The profound weight of something ancient and cosmic that didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be real.

Dean swallowed, throat dry. The vulnerability coiled tightly in his chest threatened to rise up and spill over. This wasn’t just about sex, or comfort, or some mystical tether that forced them together. This was about the terrifying possibility that everything was changing, that his whole life had pivoted the moment he touched Castiel in the woods, and he hadn’t known it until now.

The room buzzed with tension. With questions. With feelings too big for either of them to name.

Castiel still hadn’t looked away.

Neither had Dean.

And neither of them seemed able to breathe.

Dean felt the words before he truly heard them. Like they bypassed the air between them entirely, threading straight through the space in his ribs where his heart sat thrumming too fast, too loud.

“Yes,” Castiel finally said, voice quiet but steady, each syllable dropping like a stone into still water. “I want to be bonded to you, Dean.”

It wasn’t a whisper meant to seduce, or a line to pull him closer. It was fact—bare, unadorned—but heavy enough to sit in Dean’s chest like a weight he didn’t know how to lift.

Dean blinked. Once. Twice. He was sure his pulse was betraying him—hell, maybe his whole damn body was—because Castiel was looking at him like he could hear it, feel it, maybe even taste it.

“Why?” Dean asked, the word cracking in the middle, somewhere between a demand and a plea. “You don’t even know me. Not really. You’ve been here, what, two days. Three? And in that time you’ve been half-dead, bleeding all over my flannel, and—” His breath hitched. The heat from earlier climbed his throat like it wanted to burn him from the inside out. “—and you’ve been… doing things to me I can’t even wrap my head around.”

“I know enough.”

Dean let out a humorless laugh, running a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his eyes like he could block out the room, block out him. “You think you do. But you don’t know the shit I’ve done. The crap I’ve seen. You don’t know where this ends for me, for us—if there even is an ‘us.’”

“I know,” Castiel said again, but this time his voice dropped lower, steady as bedrock. “And still… I want this bond.”

Dean stared at him. The quiet certainty in that tone pressed against every wall Dean had built for years, rattling them. “You’re talking like this is—hell, I don’t even know—like this is fate or something.”

“Perhaps it is.” Castiel’s shoulders lifted the slightest fraction, a ghost of a shrug. “Or perhaps it is simply the truth that when I was dying, I called for help, and you answered. And when you were hurting, you called for help, and I answered. That does not happen without reason.”

Dean’s stomach pulled tight. The words didn’t just land—they burrowed, curling under his ribs in a place that was already too crowded with all the things he didn’t want to feel.

“I don’t… I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” Dean admitted. His voice was quieter now, stripped of all the bluster. Raw. “But I don’t think I want to lose it either.”

Something flickered in Castiel’s expression—subtle, almost imperceptible—but it was there. The barest shift, like a cloud parting just enough to let light through.

“Then we will keep it.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a suggestion. It was a decision, unshakable in its delivery.

Dean’s breath felt thick in his throat. He looked away first, because if he kept looking into those eyes—those impossible, ocean-deep eyes—he might forget every reason he was supposed to be afraid.

And maybe, deep down, that was exactly what terrified him most.

***

Dean let Castiel stay the night—not because it was the logical thing to do, but because the thought of sending him away left an ache deep in his chest. The air between them still held the gravity of their earlier conversation, charged but softened by the quiet that followed. They hadn’t touched again since the shower, yet every glance, every subtle shift of weight, seemed to pull them closer, as though some unseen thread was drawing them together inch by inch.

It was awkward at first. Dean could feel the mattress dip with every careful move Castiel made, the rustle of fabric loud in the otherwise still room. His own body was tense in a way he hated to admit, hyper-aware of the presence beside him. Eventually, they settled under the same blanket, the space between them narrowing until the edges of their warmth just barely brushed.

Dean, eyes fixed on the ceiling, had blurted it out in a low, gruff voice—like a man saying something that felt too personal to be spoken aloud. He admitted he liked to cuddle, though he said it in the same tone he might’ve used to confess to a guilty pleasure. He didn’t want Castiel sitting upright like some stoic sentinel all night, keeping silent watch as if danger were lurking just outside the door.

Castiel, ever curious, had asked what Dean wanted instead, and Dean—without really thinking—let the words drop like a stone into still water.

"I don't know man." Dean blushed and looked away. "You could hold me or something I don’t know."

Castiel tilted his head in that way that was far too innocent for how it made Dean’s chest constrict.

"I don't understand." He said softly.

"Like... cuddle you know? Do angels not cuddle?"

"We... hug. Is that what you want? You want me to hug you?"

 

Dean rolled onto his side, his back to Castiel, leaving a small stretch of cool sheets between them. Castiel hesitated, reading the space as he would any unfamiliar territory—aware of the charged air, aware of Dean’s earlier admission. Consent mattered here, perhaps more than it had in any other moment between them.

Carefully, the mattress groaned as Castiel lay down behind him. He stayed a breath’s distance away, letting the warmth radiating from Dean’s body reach him without closing the gap entirely. His hand, steady and deliberate, found Dean’s hip—light contact, a question without words.

Dean’s fingers came up, not to push him away, but to catch his hand and pull it forward. The motion guided Castiel’s arm across Dean’s chest, settling it there like it belonged.

Castiel moved closer at that silent invitation, his chest now brushing against Dean’s back, their bodies aligned in a way that made every exhale shared. It was then that he understood—Dean didn’t just want proximity; he wanted the encompassing weight of another’s presence, the quiet certainty of being held. This was what he meant when he said cuddle. This was the embrace Dean had been quietly asking for all along.

Castiel’s fingers flexed once, curling loosely against Dean’s sternum. Dean didn’t speak, didn’t joke, didn’t flinch—just let the warmth seep in. And with the flickering TV painting the room in shifting shades, they stayed like that, breathing together, letting the unspoken hang heavy and unbroken in the dark.

Dean kept his gaze fixed on the flickering blur of the TV, willing himself not to focus on the way Castiel’s arm fit so securely across his chest. Not to notice the subtle rise and fall of the angel’s breathing behind him, or how the steady weight of that palm felt like an anchor in the drifting sea of his thoughts.

He told himself not to read into it—not the warmth, not the unspoken promise in the closeness, not the way every muscle in his body had eased without his permission. But the more he tried to push it from his mind, the more he felt it: safe. Safer than he’d felt in longer than he could remember.

Behind him, Castiel said nothing. His palm stayed still but attentive, as though he was mapping Dean’s chest by touch alone. He could feel every slow inhale, every hitch, every subtle tremor that betrayed the war Dean was having with himself. Castiel committed it all to memory—the rhythm, the heat, the quiet way Dean seemed to lean into his hold without realizing it.

The light from the TV danced across the room, flashing warm, then cold, then warm again, until even that faded into the dark as Dean’s eyes grew heavy. They stayed close, breath syncing in the quiet, the rest of the world falling away.

By the time Dean finally drifted off, Castiel hadn’t moved an inch. His hand remained exactly where it was, fingers gently curled against Dean’s sternum—listening, feeling, learning.

And Dean, even in sleep, didn’t let go.

Notes:

Surprise update. I don't know why I give myself deadlines to post. The next chapter is already written so I'll go ahead and post it on Monday. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Nothing like a wing-kink and grace induced orgasms phew! Their bond is growing stronger and poor Dean is not sure how to handle it hehe. Drama in the next chapter! Kudos and comments are gratefully appreciated!

Chapter 5: What the Night Kept

Dean surfaced slow.

Not like waking up after a nap, not even like coming to after a hunt. More like floating up through warm water, the world blurring at the edges before it decided to come into focus. A soft ache lived behind his eyes—the good kind, the kind you get after a long day that finally let go. For a few weightless seconds he didn’t remember where he was, only that he was warm and held and safe in a way that didn’t feel possible anymore.

Then the room arranged itself around him.

The bunker ceiling in faint morning gray. The TV dark, a black square against the opposite wall. The blanket heavy where it had slouched down around his waist. And behind him—solid, quiet—Castiel.

They had not moved.

Dean became aware of details in increments: the slow draw of breath against the back of his neck; the steady press of a forearm banded across his chest; the way his own hand had wandered sometime in the night to cover Castiel’s at his sternum. As if he’d anchored himself there in his sleep. As if part of him had been afraid that if he didn’t hold on, he’d wake up alone and the night would fold itself into a dream.

Heat rose in his face, ridiculous and unbidden. He didn’t pull away.

He didn’t want to.

The mattress dipped where Castiel lay curved to his spine—an easy fit they’d found without looking for it. Dean could feel the angel’s heartbeat, steady and subtle where their bodies touched, a second rhythm under his own. The room smelled like his laundry soap, gun oil, and a faint trace of clean rain that didn’t belong to the bunker at all.

Memory slid back in careful frames—their conversation, the weight of words that felt too big for the four walls, the awkward gravity of asking to be held and then realizing how badly he meant it. He remembered the silence that followed: not empty, not cold—just full. He remembered thinking he would lie awake for hours with his pulse in his throat and his mind on fire.

Apparently not.

He’d slept. Hard.

The thought unsettled him and soothed him in the same breath. He’d forgotten his body could do that—hand over the watch to someone else and quit bracing for whatever would break the door down next. Dean had built a life on staying coiled. The quiet in his muscles now felt almost like a trick.

He shifted a fraction to test it. Castiel’s arm tightened instinctively, not possessive—protective, like a seatbelt snugging when the car taps the brakes. Dean’s breath caught. He waited for embarrassment to yank him free, for the old reflex to kick in and shove space between them.

It didn’t come.

Instead, there was that small, treacherous relief, loosening him from the inside. He let his eyes fall shut again and counted through the slow rise-and-fall beneath Castiel’s palm. One, two, three—the angel kept time like a lighthouse. Dean cataloged the sense of it because that was how he survived: the scrape of flannel at his hip; the whisper of air when Castiel exhaled past his ear; the distant, familiar hum of the bunker waking up—pipes ticking, somewhere a vent rattling, the building clearing its throat to face another day.

He wondered what Sam would say if he walked in. The thought should’ve launched him out of bed. It only made him tuck his chin a little, a half-shy, half-defiant gesture he couldn’t explain even to himself. Sam would read the room, file it, figure out what to ask later. Dean would deflect, then deflect again, then… maybe not. Not this time.

Under his hand, the fingers beneath his own flexed—testing, checking. Castiel had been memorizing his heartbeat last night. Now he seemed to be taking a morning attendance, finding each breath, each small change, each proof-of-life. There was no urgency in it. No angelic stillness trying to perform humanity. Just presence. Just here.

“Don’t make it weird,” Dean whispered to no one, and to himself, and the ceiling. The room didn’t answer.

He tried to trace the boundary lines the way he always did—what belonged to grace, what belonged to habit, what belonged to the part of him that had started wanting without permission. He failed in the softest way. Everything felt braided: the memory of wings slicked in water and shadow; the sound of Castiel’s voice choosing stay over go; the fact that he’d asked for this—out loud—and then slept the sleep of someone who’d finally put something down.

A rustle near his collarbone—the barest shift—made him realize Castiel was awake. Of course he was. He doesn’t sleep. Dean could feel it in the attention that gathered there, in the way the angel’s hand eased its hold a touch, as if offering a choice: keep, or release.

Dean didn’t move.

He held that choice a few breaths longer, feeling the tremor in it. Vulnerability has a weight, and he knew it well; he was surprised by how willingly he let it settle. He thought of the question from last night—Then we will keep it—and felt something steady up inside his ribcage, a brace against the usual tilt of the world.

He finally rolled his shoulders a millimeter and cleared his throat. The universal sign for I’m awake and pretending I’m not.

Castiel’s arm didn’t fall away. It shifted, slow and considerate, from a band across Dean’s chest to a patient curve—still there, less tight. A promise rewritten in smaller letters for daylight.

Dean stared at the far wall, at the faint nick in the paint he’d been meaning to fix for months, and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His body wanted to be embarrassed. His bones vetoed it. He adjusted the blanket higher, not to hide—just to keep the morning from stealing what the night had taught him.

He turned his head enough that his temple almost brushed the angle of Castiel’s jaw. Almost. Close enough to feel the warmth, close enough to hear the quiet he’d come to recognize as the angel thinking, not searching for exits or threats—just taking stock.

For a while, they lay like that, time flattening in the calm. No questions. No contingency plans. Dean let his mind wander a small, astonishing circle: coffee, maybe eggs, Sam’s eyebrows, the hunt notes that needed updating. The ordinary scaffolding of a day. The kind of list he could climb down without the rungs turning to knives.

He wasn’t sure when the decision formed, only that once it did, it sat in him with the same bone-deep certainty as muscle memory: they could keep it—today, at least. They didn’t have to outrun it before breakfast. He didn’t have to name it before it was ready to be named.

Dean shifted again, a careful inch back into the cradle of Castiel’s chest, and felt the answering exhale behind him—quiet, relieved, almost human. He let himself have the smallest smile, invisible to the room.

“Okay,” he told the morning—not out loud, not exactly. “Okay.”

The bunker murmured on. Somewhere, hot water hissed to life. Dean’s heartbeat evened under the watch of the hand that had held it all night. The edges of sleep tugged at him again, not to drag him under, but to let him set the day down for just a few more minutes.

They would get up soon—coffee, breakfast, knives dulled by routine. For now, the night’s lesson held: sometimes the safest place wasn’t distance.

Sometimes it was the arm that stayed.

Dean slowly rolled onto his back, arms stretching above his head until his shoulders popped. The movement pulled a quiet sigh from him, half satisfaction, half leftover drowsiness. The blanket slipped down to his waist, letting the cool air of the bunker brush over the warm skin of his chest.

Beside him, Castiel shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. Dean didn’t need to open his eyes to know the angel was watching him—he could feel it, that unblinking, unwavering attention, heavy and strangely comforting. It was the same way Castiel looked at him in the middle of conversation, like every breath Dean took was something he was keeping track of.

When Dean finally let his lashes lift, and he turned the light on, he found those ocean-deep blue eyes fixed on him, gaze steady and unreadable except for a flicker of softness that didn’t feel like it belonged to angels at all.

"You slept peacefully. Your body was not restless," Castiel murmured, as if it were both an observation and a small victory.

Dean swallowed, a little self-conscious under the weight of that stare, and glanced away toward the ceiling. “Yeah, well… guess I was tired,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual gruff edges.

Castiel’s gaze didn’t falter. If anything, it softened further, his expression almost reverent. "You’re beautiful when you sleep," he said quietly, like it was the most ordinary truth in the world.

The words hit Dean harder than they should have. Heat crept up the back of his neck and spread to his ears, and his first instinct was to escape—to roll over, to hide his face, to deflect like always. He started to shift, but his body stalled halfway, as if something deeper was telling him to stay put.

He realized, in that moment, that he could—he could be vulnerable with Castiel in a way he wasn’t with anyone else. The thought was unnerving and grounding all at once. Castiel wasn’t going to mock him or turn the moment into something sharp. He wouldn’t pull away.

Dean let himself sink back into the mattress, arms folding loosely behind his head again, pretending it was just for comfort and not because he wanted to see if Castiel would keep looking at him that way. He did.

And for once, Dean didn’t look away.

Castiel moved slowly, like approaching a skittish animal, his hand lifting with a hesitance Dean rarely saw from him. When his palm finally cupped the side of Dean’s face, Dean didn’t pull back—didn’t crack a joke, didn’t deflect. Instead, he just… leaned into it. His eyes slipped shut, the faint rasp of his stubble catching against Castiel’s skin, and he tilted his head just slightly so the angel’s touch lingered.

Castiel’s thumb brushed in a slow arc over Dean’s cheekbone, tracing the scattered freckles there as if mapping constellations only he could read. Dean let out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh, the kind that wasn’t about relief or exhaustion but about giving in—just for a second—to something gentle.

And then Castiel’s hand was gone, slipping back as his voice dropped low. “Sam is coming.”

Dean’s eyes opened in time to hear the knock, and like clockwork, the door swung open. Dean jolted upright, sheets pooling at his waist, but Castiel remained sprawled on his side, calm as ever.

“Dean, we got another—oh, shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Sam’s words stumbled into each other as his gaze caught the scene: both of them in bed, Dean shirtless, Castiel clearly unbothered by the intimacy of the situation. Sam awkwardly backed toward the door, bumping into the frame before he managed to pull it shut.

Dean dragged a hand over his face. “Of course.”

“We made him uncomfortable,” Castiel observed matter-of-factly, though not without curiosity.

Dean snorted, swinging his legs off the bed. “Not the first time he’s walked in on me.”

“Walked in on you?” Castiel’s brows pulled together, genuinely puzzled.

Dean grabbed a pair of jeans from the dresser. “Sammy’s got a bad habit of doing that since we were kids, man.” He tugged on the jeans, then pulled a black T-shirt over his head, finishing with a red-and-black flannel. Castiel’s eyes followed every movement, not with hunger exactly, but with the same focus he might give a puzzle he intended to solve.

Dean caught the look, cleared his throat. “We should go to town and get you some clothes.”

Castiel’s gaze shifted from Dean’s face to the rest of him, taking in the way the shirt fit across his shoulders, the way the flannel hung open just enough to hint at the muscle underneath. “You want me to stay here?” he asked at last, and for once, the angel’s voice carried a thread of uncertainty.

Dean glanced over his shoulder, meeting those blue eyes. Castiel sat casually on the edge of the bed, hands resting loosely on his knees, wings hidden away but not absent in the way the air seemed charged around him.

They held each other’s gaze for a long beat.

“No…” Dean said finally, a hint of something softer slipping into his voice. “I want you to come with me.”

Castiel blinked—just once—but it was enough for Dean to know he’d surprised him.

Dean tossed Castiel a faded band T-shirt—one of his old treasures, soft from years of wear—and a pair of jeans that had seen better days.

“Can’t have you wearing all my clothes, man,” Dean muttered with a half-smirk, watching as the angel took the shirt without question.

Castiel peeled off the flannel pajama pants without a hint of self-consciousness, leaving himself bare in the middle of the room. The move wasn’t lewd—there was nothing about it meant to tease—but it still made Dean’s pulse stumble. Castiel’s body was all sharp lines and quiet strength, rugged in a way that made Dean’s chest feel too tight. And God help him, even the sight of that beautiful, heavy length hanging between his thighs—before it disappeared into the borrowed jeans—made Dean’s breath hitch.

The T-shirt stretched across Castiel’s broad chest like it was made for him, clinging faintly at the shoulders, draping looser at the waist. The jeans sat low on his hips, a little baggy but somehow still managing to make him look like he belonged in them. Dean turned away quickly, before his brain could finish the thought. He tossed Castiel a pair of worn boots and some socks, the leather scuffed from years of hunts, and watched out of the corner of his eye as Castiel bent to put them on with methodical precision.

When they stepped out of the room together, the bunker felt strangely still, the faint hum of its old ventilation system filling the quiet. The smell of coffee hung heavy in the air as they entered the kitchen. Dean expected Sam to be there, hunched over a laptop or shuffling through lore books, but the room was empty.

A single scrap of paper was stuck to the fridge with a magnet. Dean tugged it free and scanned the blocky handwriting.

 

Dean,

On another hunt, be back in a couple of days.

Sam.

P.S. – use protection ;)

 

Dean’s scoff was sharp, cheeks heating as he crumpled the note in his fist. He tossed it toward the trash without looking. Behind him, he could feel Castiel’s presence like a shift in gravity—quiet, steady, and just close enough to make the hairs on his arms rise. Dean turned, his gaze colliding with the deep, endless blue of Castiel’s eyes.

“Sam’s left,” Dean said, his voice gruff. “He’ll be back in a couple of days.”

Castiel only blinked, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire.

Dean cleared his throat, pushing away the heat gathering under his skin. “We, uh… should head to the store.” He grabbed Baby’s keys off the counter, the cool metal biting into his palm. Castiel fell into step behind him immediately, shadowing him so closely it was almost like muscle memory—as if the angel had already decided that wherever Dean went, he would follow. It wasn’t parental. It wasn’t protective in the way Dean had seen hunters guard civilians.

No. It was something far more dangerous. Something that felt like belonging.

***

“You like music?” Dean asked, drumming his fingers lightly against the steering wheel as the Impala idled in the bunker’s garage.

Castiel turned to him from the passenger seat, his expression one of mild suspicion, like Dean had just asked if he enjoyed eating gravel. “Music,” he repeated slowly, testing the word as though it were foreign on his tongue.

Dean glanced over, brow raised. “Yeah, music. You know—songs, instruments, rhythm, melody. People listen to it for fun, for comfort… sometimes just to fill the silence. Rock? Anything?”

Castiel blinked. “We don’t… listen to rocks.”

Dean froze mid-motion, one hand on the key, and turned toward him with a long, incredulous stare. His mouth opened, then closed again, like he had to take an extra second just to process what he’d heard.

“Jesus,” Dean muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Castiel tilted his head, that subtle crease forming between his brows. “Jesus isn’t—”

“I mean you, Cas,” Dean cut in, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Something unreadable flickered across Castiel’s face—not embarrassment, but an almost startled awareness. He didn’t say anything to that, but the weight of his gaze was enough to make Dean’s chest feel warm, heavy. Dean turned back to the ignition before he could start thinking too much about it.

The engine roared to life, the familiar rumble filling the small, enclosed space. Dean shifted into reverse, sneaking a glance at Castiel out of the corner of his eye. The angel was sitting there like he was carved out of marble, still as stone but with an alertness that seemed to drink in everything—the subtle vibration under the floorboards, the scent of motor oil and leather, the faint hum of the radio even before Dean turned it on.

Dean hesitated, fingers lingering on the dial, before switching it on. A wave of classic rock rolled out of the speakers—something with a steady beat and just enough grit in the vocals to feel like home. He didn’t miss the way Castiel’s head turned slightly, his eyes narrowing, not in disapproval, but in thought. Like maybe, just maybe, he was trying to figure out why humans would let sound wash over them like this, why they’d choose to feel through music instead of logic.

Dean couldn’t help it—he smirked. This was going to be interesting.

Dean eased the Impala up the ramp and into the sunlight, the familiar weight of the steering wheel steady in his grip. The music rolled between them, low and gravelly, the guitar grinding under the singer’s voice like road dust under tires.

At first, Castiel didn’t move—his eyes stayed on the horizon ahead, jaw set, but Dean could see the faint twitch of his brow with every shift in the song’s pitch. Then the chorus hit, the vocals climbing over the guitar in a way that made the speakers rattle faintly, and Castiel’s head gave the smallest, almost imperceptible jerk. His mouth pressed into a tight line.

Dean pretended not to notice, but out of the corner of his eye he caught it again—an odd squint, the barest frown, like the angel couldn’t decide if the sound was painful or just baffling.

The volume edged up slightly with the next riff—one of those rough, heart-pounding crescendos—and Castiel’s lips parted, eyes narrowing as though the music had stepped over some invisible threshold in his comfort zone. His gaze darted briefly to the dashboard speaker, then to Dean, as if wondering if this was an intentional assault.

Dean cleared his throat, casually reaching forward to twist the knob down a few notches until the song settled into the background, more hum than roar. “Sorry,” he muttered, pretending to adjust his grip on the wheel. “Didn’t mean to blow out your… uh… whatever you’ve got for ears.”

Castiel didn’t answer immediately. He just kept that same focused expression, eyes flicking once more to the speakers as though cataloguing this entirely human ritual. After a beat, he tilted his head—not quite his usual curious tilt, but a softer, slower one. “It is… less abrasive now,” he said simply.

Dean huffed a laugh under his breath. “Yeah, well… baby steps. Gotta ease you into the good stuff.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed again, though this time it was faintly contemplative, almost as if he was trying to decide if “good” meant pleasurable… or just tolerable.

Dean let the miles unspool beneath Baby’s tires, two black threads stitching the highway through a seam of pines and pale morning sky. Sunlight came in slats through the trees, bright then dim, bright then dim—like someone flicked the day on and off while they drove. The air outside was cold enough to bite, but inside the car it was warm, dust motes turning lazy cartwheels in the beam that fell across the dash.

The next track slid in soft—mournful guitar, a hollowed-out kind of ache that didn’t ask for attention so much as make space for it.

Castiel’s eyes snapped to the radio like a compass finding north.

Dean caught it. The tiny flick, the way his focus narrowed. He thumbed the volume up a notch, then another, until the speakers filled with that spare, aching sound. He didn’t say the title. He didn’t have to. The Impala knew the road; Dean knew the song.

Castiel listened. And listened.

And then he really listened.

His posture didn’t change much, but the intensity sharpened. He wasn’t staring so much as receiving, head angled slightly, attention gathered as if he could hold the notes in his hands and weigh them. His brows knit, eased, knit again with each turn of the melody. The chorus came—not loud, just larger—and his throat worked around a swallow.

“It feels like a confession,” Castiel said at last, voice low enough to blend into the hum of the engine. “Not a plea. A… quiet truth offered without assurance that anyone will forgive it.”

Dean’s fingers eased on the wheel. He didn’t look over yet. “Yeah?”

“The voice sounds… terminally honest,” Castiel went on, searching the air for the right word. “As if it is standing in a small room and refusing to lie, even though the truth will not save it.” He paused, listening to the guitar curl back in on itself. “Isolation—yes—but not for attention. More like… choosing to name the loneliness because pretending otherwise would be worse.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “Huh.”

“Shame is there,” Castiel added, almost gently. “But it does not dominate. Weariness does. A desire to remain recognizable to oneself, even as the world misunderstands.”

Dean finally glanced over. The angel’s face was turned three-quarters toward the windshield, light cutting across his cheekbone, catching in his lashes. He didn’t look ethereal now; he looked mortal, the music pressing him into the shape of a man who’d been tired for a long time and was still willing to be moved.

“And the guitars,” Castiel continued, tilting his hand as if balancing a thought, “they do not argue with the voice. They agree without surrendering. Like… a friend who sits in silence and doesn’t try to fix anything.”

Dean blinked slow. It stole his breath a little, how right that felt.

“Yeah,” he said, thumb tapping the rim of the wheel, a habit when something lands. “It’s not trying to pull you out of it. Just… sit with you there.”

Castiel nodded once, gaze returning to the road unspooling—a gray ribbon through evergreened hills, a crow hopping along a fence post, a rusting barn slouching into a field like it forgot how to be a building. The light thinned as clouds drifted in; the song found its last quiet spiral.

“What do you hear?” Castiel asked, not because he needed correction—more like he wanted another angle on the same star.

Dean exhaled through his nose. “Someone saying, ‘This is what it is. I’m not okay, and I’m not gonna sweeten it for you to make you feel better.’ But there’s… I dunno… a kind of backbone to it. You can carry a lot if you stop pretending it’s light.”

Castiel’s eyes flicked to him—quick, intent. “You prefer the songs that do not lie.”

“Been lied to enough by the living,” Dean said, softer than he meant to. The trees broke, giving them a wide view—low blue ridges stacked to the horizon, a sliver of river flashing like a blade. He let the sight wash through him. “Music like that—it doesn’t promise it’ll fix you. Just says it won’t look away.”

Castiel considered that, then returned his attention to the window. His reflection ghosted on the glass—band tee soft against his shoulders, jeans loose at the thigh, boots Dean had scuffed to hell. He looked almost ordinary. Dean caught himself staring anyway, tracing the line of his jaw, the damp curl that still refused to settle over his temple, the way his mouth softened when he was thinking. Something in Dean’s chest did that inconvenient loosen-and-tighten thing it had learned around Castiel.

The next song queued—another low burn—and Dean dropped the volume a touch, letting the road take the lead for a while. The sky brightened as the clouds drifted, the Impala’s hood catching a brief flare of sun. Castiel kept half an ear on the music, half on the world—the whirr of tires, the distant hawk’s cry, the steady human rhythm on the other side of the bench seat.

“You know,” Dean said finally, because silence didn’t always mean safety in his head, “you’re not bad at this. Reading songs.”

Castiel turned that small, curious smile on him. “They tell the truth efficiently.”

Dean huffed. “Guess that’s one way to put it.”

They passed a gas station with a hand-painted sign, a kid in a puffy coat kicking at gravel while his mom argued with a pump. Farther on, a field stubbled with frost, a lone horse standing like a punctuation mark at the end of a long sentence. The world felt big and survivable for a change.

Castiel shifted minutely in his seat, like he wanted to say more and decided not to. Dean saw the almost-move and, without looking, nudged the volume knob another hair up—invitation accepted without being named. The melody settled over them again, the car a small vessel carrying two people who had not yet learned how to speak everything and were, for the moment, allowed not to.

Dean stole one more glance. The band tee fit him like he’d owned it all along. The blue in his eyes looked less like sky and more like lake water—deep enough to take your reflection and hand it back without distortion. Dean faced forward before the thought made a home he couldn’t evict.

“Yeah,” he said to the road, to the radio, to the quiet permission of the day. “We’ll make you a playlist.”

Castiel’s mouth tipped at the corner. “A… list of play?”

Dean grinned despite himself. “You’re killin’ me, Cas.”

“I am not,” Castiel said, perfectly sincere. “I will never harm you.”

Dean laughed, let the sound fold into the music, and drove on.

***

The bell over the thrift shop door gave a tired jingle as they stepped in, the kind of sound that had lived too many lives—half cheer, half apology. The place smelled like cedar blocks and old detergent, sunlight slanting through dusty front windows to pool across racks of clothes that didn’t know who they belonged to yet. A box fan hummed in the corner, nudging the air around a carousel of belts and tarnished buckles.

Dean grabbed a basket and set about it with a competence that felt almost domestic. He moved like a guy who’d been dressing himself out of other people’s lives since he was a kid: check the seams, tug the sleeves, hold shirts up to the light. He kept glancing at Castiel, like he was braced for an argument that never came.

Because it was absurdly easy.

“Here—band tees are non-negotiable,” Dean said, plucking a soft black one and a faded navy, testing the give of the collar. “Couple henleys. You’d look decent in charcoal. Maybe that deep green.”

Castiel nodded at each offering with solemn gravity, accepting them as though Dean were presenting sacraments. “Yes.” “That one is fine.” “If you prefer it.” It made Dean’s mouth twitch. He’d expected to have to sell the man on sleeves versus no sleeves, buttons versus no buttons. Instead, the angel stood there like a quiet orbit, letting Dean be gravity.

Jeans were the same. Dean eyeballed inseams, flipped waistbands, handed over a stack—dark wash, one broken-in pair soft as a memory. “You don’t need rips to look like trouble,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. Castiel took them without complaint. Boots too—two pairs: a scuffed lace-up that matched Dean’s beat-to-hell aesthetic and a sturdier black pair with clean lines that somehow felt more Cas than Dean. Less rock show, more cathedral aisle.

“Try these on,” Dean said, pointing toward the mirror. “Let me see.”

Castiel did, and it was… startling, how right it looked. Not like dress-up, not like copying Dean. The tees fell across his shoulders like they recognized the shape. The jeans sat at his hips the way a holster finds its place. He looked less borrowed, more authored. Dean felt that inconvenient loosen-and-tighten in his chest again. He swallowed it down, reaching for another hanger.

Castiel did, and it was… startling, how right it looked. Not like dress-up, not like copying Dean. The tees fell across his shoulders like they recognized the shape. The jeans sat at his hips the way a holster finds its place. He looked less borrowed, more authored. Dean felt that inconvenient loosen-and-tighten in his chest again. He swallowed it down, reaching for another hanger.

He didn’t notice the shift at first.

It was small—temperature, pressure, something indefinable whispering against the back of his neck. The air tightened a notch. Behind Castiel’s shoulder, something invisible flexed. The angel’s posture went from loose to coiled without moving an inch.

Dean’s eyes cut up immediately.

The wings were there in the way the room was suddenly too small—tension drawing the outline of them like heat mirage. A ripple passed through Castiel’s back as if tendons tightened under skin, an echo of feathers bristling in a space that could not hold them.

“Cas?” Dean said, soft. A question disguised as a name.

Castiel’s gaze slid past him—slow, like a hand drawn toward a flame it already knows will burn. He turned his head toward the door just as it banged open, bell jangling too hard, too long. A group of men came in loud—boots heavy, laughter sharp, the kind of noise that didn’t care where it landed. One of them slapped the doorframe on his way through; another clattered a cart so it skipped and squealed.

Castiel flinched.

Not dramatic—like a chord struck wrong inside him. His jaw clenched, nostrils flared. The color drained a shade from his face. The sound—not one sound, but the sudden stack of them—seemed to shear through whatever calm he’d built. He took a step back and collided with a rack; hangers knocked hollowly together, plastic teeth clicking.

“Hey—” Dean reached out on instinct.

Castiel stumbled again, right into him this time. Dean caught a forearm, then a shoulder—steady, warm, very human—and guided him a half step to the side, angling his own body between Castiel and the door without even thinking about it. Close up, he could feel the tremor under Castiel’s skin, a contained quiver like a bird trying not to beat its wings in a cage.

“Cas, what—” Dean started.

“They…” Castiel’s voice was low, brittle, almost lost under the din of the store. His eyes didn’t leave the men. “Those are the ones who took me.”

Dean froze, grip tightening around Castiel’s arm.

“What?” His voice was sharp now, but quiet—controlled in the way that meant trouble.

Castiel’s gaze was fixed like a pinned moth. His wings flinched behind him, invisible to everyone but Dean, feathers twitching with the impulse to shield.

Dean shifted subtly, stepping into the space between Castiel and the door, body blocking him without even thinking about it. “Look at me,” Dean murmured, low enough that only Castiel could hear. “Don’t look at them.”

The group was spreading into the aisles now, their conversation booming too loud for a shop this small. One laughed, an ugly sound; another cracked his knuckles as if daring someone to notice.

Dean felt the tension vibrating through Castiel’s frame, the way his muscles pulled taut like they were bracing for impact. His eyes kept tracking toward the men, as if his body couldn’t help but keep them in his sight.

“Hey,” Dean said again, keeping his tone steady. “They’re not touching you. Not while I’m here.”

Something in Castiel’s breathing shifted—still uneven, but tethered now. His wings twitched again, then lowered a fraction.

“We can go,” Dean offered, voice low. “Right now. Clothes are enough for today.”

Castiel hesitated, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Dean didn’t waste time; he kept one hand on Castiel’s arm as he steered them toward the register, quick and direct. The cashier—an older woman with kind eyes—bagged their haul without comment, though Dean noticed her glance at Castiel and then toward the men with quiet suspicion.

The air outside was a relief—cool, open, untainted by the heat of memory. Dean put the bags in the trunk, the metal cold under his palms.

Dean jerked his chin toward the street. “Let’s get you pie. And coffee that tastes like motor oil.”

They started walking. This time, Castiel stayed closer—close enough that Dean felt the brush of his sleeve, the faint ghost of wing-shadow curling protectively around them both as they moved toward the safety of noise that didn’t hurt.

***

The bunker’s kitchen felt cavernous in the quiet, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound between them. Dean set the plate down in front of Cas with a dull clink—a neat slice of cherry pie that still glistened faintly in the low light. Steam from the coffee on the counter drifted lazily, curling into the shadows.

Castiel’s gaze flicked from the pie to Dean, as though he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it. Dean, meanwhile, stayed standing, arm braced against the counter as he stabbed his fork into the remainder of the pie still sitting in its dented aluminum pan. The prongs sank through crust and filling with a deliberate thunk, and he lifted a too-large bite without much ceremony.

“Are you okay?” Dean’s voice broke the quiet—low, steady, but carrying that same edge he’d had in the thrift store.

“I’m fine,” Castiel answered quickly, though the words didn’t match the tension still in his shoulders. His eyes darted to the pie again, then back to Dean, watching him chew, cheeks faintly full. There was something about the human normalcy of it that seemed to hold him in place.

Dean’s fork scraped against the tin. “How did you know?” he asked after a beat, not looking away from Castiel.

Castiel didn’t answer immediately. He reached for his own fork like a man forcing himself through ritual, spearing the smallest bite possible. He brought it to his mouth and chewed slowly, the movement deliberate, buying himself time. Dean waited, leaning one hip against the counter, fork idle now in his fingers. His gaze stayed locked on Castiel, reading every flicker of expression, every half-second pause.

The bunker felt too still, the air between them heavy. Dean wasn’t in a hurry. He could be stubborn when he needed to be. He’d sit there all night if that’s what it took to get an answer.

Castiel swallowed the bite of pie like it took effort to remember how. He set the fork down, the metal kissing porcelain too gently for the tension running through him. When he finally spoke, it was careful—each word set down as if it might break.

“It was their voices,” he said. “More than their faces.”

Dean’s grip tightened around his own fork. “Go on.”

“In the shop,” Castiel continued, eyes drifting past Dean’s shoulder as if he could still hear it coming through the doorway, “the bell rang, and there was the door scrape, and the first laugh. It wasn’t the sound itself. It was… the contour. The way the breath sits in the throat before it becomes a word. The cadence people forget they carry.”

He glanced down at the plate again. “Humans identify each other by names, faces. I do that, too. But my grace—what remains of it—maps the signature of a voice. The harmonics, the stress, the shape their lungs make when they exhale. It’s almost… a fingerprint.”

Dean set his fork in the tin. “And theirs matched.”

Castiel nodded once. “The tall one with the red cap. He hums when he breathes out, slightly off-key. The broad one—he clips his consonants, hides the end of words. The youngest… whistles through a gap in his molars. But it wasn’t only the catalog. There was the memory laid over it.” His jaw flexed. “A door slamming, a light too bright, the scrape of a chair against cement. Those sounds arrived with their voices, like shadows arrive with bodies.”

The room seemed to lean around the words. Dean felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, a familiar chemical reaction—anger, sharpened into purpose. He set the pan aside and dragged the chair opposite Cas back with his boot, sitting forward, forearms braced on his thighs.

“They’re local?” Dean asked. He kept his voice level; it came out low and edged anyway.

“I don’t know where they sleep,” Castiel said. “But I think they shop there often. They were comfortable. Their noise was… practiced.”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered. “Guys who swagger where they think they own the floor.”

Castiel’s eyes lifted. “I did not run because I was afraid of them. I stumbled because my body remembered what happened after their noise, last time.”

Dean met that gaze and didn’t look away. “That’s not on you.”

Castiel tilted his head, as if filing the statement under “Things Dean says that sound like absolution.”

Dean blew out a breath and looked past Castiel at the map pinned on the far wall, the one with a halo of pushpins and string from old cases. The urge to move—now—pressed hard against his ribs. “We should track them,” he said. “Figure out who they are, where they go, who they talk to. By the time Sam’s back, we’ll have something solid.”

Castiel studied him for a beat. “You intend to confront them.”

“I intend to make sure they never come near you—or anyone else—again,” Dean said, and the protective grit in his voice turned the words into a promise. “We don’t spook ’em in public. We do this smart. Plates, cameras, receipts, habits. People like that leave crumbs.”

Castiel’s shoulders eased a fraction, as if the plan itself siphoned off some of the static. He glanced at the pie, then at Dean’s hands—scarred knuckles steady on the table. “You are angry.”

“Yeah,” Dean admitted. “But I’m not gonna let the anger drive. We’ll be careful.”

Castiel’s mouth softened, something like gratitude passing through him without fanfare. “I can help.”

“You already did,” Dean said. “You gave me a soundprint to work with.” He said, and crossed to the desk. “Okay—let’s write it down before anything fades. Red cap, hum on exhale. Broad guy, clipped ends on words. Young guy, whistled sibilants. Anything else?”

Castiel’s eyes half-closed, listening inside himself. “The one in the cap smells of fuel and wintergreen. He has a split thumbnail he worries with his other hand. The broad one favors his left knee; he steps wide. The young one… carries a knife he is afraid to draw.”

Dean scribbled, printing fast block letters that would make sense at a glance later. He looked up. “You got all that from a minute and a half in a thrift store.”

“I had longer, once,” Castiel said simply. “Memory is an archivist that does not ask what should be kept.”

Dean’s jaw tightened again. He shoved the anger down where he kept the other useful fires and came back to the table, nudging Castiel’s plate closer. “Eat,” he said, gentler. “Then we work.”

Castiel took another bite, more present this time. He watched the way Dean moved around the kitchen: coffee topped off without asking, light over the map switched on, laptop flipped open, the Impala keys migrating to the work surface like he intended to be ready the second he found an angle. It was all protection, translated into motion.

Dean slid the notebook between them. “We loop back to the shop this afternoon, low profile. Park across the street. If they’re regulars, they’ll show again. We learn their vehicle, follow from distance. We don’t engage unless we have to.”

Castiel nodded. “I will know their voices even if we cannot see them.”

“Good,” Dean said. “We’ll use that.” He hesitated, then added, “But if it spikes in your head like it did today, we pull out. No question. We do this on our timing.”

Castiel sat with that for a second—something like relief and restraint settling over him at once. “Agreed.”

Dean’s phone buzzed on the counter—some junk notification he swiped away without checking. The ordinary intrusion of it didn’t puncture the moment; it framed it. This was what their life looked like when they chose it, not when it dragged them.

He reached for his mug, then paused. “Hey,” he said, catching Castiel’s eyes. “You did good today. Not because you kept it together. Because you told me.”

A small breath left Castiel as if he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. “I am learning,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dean replied. “Me too.”

For a while they worked in companionable quiet. Dean traced routes on the map, cross-referenced the thrift shop’s address with nearby businesses that might have cameras facing the street. Castiel closed his eyes at intervals, replaying what he’d heard, offering small additions—an offhand nickname thrown at the door, the tinny rattle of a keychain that knocked against metal with each step. Dean wrote it all down, the page filling with a lattice of detail that felt like forward motion.

When the pie was gone and the coffee had gone lukewarm, Dean capped the pen and pushed back from the table. “Gear up light,” he said. “No confrontation. Recon only.”

Castiel stood. The last of the tremor had left his hands. The ghost of his wings stayed folded and quiet behind him, but Dean could feel them there in the calm—the way a room feels when the storm has passed, windows still beaded with rain.

They headed for the stairs. Dean grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and slung it on, then paused with his hand on the rail. He glanced back over his shoulder.

“They ever step within arm’s reach,” he said, voice gone soft and lethal, “I will make sure their last sound isn’t laughter.”

Castiel’s eyes found his, steady and bright. “I know.”

Dean nodded once and started up, the bunker lights throwing long, resolve-shaped shadows ahead of them. Outside, the day waited—cold, clear, and exactly the kind of battlefield Dean understood.

Notes:

I had to update this off my phone, my laptop did something weird and I had to get it worked on… again 🥴. I’ll edit it once I get my precious baby back but I figured I wouldn’t keep y’all waiting! I also have the story complete! I’ll update once maybe twice a week if I can swing it!! Thanks again for all the comments and kudos! I truly appreciate every single one of y'all!

Chapter 6: Divine Interruption ii

They left the bunker in a hush.

Dean checked the trunk twice—binoculars, a beat-up camera with a long lens, a small audio recorder, two baseball caps that made them both look like they were trying not to be recognized (because they were), spare plates in a duffle bag he hoped they wouldn’t need.

He didn’t touch the weapons case. This wasn’t that kind of job. Not until it was.

The afternoon had thinned into a pale, clean light by the time they rolled back into town. Rain ran in narrow veins along the gutter, flashing silver. The thrift store sat half a block off the main drag, the bell on the door still taped crooked to a handwritten OPEN sign. Dean parked Baby across the street, nose pointed toward the exit, angle set for a quick peel if they needed it. Engine off. Windows cracked.

“Okay,” he said, handing Castiel the binoculars. “We’re tourists with nothing better to do than people-watch. If you hear them—any of them—say something, give me a nudge.”

Castiel accepted the binoculars like a relic, then didn’t use them. He closed his eyes instead, the faintest crease between his brows as he tuned inward. Dean watched his throat move around a swallow and felt the impulse to touch his wrist—to ground him—buzz up his arm and settle there, contained.

Traffic was soft: a mail truck with a door that screamed each time it slid, a dog tugging its human along in a puffy coat, a pair of teenagers trying to share one set of earbuds without strangling themselves. The world looked normal in a way that made Dean’s teeth ache.

Ten minutes in, Castiel’s head tilted.

Dean didn’t ask. He reached for the recorder and tapped it on, then followed Castiel’s gaze to the corner of the block. The men didn’t arrive together so much as combine—red cap first, then the broad-shouldered one with the wide step, then the youngest trailing two paces back, chin up like a dare he didn’t believe.

“There,” Castiel said, voice low, steady. Not a flinch this time—recognition delivered like a lab result.

Dean’s hand found the gearshift without moving it. “Got ’em.”

He let the men pass the thrift store without entering—interesting—and clocked the way they scanned. Not nervous, exactly. Territorial. The kind of look guys give a place they think is theirs. Red cap carried a paper cup; he tapped the lid twice before pushing it into a trash can without looking, like his hands kept their own schedule. The broad one rubbed his knee as he paused at the curb. The kid patted his pocket where the knife would be, eyes on ghost threats.

Dean lifted the camera and clicked off a few frames through the windshield—angles, posture, face, face, hands—down again. He didn’t bother to check the shots. He’d been doing this too long.

“They’re not shopping,” he murmured.

“They’re meeting,” Castiel returned, a faint edge under the words.

“Where?”

Castiel’s eyes slid left. “Listen.”

Dean did. Past the traffic and the distant hiss of an espresso machine, he caught it: the brief knock of knuckles on metal, a backdoor opening in the alley that ran behind a row of small businesses. A figure waved twice from the shadow and vanished inside.

“Of course,” Dean said. “Side entrance, no bell.”

He turned the key to accessory, dropped Baby into neutral, and let them coast down the block with the engine sleeping. At the corner he bumped the starter, sound swallowed by a passing pickup, and swung them around to the alley, stopping short of the first trash enclosure. The world narrowed: dumpsters, stacked pallets, a sliver of fall sky strung between rooftops. The back door of what had to be the pawn shop was propped with a length of PVC pipe. Movement breathed behind the safety glass.

Castiel shifted in his seat like a tuning fork finding its note. “They’re speaking softly. Inside voices.”

“What can you get?”

“Nicknames,” he said, listening. “Red cap is ‘Gus.’ The broad one—‘Mack.’ The youngest they call ‘Shift.’ He does not like it.”

“Guy at the door?”

“A new voice,” Castiel said, eyes narrowing. “He lingers on his s’s, but not from his teeth. A choice, not an injury.”

Dean checked his mirror—clear—and watched the shadows on the wall next to the door. A hand gestured, palm slicing down. Maybe a price. Maybe a command. Someone laughed. Not the ugly laugh from the shop—darker, quieter.

“Money?” Dean asked.

“Metal,” Castiel said, after a heartbeat. “Small, heavy. They’re exchanging items wrapped in cloth.”

“Guns,” Dean guessed, then shook his head.

A door farther down the alley cracked open, spilling voices and fryer smell—grease and salt. A cook in a white T-shirt tossed a box of peels into the bin, glanced their way without seeing them, and went back inside. The alley settled again, the backdoor meeting humming on like a basement breath.

Tension tightened just enough across Castiel’s shoulders that Dean felt it in the air. He put one hand palm-up on the bench between them—no push, no demand, just there. Support. In a moment, Castiel looked down, hesitated, but set his fingers lightly against Dean’s, a touch that looked casual and felt like a held line.

He breathed. Dean matched it.

The door opened. Gus came out first, shoving a package deep into his jacket. Mack limped the step down, someone inside clapping him on the shoulder. Shift hung back as if his feet didn’t quite take orders from his mouth, then jolted forward when someone behind him barked a syllable. The door shut. The alley sound changed—smaller again.

“Stay low,” Dean said, and slid them back toward the street.

He didn’t follow in a straight line; he let the world shuffle them apart, then stitched them together again on the far side of the block, picking up the trio as they slipped into a parking lot behind a strip of buildings. The truck—an older F-150 with primer on the rear quarter panel—turned over with a cough. Dean hung two rows down, head tilted like he was trying to read a menu. When the truck nosed out, he let a sedan become a buffer and fell in three cars back.

“Plate?” Dean asked.

Castiel leaned forward. “Partial. H–3–K. The last is smudged. Could be an eight.”

“Good enough.”

They flowed through town, the truck telegraphing familiarity—turn signal late, lane changes decided at the last second without fear. It cut past a feed store, over the tracks, toward the industrial edge where businesses learned to look tired. Dean tracked the street names in his head: Willow, then Prospect, then the unmarked that curled toward the river.

“Warehouse,” he said when the truck blinked and swung into a gravel lot. “Two bays. One shutter halfway down to look closed enough. No cameras I can see.”

The trio hopped out. A fourth man opened the walk-door with a key and ushered them in. It thunked shut.

Dean parked three blocks away in front of a body shop with a chain link fence and a dog that barked without enthusiasm, like he’d already given today more than it deserved. He killed the engine and let the quiet form a bowl around them.

Castiel stared at the warehouse as if distance had no meaning. Dean watched him watch, the way a medic watches a patient’s color.

“Status?” Dean asked softly.

Castiel’s eyes slid to him. “I can hear them,” he said, “but the room is farther from the wall. Names exchanged again. Numbers. They are dividing things. Counting, then reciting to confirm.” He blinked, listening deeper. “There is… a book. Paper. The pages stick; the room is damp.”

Dean’s mouth bent into a humorless smile. “Amateurs. Good.”

He pulled his burner from the glove box, photographed the partial plate scrawled on his knee, then opened a note to Sam’s shared mailbox and typed, Possible trafficking ring / parts? Warehouse at River & Mill. Plates: H3K?8—old F-150, primer quarter. Subjects: Gus (red cap), Mack (wide step, favors left knee), ‘Shift’ (young, nervous). Guys who kidnapped Cas. He saved it to drafts—Sam would see it when he synced—and slid the phone back.

Castiel’s hand had drifted off the bench when he’d leaned forward; Dean put his palm out again without thinking, an offer in muscle memory. The angel’s fingers settled there. Less tremor now. Warmer.

“We sit,” Dean said. “We learn entrances, exits. We clock when they leave. We don’t move until we know what’s on the board.”

Castiel nodded once, the kind of nod that meant: I could burn it down, and I won’t.

Wind shouldered the car, rattled a bit of loose plastic on the dash. Somewhere a train horn bled across the river, long and low, the kind of sound that makes even concrete feel temporary. Dean let it fill the gaps.

“You did good,” he said, eyes still on the warehouse. “Back there. Here.”

Castiel turned his head. The blue of his eyes had settled back into itself, not ocean-storm but deep lake—clear enough to show you your own face if you were brave. “You told me to breathe,” he said, quiet.

“Yeah. Well.” Dean’s mouth ghosted a smile. “Couldn’t have your grace leaking out and exploding.”

A door on the side of the warehouse opened and slammed. Two men he hadn’t clocked before stepped out to smoke, their conversation scraping along the concrete. Dean raised the camera and took them in—faces, hands, the way one man rocked on his heels when he lied. He didn’t need the audio to hear it.

“Okay,” Dean murmured. “New players. This gets bigger, we bring Sam in on the ground.”

Castiel inclined his head. “It is already bigger.”

Dean let out a breath, long and slow through his nose, a sigh.

The light began to thin toward evening, edges going blue. Dean watched shadows lengthen around the bay doors and thought about angles, about routes, about how to turn a promise into something with teeth. He didn’t think about the thrift store, or the stumble, or the way he’d said you’re with me like it was a spell that would hold. He didn’t need to.

He felt Castiel’s glance like a touch and let his shoulder tip until it nearly met the angel’s. Not touching. Close enough to borrow some steadiness from the shared air.

“Long stakeout,” Dean said. “You’re gonna hate it.”

Castiel considered. “I am learning to like the parts that keep you breathing.”

Dean’s laugh was a soft exhale. “Good answer.”

They settled in—two figures in a black car, watching the shape of a problem reveal itself by degrees—while the day closed over the town and the first sodium lights came up like cautious stars. The tension didn’t leave; it laid down beside them and went watchful, which, Dean figured, was good enough for now.

It felt like the air itself thickened the moment Castiel’s body stiffened beside him. Dean caught it instantly—like static crawling over his skin—the angel’s grace flexed sharp and restless, no longer the steady hum it usually carried, but something primal, territorial. Castiel’s eyes were fixed, blazing, on the man standing just outside: Gordon. And next to him, the woman—Lark. Recognition flared in Castiel’s expression, his jaw tightening, his entire frame taut like a bowstring drawn too far. His wings, invisible to Dean’s eyes, seemed to rattle in Baby anyway, feathers restless with agitation.

Dean swallowed hard, one hand tightening around the steering wheel, the other twitching at his side. He looked between the man’s shadow against the glass and Castiel’s burning glare, and the knot in his gut coiled even tighter.

“Cas,” Dean muttered, low, cautious, like he was speaking into a storm.

Castiel didn’t even turn his head. His voice was sharp and cold, like broken steel. “We need to leave.”

Dean didn’t question, didn’t argue. Instinct took the wheel, literally. He twisted the ignition, Baby roared back to life, and in a sharp movement he pulled them out of the lot. Tires cracked against gravel, the sound sharp in the silence that followed.

He didn’t look back in the mirror—he didn’t need to. Castiel’s silence told him enough: those people weren’t just trouble, they were the kind of trouble that made an angel falter. Made his angel falter.

The ride back was heavy, filled with things neither of them said. The car felt too small for the tension in the air. Dean’s knuckles whitened against the wheel, his jaw tight, eyes darting occasionally toward the angel hunched in the passenger seat.

Castiel’s posture was rigid, wings twitching invisibly, but Dean swore he could hear them—soft rustles, restless feathers brushing the air like warning flares. Every shift made the hair on Dean’s arms rise. Grace seeped through the cramped space in uneven waves, like heat distortion rising from asphalt, crawling over Dean’s skin until he clenched his teeth just to keep his thoughts straight.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Castiel’s silence was louder than anything. Dean drove like the road itself could get them safe faster, jaw clenched against the swell of protective fury sitting heavy in his chest. By the time the bunker door closed behind them with its echoing thud, Dean felt like his pulse was wired into Castiel’s unrest—fast, erratic, demanding answers he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

***

The bunker swallowed the outside world whole—the thick door sealing with a metallic sigh. Dean stood in the entryway a beat too long, listening to the echo fade, trying to make his pulse obey. The silence settled in layers: concrete, fluorescent hum, the faint tick of cooling metal from Baby’s engine down the hall. Safe. Supposedly.

But the calm didn’t take.

His mind replayed the alley in shutter clicks: red cap—Gus—hand in jacket; Mack’s wide step; the kid, Shift, shadowing fear with swagger; and then them. The two who showed up after. The way Castiel’s entire body had locked at the sight of them had told Dean everything he needed to know and not nearly enough. Grace had surged off the angel like a pressure front; Dean had felt it through the car seat, through his jacket, through skin and bone.

He hated the way it made him want to bare his teeth. He hated even more that wanting felt reasonable.

Dean’s hands were steady because he made them be, shrugging out of his flannel, hanging it on a hook like it mattered to keep the small rituals in order. He cataloged exits, cameras, lock lights—old habits threading through new anger. Weapons stayed where they were for now, but the part of him that did math for a living was already tallying distances, angles, the exact length of time it would take to close a door between Castiel and any future threat.

You’re with me, he’d said earlier.

Behind him, Castiel lingered just inside the threshold, posture rigid, eyes unfocused like he was still hearing a room the bunker couldn’t hold. The ghost of his wings pressed the air outward, a shape without silhouette. Dean felt an urge to lay a hand to the center of Castiel’s back just to remind the world of whose side the gravity was on.

“Kitchen,” Dean said, more gravel than voice, and led the way.

He put a coffee mug under the machine to have something to do with his hands. It hissed and spat, the sound mundane enough to sand the edges off the moment. He slid the mug toward Cas without looking, took the opposite side of the table, and let the beat stretch long enough to test both their patience.

It snapped first in Dean.

“All right,” he said, low. “Start talking. Why did we leave when that man and woman showed up?”

Castiel’s focus returned like a lens finding sharpness. He didn’t sit; he stood with his hands loosely braced on the chair back, jaw set. When he spoke, it was controlled in the way that meant the words were being weighed as they fell.

“The man who showed up last—his name is Gordon. The woman, Lark. They were the ones who… primarily tortured me,” he said, voice steady but raw. “I told Sam.”

Dean’s head tipped, something cold and sharp sliding under his ribs. “You told Sam,” he echoed, the words biting more than questioning.

“Yes. When he was documenting my captivity—what happened to me,” Castiel continued, unblinking, unyielding.

Dean’s mouth thinned into a flat, dangerous line. “So I was the last to know.”

Castiel didn’t flinch. “You left, remember? You needed air. Sam asked if he could question me. I didn’t think I’d ever see them again—certainly not before today.”

Dean stared at him hard enough to feel his own stare. He could hear himself choosing the next sentence with care. “Cas. I need you to keep me in the loop if I’m going to protect you.”

A flicker—hurt or acknowledgement—moved through Castiel’s eyes and settled into steadiness again. “I understand.”

Dean dragged a palm across his mouth, forced himself to breathe. The coffee maker clicked off. He didn’t reach for the mug. “Give me the rest.”

Castiel’s fingers tightened at the chair. “Gordon is human, but not merely a man—one who believes angels should be tools or trophies, not… beings. He worked with Lark, she traffics what others drag in—the rare, the supernatural, the wounded. I do not know if she believes in any of it beyond the price. Together they—”

He paused, the word catching. Dean watched his throat work around the memory, like everything had come flooding in and Castiel suddenly remembered everything just by looking at those two.

“—they staged captures. Traps that didn’t look like traps. Rooms that sounded like hospitals until the metal doors locked.”

Dean felt that old, familiar heat climb his spine. “And you’re sure.”

“I remember the tenor of Gordon’s voice when he said my name like a slur,” Castiel said, eyes darkening. “I remember Lark praying, blasphemous, and counting in a whisper when she cataloged what she would sell from me if I died—instruments, sigils, feathers.” His jaw clicked once when it set. “They are not guesses, Dean.”

Dean slid his chair back an inch. The motion was small; it felt like a tectonic shift. “And Sam knows all of this.”

“He knows enough,” Castiel said. “I told him what I could without… unraveling.”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting between two reflexes—protect and plan. Both wanted the wheel. He chose both. “Okay. Here’s what happens next. We loop Sam in now. We don’t give those two a single chance to disappear. If they’re hunters running a side hustle, they’ll have contacts. We map them. We schedule them. And what they’re afraid of, and we make it our business.”

Castiel’s gaze didn’t move from Dean’s face. “You intend to bring this to violence.”

“I intend to bring this to an end,” Dean answered, the words soft and knife-clean. “Whatever shape that requires.”

Silence pressed down; the bunker listened.

Castiel straightened slowly, some of the fight draining into acceptance. “I should have told you earlier about them,” he said, and it wasn’t an apology so much as an adjustment to the truth’s ledger.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He didn’t make him say it twice. “But you told me now. And you told Sam. That’s the job—truth in time to matter.” He stood, the chair legs scuffing. “We stick to the plan from the car. Recon smart. No one gets hero ideas. If those two are what you say, they want us reckless. Not happening.”

Castiel nodded once. “Agreed.”

Dean rounded the table and stopped in front of him. Up close, he could see the fine tremor still riding the tendons in Castiel’s forearms, the way the angel held himself like a man refusing to shake. Dean didn’t touch him—he almost did. He let the impulse sit in his chest and translate into words.

“You’re not back there,” he said, quietly. “You’re here. With me.”

Castiel’s eyes lifted, something unguarded passing through them—gratitude, maybe, or relief outfitted as resolve. “I know,” he said.

“Cas. You did right,” Dean said. “You told me. And we’re gonna end this.”

Something steadied in Castiel at that—grace smoothing, wings settling in the space Dean could not see but always felt. “Then we will.”

“Damn right we will,” Dean said.

***

A few hours later, the plan was shelved in favor of something simpler—pizza, TV, and the illusion of normalcy. Dean sprawled on his stomach across the bed, a paper plate balanced dangerously close to his elbow, while he laughed around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni and veggies at the grainy black-and-white sitcom flickering on the TV.

His laughter was easy, full-bodied in a way Castiel rarely saw, like it bubbled straight from his chest without asking permission.

Castiel sat higher up, his back pressed to the wall, legs stretched stiffly in front of him. He held his own plate of pizza as though it were an artifact under study rather than dinner. The laugh track from the TV rattled in the background, punctuating Dean’s real laughter with tiny, mechanical echoes.

Castiel found himself ignoring the screen altogether, more fascinated by the way Dean’s shoulders shook, the way his eyes narrowed in delight at jokes Castiel didn’t really understand. He smiled—softly—each time Dean did, as though the curve of Dean’s mouth alone was explanation enough.

Dean caught him watching once, mid-bite, and Castiel didn’t look away. That small, private smile lingered until Dean turned back to the TV with a snort, cheeks pink with warmth from both the food and the attention.

They’d worked hard earlier. They had a plan. Sam would come back tomorrow, and the “war” would start in earnest. But for tonight, Dean had insisted they needed a break. “Pizza, TV, and beer,” he’d said, like it was a ritual, like the three together could conjure peace. Castiel had agreed, though he hadn’t touched the beer, and the pizza still looked suspicious in his hands.

Finally, he raised the slice, took a careful bite—and immediately grimaced. The flavors were strange and overwhelming, sharp where he expected soft, oily where he wanted plain. He chewed once, twice, a third time then leaned forward and unceremoniously spat the mouthful back onto the plate.

Dean twisted his head toward him, eyebrows up. “Um… what?”

“I do not like this,” Castiel said flatly, holding the offending slice like evidence.

Dean blinked, incredulous. “It’s a supreme pizza, Cas. How can you… why… okay.” His words tangled over themselves, exasperation chased by amusement. Without missing a beat, he reached across the bed, plucked the slice right off Castiel’s hand, and shoved it into his own mouth with a grin.

Castiel blinked at the empty plate in his lap, then at the sad little chewed-up fragment he’d left behind. He set the plate gently on the floor beside the bed, his expression unreadable. Dean, still chewing, erupted into another fit of laughter at the TV, sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth.

And Castiel—freed from the burden of the pizza—went right back to watching him. Watching the way Dean’s joy lit the room brighter than the flickering screen, watching the easy strength in the line of his shoulders, the unguarded way he let himself laugh. For the first time all day, maybe longer, Castiel felt something loosen inside him. He let himself breathe.

Because even if he didn’t understand sitcoms or supreme pizza, he understood this: he was safe in Dean’s orbit, and Dean didn’t seem to mind having him there. Their bond is growing stronger.

Hours slipped by in quiet increments, until the clock read close to midnight. Dean had settled into his usual routine—shower, teeth, pajamas—going through the motions with a tired ease that came from years of repetition.

Castiel followed suit, shadowing him in every step, down to the brush of bristles over his teeth and the way he dried his hair with one of Dean’s towels. Dean didn’t comment, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to. Maybe the angel was trying to learn how to be more human, or maybe he was just imitating him. Either way, Dean found it strangely… endearing.

When Dean finally slid under the covers, Castiel lingered by the wall, back straight against it, watching him in that way that always felt too perceptive. Dean turned his head just slightly, a silent question hanging in the air.

Castiel’s wings gave the faintest twitch, as if answering for him, before he moved. The bed dipped under his weight, and suddenly he was there—close, closer than Dean had braced for. He lay down behind him, their bodies aligning in an unspoken decision. Back to chest, hip to ass, legs brushing and catching as if they belonged there.

The room fell into a softer darkness when Dean flicked the switch off, leaving only the low blue flicker of the TV to paint the edges of their silhouettes. The wings unfolded, stretching, shifting with a whisper of air before folding forward—around them. Dean sucked in a sharp breath when the first brush of feathers ghosted across his bare arm, ticklish and warm all at once.

They moved like living things, not entirely under Castiel’s control, or maybe too much under it—sweeping forward, curling slightly, enclosing Dean in their span like a cocoon. The sensation made the skin along his ribs tingle, made the muscles in his thighs lock tight when a feather slid over his side, light and teasing. He tried to breathe steadily, but it came out uneven, as though the wings were pulling the air right out of his lungs.

Dean kept his eyes on the wall, its pale surface now marked by faint silhouettes—the shadows of great, half-raised wings stretching wide, then folding tighter, surrounding him. The sight was both surreal and suffocating in the best possible way, like being swallowed by something both terrifying and safe.

And beneath it all, Dean’s body tensed against Castiel’s, thighs squeezing reflexively each time the feathers flicked or teased. He tried not to think about the intimacy of it—the way the angel’s body was pressed flush to his, the warmth, the subtle rhythm of his breathing against the back of Dean’s neck. He tried not to think about how much it felt like being claimed, in a way words couldn’t cover.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean mumbled into the dim air, voice rough with sleep.

“Hm.”

The reply vibrated against his ear, lips so close that the low rumble crawled down his spine and made the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Dean swallowed hard, throat dry.

“Can you—” He stopped himself, embarrassed by how it sounded in his head. Asking for something so intimate, so weird, for Castiel to invade his thoughts, to influence his dreams again. But before he could fumble through the words, before he could retreat, he felt it: that tingling warmth, that familiar rush of grace threading through him like liquid fire in his veins. It was the same sensation from the shower, only stronger now, deeper, seeping into the pit of his stomach until he clenched his jaw against the intensity.

Dean’s breath stuttered. His legs squeezed tighter, every muscle taut. Goosebumps broke across his skin and his nipples ached, hard and sensitive under the light brush of air.

“What is it?” Castiel’s voice was soft, curious. His wings twitched, brushing against Dean with featherlight strokes, and the sound Dean made in response—half sigh, half moan—had Castiel’s grip tightening on his hip.

Dean bit down on his lip. “Can you… do that… dream thing?” The words were muffled, sheepish.

Castiel’s hand moved higher, smoothing up his side in a deliberate glide. He presses his lips against Dean’s ear, and he swears the angel smirks, lips curling into a teasing suggestion.

“You’re already dreaming,” he whispered.

Dean’s eyes snapped open (he doesn’t remember closing them). His pulse spiked, panic and disbelief tangling in his chest. He wanted to roll over, shove Castiel away, accuse him of slipping past his guard again without permission. But then that hand kept moving, slow and careful, spreading warmth across every inch of his skin.

Dean flipped onto his back with a sharp exhale, glaring at the ceiling like it might offer an explanation. “There’s no way I’m dreaming. Everything feels… too real.”

“You fell asleep a while ago.” Castiel’s voice was steady, unshakable, an echo in the back of his mind. He reached up, cupping Dean’s face with reverence, thumb brushing over the rough edge of stubble. Then he leaned down, lips pressing to Dean’s with a softness that stole his breath.

Dean froze. The kiss seared through him, raw and startling. It felt real—so goddamn real—that his brain screamed at him, Castiel had to be lying. Except angels didn’t lie. Couldn’t. Which made the heat flooding his chest all the more disarming.

Then Castiel’s tongue slipped past his lips, teasing, insistent, swirling against his own. Dean’s body betrayed him; he gasped into it, and before he knew it, he was kissing back—hesitant at first, then deeper, hungrier.

This Castiel was different. Dream-Castiel was bolder, forward in a way the real one wasn’t. The way he kissed made Dean dizzy, his lungs aching for air as Castiel drew him under, dragging wet heat from his mouth with sloppy insistence. Saliva clung, stringing between them when Castiel finally pulled back, leaving Dean gasping, lips tingling, skin on fire.

Dean’s mind scrambled to reason, to ground himself—but his body had already betrayed him. Everything about this dream felt too much like truth.

Castiel dipped down again, catching Dean’s lips in a kiss that was nothing like the gentle brush from before. This one was fierce—fast, hard, teeth scraping and tugging at his bottom lip until Dean made helpless sound after helpless sound. The kind of noise he’d never let himself make awake. He wasn’t normally noisy during sex or in intimacy in general, but something about Castiel made him want to be.

The angel seemed to know. He always knew—what Dean liked, what made his body betray him. He climbed over him with deliberate weight, settling firmly between Dean’s legs, and Dean’s whole body thrummed with heat.

Wings—God, those wings—spread behind him, massive and black, no longer shadowed suggestion but something Dean had begged to see before, in weaker moments of wanting. Now they arched overhead like a reaper’s mantle, alive and suffocatingly beautiful.

Dean pulled away only because he needed air, chest heaving, lungs desperate. Castiel didn’t waste the chance; his mouth dropped lower, wet and hot against Dean’s neck, licking at the sensitive skin under his ear until Dean gasped. The feathers rustled, restless, their silhouette crawling across the wall as though the room itself bent around them.

A hand slid down Dean’s side, past ribs, until it gripped at the fabric of his flannel pants, tugging them taut over his hips. Dean hissed through his teeth. His hands moved without thought, wrapping around Castiel’s back, fingers burying into those silky feathers. They were soft and warm, trembling under his touch as though the wings themselves felt.

“You’re hard,” Dream Castiel murmured, voice low, reverent. “Your arousal is… pulsing through you.”

Dean swallowed, throat tight, but he couldn’t bring himself to answer. Not when Castiel’s hand left his hip and pressed forward, right against the aching bulge beneath his pajama pants. Dean gasped and threw his head back into the pillows, thighs clenching, every nerve ending sparking.

Castiel’s mouth moved again, trailing down his throat. Wet heat licked down the hollow of his neck, over his sternum, every touch setting fire to his skin. Dean forced his eyes open through the haze, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.

And what he saw nearly undid him. Castiel knelt between his spread legs, wings towering high above and folding outward, black and immense, filling the room like storm clouds swallowing the light. The sight alone made Dean’s pulse thunder, his body aching in ways he couldn’t name, couldn’t admit.

And still—he let it happen. He couldn’t not.

Dean pushed himself up onto his elbows, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts, caught between wanting to drag Castiel back down into his arms and being powerless under the sight unfolding above him.

Dream Castiel knelt there like something out of scripture twisted into desire—wings spread wide, eclipsing the room in shadow and light, their edges glinting faintly as if each feather had been dipped in starlight. His eyes burned, an otherworldly fluorescent blue that cut through the dimness, locking Dean in place. Midnight-dark hair fell across his brow, pale skin luminous like moonlight poured into flesh, and Dean could only stare as Castiel’s fingers hooked into the waistband of his pants.

Slowly—deliberately—he pushed them down. The sound of fabric sliding against skin echoed in Dean’s ears louder than it should have, each second stretching like eternity. Dean swallowed hard, throat dry, his entire body tensed as if any movement might shatter the vision.

And then Castiel’s hand wrapped around himself. His head tipped back, the line of his throat bared, a groan rumbling up from deep within his chest—low, raw, divine. Dean bit down on his lower lip so hard it nearly hurt, a helpless noise escaping him as he watched the angel move.

The fist pumping slow, deliberate strokes, the glow in his eyes flickering like lightning trapped in a storm cloud. The wings flexed with every pull, spreading, arching, trembling like they too were lost in the rhythm of it. Shadows stretched across the wall, vast and inhuman, and Dean felt like he was kneeling at the altar of something he wasn’t sure he deserved to worship.

“Fuck,” Dean breathed under his breath, half a prayer, half a curse. His fingers twitched against the sheets, aching to reach out, to guide, to touch—to show Castiel how to make it better, how to make it unbearable. But he couldn’t move. He was rooted, consumed, forced to watch as Dream Castiel jerked himself off above him.

Every sound—the slick drag of skin, the stifled groan, the heavy breath—poured into Dean’s veins like gasoline. His body trembled with want, his thighs shifting restlessly, but his eyes never left Castiel. Not the wings stretched open, not the glowing half-lidded gaze that burned holes straight through him, not the hand stroking in a rhythm that made the whole world feel like it was unraveling around them.

Dean had never seen anything more devastatingly beautiful. He couldn’t look away. His body screamed to move, but all he could do was watch as if shackled by his own want. Castiel’s wings trembled, spreading wider, casting monstrous shadows across the walls like holy creatures mid-battle. The glowing eyes flicked down to Dean, pinning him in place, and Dean felt naked under the weight of it—bare to the bone.

“Cas…” Dean whispered, not even sure if it was plea or praise.

Castiel’s fist moved faster, his knuckles pale as his grip tightened around his cock. The slick sound filled the room, obscene, echoing in the quiet of the dream like it was meant to be heard. Every stroke dragged fire through Dean’s veins, every groan made his chest ache with something filthy and reverent all at once.

Dean shifted on the bed, his hips lifting as if his body thought it might close the distance, might somehow help, but he was still trapped. His hands gripped the sheets at his sides, knuckles white, thighs trembling as his own arousal pressed painfully against the front of his pants. He felt caged in his own body—forced to be a spectator while Dream Castiel put on the dirtiest, most divine show Dean had ever seen.

“Your need… it’s burning you alive.” The angel’s voice was gravel wrapped in silk, his words spilling through clenched teeth as his strokes grew rougher, faster, more desperate. “I can feel it.”

Dean moaned, helpless, his back arching slightly. He bit down on his lip, tasted copper, but it didn’t matter because he couldn’t stop. His eyes were locked on the angel, drinking in every movement, every shudder of wings, every flicker of blue fire in his gaze.

And then Castiel broke.

His head snapped back, a soft moan tearing from his throat as his wings spread to their fullest, blotting out the dream-sky above them. His fist tightened, stroking hard, and he came undone—spilling hot and white across his own hand, across his stomach, drops catching in the black feathers as his body convulsed. The sound of it—the wet rhythm, the groan, the sharp hiss of breath—burned itself into Dean’s skull.

Dean’s whole body ached. His thighs pressed tight, his hips rolling uselessly, his cock throbbing against the thin fabric of his pajamas. He wanted to reach down, to finish himself off, to crawl up and taste Castiel’s skin slick with his own release—but he couldn’t. The dream wouldn’t let him.

Instead, he was forced to lie there, trembling, chest heaving, while the angel slowly stilled above him. Castiel looked down at him, eyes dimming from incandescent blue back into something softer, but that gaze—hungry, knowing—was the last thing Dean saw before the dream broke apart.

He woke with a jolt, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin. His cock was hard, painful against his stomach, and his sheets were twisted tight around his thighs. He swallowed hard, eyes darting to the side. Empty. No Castiel. Just the quiet hum of the TV left on mute and the sound of his own ragged breathing.

Dean shoved a hand through his hair, heart pounding. He didn’t know if it had been a dream, or something Castiel had actually done, or something worse. All he knew was that his body still buzzed with the ghost of those wings, with the heat of a hand that wasn’t there, and he hated how much he wanted it back.

Dean lay on his back, skin still clammy with the heat of sleep. His chest rose and fell unevenly as he tried to calm his breathing, one hand pressed flat against his sternum like it might hold his heart in place. The sound of his door opening creaked into the silence, pulling his head up sharply.

Castiel stepped through the doorway, shadow first, then his figure lit by the soft lamplight in the hall. His face was unreadable, pale planes of skin and dark hollows under his eyes. He looked almost too calm, like he already knew what Dean was going to ask.

Dean pushed up on his elbows, jaw tight. “Where were you?” he asked, voice low, still rough with sleep.

“I heard something,” Castiel replied evenly, though his gaze flicked over Dean, watching the tension in his shoulders, the flush that lingered high on his cheekbones. “I went to check it out. It was Sam—he came back early.” A pause. Then his head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing like he was looking through Dean’s skin.

Dean’s mouth went dry. His throat worked as he swallowed, tugging the blanket higher as though it could shield him from that scrutiny. “Cas… were you… in my head again?” He asked.

There wasn’t a flicker of hesitation. No guilt. Just the same still intensity as Castiel said, “Yes.”

The word landed in the room like a hammer. Dean’s gut twisted, the uneasy prickle down his neck sharpening. “Why?” His voice cracked, thin and demanding all at once, even if he had given Castiel permission to influence his dreams.

Castiel moved closer. His footsteps were heavy in the hush of the room, deliberate. “Because you were restless,” he said, voice steady but carrying something beneath it—concern, maybe even weariness. “You fell asleep hours ago. You were twitching in your sleep. You started… screaming.”

Dean froze. The blood drained from his face, heat snuffed out of him in an instant. Screaming? The word echoed in his head like a warning bell.

Castiel went on, unflinching. “I could not allow you to continue. I intervened. I redirected your mind, replacing chaos with structure—a ritual you could control. It was the only way to silence the terror.”

The mattress dipped as Castiel sat beside him, heavy and certain, his nearness crowding the air. Dean glanced sideways, shoulders hunched like he was holding himself together with sheer will. Castiel’s expression was calm, literal, terrifying in its certainty.

Dean’s voice was smaller when it finally scraped out. “I don’t… know what I was dreaming about… you just… altered it?”

Castiel’s gaze didn’t soften. “I did what was necessary.”

The silence between them thickened, Dean’s heart pounding against his ribs, the ghost of the dream still lingering hot and confusing in his blood.

“Thanks,” Dean murmured, his voice so low it barely carried between them. The word felt small, almost fragile, but it was all he had.

Castiel moved without hesitation, without waiting for permission, lowering himself onto the bed beside him. The mattress dipped under his weight, the shift of air brushing over Dean’s bare arms. Dean pushed himself up on his elbows, throat working as he looked at the angel beside him.

“Do you…” Dean swallowed, eyes darting away before finding their way back. “Do you know what you’re putting in my head? Like—when you do that. Is it… you?”

Castiel tilted his head, studying him with the same patience he used when weighing human language against celestial truth. His voice was steady, unyielding. “Yes. It is me.”

Dean’s chest tightened. He licked his lips, nerves sparking through him like static. “Do you… do you know what you’re doing to me, in there?”

Castiel didn’t look away. He didn’t flinch. He simply nodded, grave and literal. “Yes. You find arousal in watching men masturbate. I provided that for you.”

Dean blinked. Once. Twice. Slow, disbelieving. His face burned hot as the words sank in, his pulse stumbling. “I—what?” he croaked, the word nearly catching in his throat.

Unmoved, Castiel’s tone remained flat, factual, as though he were describing scripture. “I observe the outlines of your thoughts; the desires embedded in your body. You are aroused by the sight of a man stroking himself—by his loss of composure, the rawness of it. That is why I showed myself that way. Because it pleases you.”

Dean’s blush crept to his ears, his stomach twisting tight. He looked down at his hands, then back at Castiel with wide, startled eyes. There was no shame in Castiel’s voice, no hesitation. Just truth. And that was somehow worse, or better—Dean couldn’t tell.

The heat in his face wouldn’t fade; it sat high in his cheeks, behind his eyes, down in his throat where words kept snagging. Of all the things to be seen—hunts gone wrong, scars, the bad nights—this felt the most exposed. Not bloody, not heroic. Private. Stupidly fucking human.

He could still see it if he let himself: Cas on his knees, wings thrown wide, mouth parted—like a brand seared on the inside of his skull. Want twisted with embarrassment until he couldn’t tell which was which.

The mattress dipped again. Castiel slid closer—not crowding, just near enough that Dean could feel the warmth off him. A moment later, a hand lifted and hovered, then settled at the hinge of Dean’s jaw with a careful, grounding pressure. His thumb skated once across his cheekbone, the touch gentler than the truth had been.

“I wasn’t trying to shame you,” Castiel said, quieter now. The edges of his voice softened, the steel still there but wrapped in something warmer. “I was trying to help. And I chose something you’d find… familiar. Something that didn’t ask you to perform.”

Dean huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Yeah, well. You sure picked the front-row seat.”

“I wanted you to feel like you had control,” Castiel went on, steady. “To watch, to decide—without me taking anything from you that you didn’t offer.” His mouth tipped, not a smile so much as understanding learning the shape of his face. “I don’t always get the balance right. I’m still learning… you.”

Dean’s heartbeat finally stopped banging against his ribs. He leaned a fraction into the touch before he realized he was doing it, eyes falling half-closed. “Just… say it pretty blunt, don’t you?”

“I can try to say it better,” Castiel said. “If that’s what you want.”

Dean swallowed. His thoughts were a mess: relief tacked to mortification, stitched to a pulse of hunger he was trying not to acknowledge. He dragged in air, let it out slow. “I don’t want you to stop,” he admitted, voice rough with truth. “Not… not because I’m ashamed. I just—” He glanced up, met that blue head-on, felt the ground tilt and hold. “It’s… embarrassing to me.”

Castiel nodded once, the promise landing clean. “I understand. You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”

They let that sit. The room felt more breathable with the shape of it named.

Castiel’s hand shifted, sliding from Dean’s jaw to the back of his neck, palm warm against the tense cords there. He pressed lightly, a wordless here that drew a tremor out of Dean he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Dean let his shoulders drop and, after a heartbeat’s hesitation, tipped sideways until his temple found Castiel’s shoulder. The angel stilled like he’d been waiting for that exact weight.

“Sam came back?” Dean asked, voice softer, almost to keep from startling the moment.

“Yes,” Castiel said. “He’s in his room. He didn’t linger.” A beat. “He knew you were sleeping.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s mouth tugged. “Lucky break.”

Dean could feel the outline of wing—only a pressure, a temperature shift—but it was there, a phantom curve that made the room smaller in a way that felt safe. The TV’s blue flicker strobed over the wall; the bunker hummed its low, familiar hum.

Castiel’s thumb resumed its slow pass at Dean’s nape, not asking for anything, not steering him anywhere. “You weren’t wrong,” he said, a little wry now. “About… what you like.”

Dean made a face that was half-grimace, half-grin. “Yeah, you don’t have to frame it.”

“I’m not framing it,” Castiel answered, the faintest warmth at the edges of his tone. “I’m telling you it’s all right.”

It landed deeper than Dean expected. “Okay,” he murmured. “Okay.”

They stayed like that—Dean pressed in close, Castiel steady and quiet—until the sting of embarrassment cooled to a manageable heat and the echo of the dream faded to something he could pick up later without it burning him. When Castiel finally spoke again, it was almost a whisper.

“Sleep.”

Dean didn’t argue. He slid down and Castiel followed, settling on the outside of the bed, arm coming around in the now-familiar arc across Dean’s chest. The hold was firm enough to anchor, loose enough to be a choice. Dean curled a hand over Castiel’s wrist and let his eyes fall shut, a last thought glancing off the inside of his skull like a spark:

You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.

The spark didn’t catch. Not tonight. He slept.

 

Notes:

Kudos and comments are gratefully appreciated! Next chapter will be posted in a couple of days! Until then!

Chapter 7: Glow

The next morning, Dean got Sam up to speed.

The war room table looked like the aftermath of a storm—pages spread everywhere, Dean’s notes marked by bacon grease smudges and his crooked scrawl, Sam’s in neat lines with arrows and cross-references that spoke of sleepless nights. They traded papers back and forth, voices low but clipped, building a rough map of what they knew and what they didn’t.

Castiel stayed silent, positioned just off to the side like a sentinel. His eyes tracked the brothers as though cataloging each glance, each pause. When Dean skimmed over one of Sam’s margin notes—bonding, underlined twice—his jaw tightened, lips pulling into a line. Castiel noticed. He always noticed.

Dean’s gaze flicked up, pinning him from across the room. Castiel had drifted to the bookcases, fingers ghosting over cracked spines, like he was trying to coax meaning out of the old lore with nothing but touch. But the moment Dean looked, Cas turned, and the air between them shifted—sharp, charged, heavy.

“So,” Sam finally broke in, tapping his pen against his notebook, “when are we going to execute this plan?” He looked between them, his voice too careful, like he already sensed the tension but didn’t want to name it.

Dean’s mouth opened, but before he could say a word, Castiel’s voice cut across the table. Firm. Quiet. “We have to take them by surprise.”

Dean turned on him, fast, green eyes cutting sharp. “No.” The refusal was instant, and it landed like iron. “We have to be smart about this. We learned their routine yesterday—Gordon and that woman don’t show until late afternoon. We go in at night, when they’re worn down. That’s how we catch them off guard.”

Sam raised his brows, nodding slowly, but his eyes shifted toward Castiel. The angel didn’t move, didn’t break Dean’s gaze, but the faintest rustle of feathers filled the quiet, wings twitching behind him like a reflex his vessel couldn’t contain.

“Of course,” Castiel said, the words clipped but not cold. He was agreeing, but it sounded like something more—like surrender wrapped in obedience.

Dean felt the charge of it, the same way he always did now. Castiel wasn’t fractured anymore. His grace, once brittle and cracked, pulsed through him whole, steady as a drumbeat. And when they were close—when their shoulders brushed, when Castiel kissed him good morning before they stepped out of Dean’s room—it bled into Dean, humming under his skin like borrowed strength.

Last night, he’d felt it in sleep, in the quiet press of Castiel’s body against his. This morning, he’d felt it in the brush of their hands in the kitchen. Now, sitting in the bunker’s war room with Sam a few feet away, Dean could still feel it—like Castiel’s presence was pouring into him without asking permission.

And maybe it was.

“Okay, so tonight.” Sam’s voice cut through, decisive now. He glanced between them again, scribbling something quick on his notepad. “What should we do in the meantime?”

Dean leaned back, finally dragging his eyes off Castiel to look at his brother. “We could ask any of the hunters in the area if they know Gordon. See if anyone’s crossed paths with him or with Lark.”

Sam nodded, already reaching for his laptop. Castiel, however, didn’t move. His gaze lingered, heavy and deliberate, on Dean—like every word that came out of his mouth carved the direction the rest of this day would take.

***

Turns out Gordon wasn’t just some guy. He was Gordon Walker—a hunter who’d burned through most of his bridges long ago. Every hunter they’d reached out to had some story: Gordon didn’t watch his flanks, Gordon left bodies behind, Gordon hunted with spite instead of instinct. More than one called him reckless. Some called him dangerous. But nobody called him missed. That made this easier. If they put him down tonight, no one would cry about it.

“How many are there?” Sam whispered, crouched low in the damp foliage. The warehouse loomed only a few yards away, its metal siding rust-streaked, a single light buzzing faintly near the entrance.

“I counted five yesterday…but could be more inside.” Dean’s voice was low, steady, but his hand flexed on the shotgun resting across his knees. His gaze cut over the treeline, then back to his brother. Behind them, Castiel stood, shoulders squared, wings half-formed and restless.

The dark shapes unfurled, feathers twitching in anticipation, stirring the air around them like a silent storm. His grace poured out unchecked—dense, suffocating, thick as fog curling through the trees until it sank into their skin. Sam shifted uncomfortably. Dean just tightened his jaw, pretending it didn’t make the back of his neck prickle.

Dean and Sam checked their weapons with ritual precision. Clips slammed into place, knives were strapped to thighs, spare shells slid into belts. The quiet rhythm of steel and ammo was grounding, familiar, but the charged silence hanging above it all wasn’t. Castiel hadn’t moved, his grace rippling around them like the prelude to thunder. His vessel’s skin almost glowed faintly, his eyes catching glints of starlight when they flicked toward the warehouse.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice broke the quiet.

The angel’s head turned at once, those blue eyes locking on him.

“Nobody’s a hero.” Dean’s voice was sharp, but quiet. “We go in, we take care of the problem, and we leave.” His words were deliberate, like he was trying to cut through the smothering air Castiel was giving off.

Castiel’s jaw tightened, but after a beat, he dipped his head in reluctant acknowledgment. “I’ll protect you. I’ll protect you both.”

He turned to Sam, who offered a faint, reassuring smile that softened the edge of the moment. Castiel’s wings twitched in response, curling tighter around the night air as though they wanted to close in on the Winchesters completely.

Dean forced himself to look away, to check the warehouse again, because staring at Castiel in that state—ready, brimming with power and vengeance—did something to him he couldn’t put into words. The angel looked like he could rip the world in half if someone gave him the order. And he wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t.

Dean and Sam rose from their crouch, dirt sticking to their jeans as they straightened. Castiel didn’t move. He stood in the shadow of the trees, eyes locked on the warehouse, wings fanned wide enough that Dean swore the night bent around him.

God, Cas. Dean’s gut tightened. Don’t do anything fucking stupid.

Even standing a step behind, he could feel angelic grace bleeding power into the clearing. It coiled in the air like barbed wire, pressing down on the lungs, dragging over skin. Dean rolled his shoulders, trying to shake it off, but it clung to him like humidity. Sam wasn’t faring much better—he cleared his throat, shifted his stance, rolling his neck like he was trying to shrug off an invisible hand pressing down.

It was suffocating. Heavy. Angry.

“There.” Castiel’s voice cut the quiet like a blade.

Dean and Sam snapped their heads toward the warehouse just in time to see headlights bounce over the gravel drive. A large white van pulled to a stop in front of the doors, engine rumbling low before it clicked off. Gordon Walker stepped out first—broad, shoulders squared, the kind of swagger that only came from thinking you owned the ground under your boots. Lark followed, sharp-eyed and silent, like the blade to Gordon’s hammer.

Dean’s jaw worked as he watched them move to the back. When the van doors swung open, the sound echoed across the night like a vault being cracked. Something heavy dragged against the metal floor, followed by a sickening thud on the ground.

Dean’s stomach twisted.

A body. Not just a body—wings, broken and trailing in the dirt, black feathers streaked with blood. The figure stumbled forward, head covered by a filthy burlap sack, their arms bound, knees buckling under them as Gordon jerked the chain around their wrists.

The sight lit Castiel’s grace on fire. His wings flared violently, beating the air with such force that tree branches above them rattled and leaves showered down like broken petals.

Dean’s breath caught. It wasn’t just the display—it was the intent. Castiel looked like a predator, grace writhing like it was ready to pour out and burn the whole goddamn place to ash.

“Do you know that angel?” Dean asked carefully, low, his eyes never leaving Castiel.

Castiel’s glare didn’t shift from Gordon. “No… but we have to save them.” His voice rumbled, not just spoken but resonating in the ground, in Dean’s chest.

Sam nodded tightly beside them, silent but resolute.

Dean swallowed hard. His instincts screamed to keep his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, to ground him, to stop him from leveling the place in blind fury. But they didn’t have the luxury of reckless. Not tonight.

He nodded. “Of course. We will. But we do it smart.” He cut his eyes at Castiel, sharp, unrelenting, silently willing the angel to catch the weight of his meaning.

Then, voice steady, he whispered: “Let’s go.”

***

Castiel didn’t hesitate. One hand pressed flat against a guard’s forehead, then the other. Light burst sharp and violent from their eyes, their mouths, their noses, like something holy tearing straight through them. The bodies crumpled with heavy, hollow thuds against the gravel, faces raw and smoking as if their souls had been scorched out.

Dean froze mid-step, his stomach twisting at the sight. He blinked hard, trying to process it, but all he saw was Castiel lowering his hands like it hadn’t cost him a thought.

“Shit,” Sam muttered, tightening his grip on the shotgun, shoulders tense as he glanced between the steaming corpses and the angel walking past them.

Without another word, Castiel led them toward the warehouse. The air seemed colder here, sharp with rust and mildew.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Dean’s instincts screamed wrong the second they crossed the threshold. His boots scuffed over wet concrete, the echo too loud in the cavernous space. Water dripped rhythmically from a fractured pipe above, splattering against Sam’s jacket and Dean’s shoulder, soaking through the fabric.

Castiel’s wings twitched behind him, restless shadows playing along the rusted walls as they fanned out and pulled back again. Dean and Sam raised their weapons higher, scanning every corner, every dark gap between crates. Nothing. Not a soul.

Too easy. It was too fucking easy.

When they reached the center of the warehouse, Sam shifted uneasily, eyes narrowing. “Where is everyone?” His voice carried in the empty space like a challenge, bouncing off the walls.

“Downstairs,” Castiel said, his voice lower now, rougher. Dean turned, startled, to find Castiel crouched low, one palm pressed flat against the filthy floor, his head bowed as if listening to something no one else could hear.

“Downstairs?” Sam repeated, scanning the concrete for seams, a trap door, anything. His eyes darted across crates, chains, rusted ladders.

Castiel didn’t answer right away. His grace was bleeding out of him, rippling through the air in thick, invisible waves. Dean felt it push against his chest, heavy as smoke, curling like invisible fingers around his ribs. Sam staggered a half-step back, his grip on the shotgun faltering as his vision blurred.

Dean clenched his jaw, forcing himself to steady against the weight pressing down. He could feel it too—his head ringing, breath shallow—as though Castiel’s power was crawling through his bloodstream.

Then Castiel’s eyes snapped open. “There are prayers,” he murmured. “And screams.” His voice vibrated with something primal, wings shuddering wide, feathers bristling as if ready to ignite.

Dean’s throat tightened. Whatever was waiting for them downstairs—it wasn’t going to be clean. Castiel stood up slowly.

Dean saw it a split second before it broke the surface—the way Castiel’s shoulders squared, the tendons in his neck standing out like cables, wings flaring wider as the air around them thickened to syrup. Bloodlust flickered across his face like heat lightning: there and gone, but enough to set every instinct in Dean screaming.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice cut low, not a command—an anchor. He stepped in, close enough that the edge of a feather skimmed his sleeve. “Look at me.”

Castiel didn’t at first. His head tilted as if he could drink the noise below through his skin. Grace pulsed outward in heavy waves, and the old building answered with a groan. Sam swayed, sucked in a breath like he’d just walked into a sauna.

“Hey.” Sam reached out and touched Castiel’s forearm, fingers firm, not afraid. “Dial it down, man. We need you here.”

The wings twitched, poised to flare. Dean slid his hand over Castiel’s wrist, right above the pulse, and squeezed. “Nobody dies on our side because we got loud too early,” he murmured. “We do this smart. With you—not through you.”

Blue eyes locked on Dean’s. For a heartbeat, something feral looked back—bright, pitiless. Then it blinked, and Castiel came into focus again—the violence banked, the purpose left. The pressure in the room eased by degrees; Dean’s lungs stopped fighting for space.

“Good,” Dean said, softer. “Stay with us.”

Castiel nodded once, then flattened his hand again. “There’s a seam,” he said, gaze flicking to the east wall. “Hidden, under paint and dust.”

Dean and Sam moved as one, rifles rising as they ghosted along the wall. The leak overhead plinked its rhythm against their shoulders. Old crates lined the bay, a rusted pallet jack leaned like a drunk. Castiel walked parallel with them, fingertips skimming brick, tugging him like a lodestone.

“Here,” he said quietly.

Up close, you wouldn’t notice it unless you were looking: a hairline rectangle where the concrete didn’t quite match, a smear of new paint over old. A drain grate sat crooked in the floor nearby; scuffs arced toward it—drag marks, heel scrapes.

“Trap panel,” Sam muttered, crouching to trace the seam. He found the hidden hinge under a film of grit and pried with his knife. Nothing. He frowned, followed the line to a shadowed box, and flicked it open with the knife tip. “Manual release should be…”

Dean scanned above—wires like veins along the joists. “Or it’s keyed.” He pointed at a dented steel rod bolted waist-high to the wall, black with oil from a thousand hands.

Castiel stepped forward and pressed his palm to the panel. “Let me.”

“Gentle,” Dean warned.

Castiel angled his head—I heard you—then exhaled. Power slid out in a thin, precise ribbon instead of a wave, seeking through the mechanism like light through a keyhole. A soft click answered him, then the groan of metal grudgingly doing what it had been built to do. The panel lifted half an inch.

Sam wedged his fingers under the lip and heaved. The door swung open, grinding, revealing a narrow stair trench that breathed damp air into the warehouse—cool and sour, threaded with bleach, copper, and old fear.

“Smells like a butcher’s basement,” Dean said, jaw tight.

Castiel’s wings flexed once, instinct sparking hard enough that the hair on Dean’s arms stood up. Dean touched his shoulder. “With us, Cas?”

“I am,” Castiel said. The words were steady now, but his eyes were not soft. “There are six below. Four human. Two angels. One is the captive we saw. The other—injured, but not bound.”

“Two angels?” Sam echoed. “Working with them?”

“No,” Castiel said after a breath’s listen. “Afraid. Not allied.” He glanced at Dean. “But they will panic when we descend.”

“Then we do it clean.” Dean checked his weapon—a practiced, silent ritual. “Sam, take rear cover and the light. I’ll take point. Cas—mid. Push when I say push. No light shows unless I call it.”

Sam slipped a penlight to his off-hand, angling it to bounce off the wall and not into eyes.

They descended, one by one. Concrete steps sweated moisture; Dean’s boots found each tread like he’d known them all his life. The hallway at the bottom was tight, walls sweating, a single pipe rattling when the building breathed. Somewhere ahead: the muffled whirr of a fan, a chain clink, a voice counting—Lark, by cadence—soft and efficient as a knife.

Castiel’s breath changed—shorter, hotter. Dean felt it at his back like a furnace. He reached behind without looking and tapped two fingers against Castiel’s knuckles. Here. Sam mirrored the tap a second later. Here too.

The corridor opened onto a half-door with a wired-glass window cut chest-high. Dean angled to the side, just enough to catch a smear of the room: stainless tables, cages that belonged in no world, an old industrial sink stained brown at the drain. Gordon’s shoulder passed the window, red cap bobbing. Lark’s braid flicked as she bent over a ledger.

And there—two figures. One angel slumped in a chair, sack head thrown back, wings limp and matted, feathers crushed. Another off to the side, standing, not bound, one wing broken high at the joint, fingers clenched white around a pipe—trapped between fight and flight.

Dean swallowed what wanted to rise. He jerked his chin: Sam left, Castiel right. He mouthed, On three. Then, because he knew what lived under Castiel’s skin, he added under his breath, without turning, “We take them breathing if we can.”

“Understood,” Castiel said. The word was granite.

Dean counted down with his fingers.

Three.

Two.

One.

He hit the latch and shouldered through, muzzle already on Gordon before the door finished banging the wall. Sam crouched wide, slicing the room with the cone of his penlight. Castiel came in like a blade, wings flaring once in pure warning—the whole room flinched.

“Hands where I can see ’em,” Dean snapped, voice iron. “Now.”

Gordon’s smile was a cut.

Lark’s eyes sharpened, calculating. Her fingers twitched toward the table edge.

“Don’t,” Sam said, steady. The beam tracked to her hands. “Really don’t.”

Castiel moved sideways, between the caged angels and the humans. The standing angel sucked in a breath at the sight of him, eyes wide, broken wing shivering. The bound one made a small, wrecked sound under the sack. Castiel’s grace surged, eager, and then steadied, held on a leash only Dean could have put there.

“Gordon Walker,” Dean said, voice low enough the walls seemed to listen. “You will not touch them again.”

Gordon’s smile thinned. “That so?”

Dean’s finger tightened, a hair from the break. “That’s so.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the fan kicked a higher gear, rattling the duct, and the room jumped. Gordon went for the holster at his back; Lark to the drawer; the standing angel flinched toward them with a half-sob.

“Cas—push!” Dean barked.

Light bloomed—not a blast, not the annihilation Castiel could’ve chosen—but a disciplined, brutal flash that tore the footing from human nerves. Gordon staggered, hands flying to his eyes; Lark reeled backward, blinking blind. Dean was already in, boot pinning Gordon’s wrist; Sam swept the drawer shut with a slam and put a barrel in Lark’s line of sight.

Castiel crossed to the bound angel in two strides, ripping the sack away, mouth flattening at the damage. “You are safe,” he said, and for the first time since they entered, his voice gentled. He touched the standing angel’s broken wing with two fingers—pain ebbed from their face like tide pulling back, their breath evening. “You are safe.”

Dean cuffed Gordon slick and fast, zip-ties biting. “We’re done here,” he said over his shoulder. “Sam, collect the ledger. Cas—open the cages. We’re moving them now.”

“Dean,” Castiel said. Not warning—request. His eyes flicked to Gordon, then to the angels. “…justice.”

Dean’s pulse thudded once, hard. He thought of the woods, of the feathers in the dirt, of Castiel trembling in an aisle of a thrift store because a laugh sounded like a door slamming shut. He looked Gordon in the face and found nothing worth saving there.

“Justice comes after tagging,” Dean said. “We keep breathing first.”

Castiel held his gaze, then inclined his head. The bloodlust flickered again—smaller, contained—and went out like a candle cupped in a steady hand.

“Fine,” he said.

Dean nodded back. “Good. Then let’s go.”

They made it ten steps toward the stairs before the night changed its mind.

Gordon’s weight dragged between Dean and Sam—zip-ties biting, boots scuffing. Lark shuffled ahead with Sam’s barrel at her spine, eyes narrowed, calculating angles that didn’t exist. The two rescued angels moved in the shelter of Castiel’s wings, one limping, the other half-carried, the room’s stink of bleach and rust thinning behind them as they hit the hall.

Dean’s gut uncoiled a notch. We did it. We—

The lights died.

Not a flicker—murdered. The corridor snapped to black and the air pressed in, dense and wet. A heartbeat later, something under their feet answered with a low metallic thunk—like a vault sealing. The door at the top of the stairs slammed, with a finality that punched through Dean’s chest.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice found the dark.

“I’m—” Castiel started, and then the hallway seethed—with sound, with static. A crawling hiss skittered along the walls like a swarm. The rescued angel cried out. The other grunted, knuckles cracking around the pipe. Every hair on Dean’s arms stood up.

Symbols woke on the concrete—faint, sickly red seeping into lines Dean hadn’t seen before. Enochian, cut shallow into the floor and walls, hidden under grime. They pulsed once. Twice.

Castiel gasped. His wings fluttered with anxiety.

The sound was wrong. This was like watching a breaker flip. Power shuddered out of the hallway, yank-hard and mean, and Castiel staggered as if someone had kicked his legs out. The air lost its heat. His wings flared wide—and stuttered, edges tattering at the light, sucked thin like smoke through a seam.

“Grace dampeners,” Sam hissed, already pivoting, searching for the switch. “He set the damn hall—”

Gordon laughed, low and rotten.

Dean didn’t think. He slammed Gordon into the wall, forearm across his throat. “Shut up.”

Metal screamed. The ceiling above the stairs cracked open on a hidden track and vomited hardware: chains, a rusted cage door that fell and crashed between them and the exit. From either side of the hallway, narrow cutouts slid open, and two more men, the ones nicknamed Gus and Mack, shouldered rifles into the dark, muzzles flashing. The first burst chewed the concrete by Dean’s boots; the second tore sparks off the cage bars, ricochets screaming past ears.

“Get down!” Dean snarled. Sam dragged Lark to her knees, used her as cover; Dean yanked Gordon with him, took the corner, returned fire in a controlled rhythm—two, two, one—keeping their heads low.

“Cas you good?” Dean shouted over gunfire.

“I can’t—” Castiel sucked air like it didn’t want him. The sigils crawled brighter. He shoved the rescued angels into the sliver of dead-space under a pipe run and spread his body over them, forcing his wings to cover, but they sputtered, shivering in and out like a failing light. His face was white-hot with fury and pain. “They are binding me to the room.”

“Not if I break the room,” Dean growled.

A bullet whined past and kissed Dean’s cheekbone with heat. He tasted blood, metallic and immediate. Gordon chose that second to surge, shoving back; Dean hammered a fist into ribs—twice—felt something give and Gordon fold with a ragged grunt. “Stay,” Dean spat, pinning him with a knee.

Sam leaned into the cage door, testing the latch. “Welded.” He slid a glance through the bars. “Two shooters, maybe three. Lark, call them off.”

Lark’s lip curled. “You think they answer to me?”

Dean pressed the muzzle to her temple without looking. “Try.”

She called out—a string of names and curses. The answering fire paused, then resumed, closer. Great.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice cut through the noise like a lifeline. “Look at me.”

Castiel did—barely. The dampeners hummed; sweat beaded at his hairline. He looked smaller and terrifying at once—like an ocean forced into a bathtub, the tide still trying to tear the walls down. The rescued angel under his arm clutched at him, eyes huge. The standing one raised the pipe and set their jaw.

Dean slid along the wall, found the junction box they’d used upstairs. This one was older, pitted. He popped it with his knife and swore—no simple kill switch, just a spider’s nest of wire spliced to rust. “Sam, give me light.”

Sam palmed the penlight, bounced it to Dean’s hands while keeping the rifle trained. “You see a control?”

“No. But I see a vein.” Dean traced a braided pair into the mortar seam toward the floor sigils. “If I cut it wrong, we fry Cas.”

“Don’t,” Castiel said; a tremor ran through the word. A round clipped the wall by his head; he didn’t flinch, but his breath hitched. “Break the pattern. Not the current. The third mark past the drain—counterclockwise.”

Dean found it—a narrow line almost invisible under sludge. He dragged the knife tip through, scraping concrete until the glyph split and bled dark grit. The pulse in the floor hiccuped. The pressure lifted a hair. Castiel sucked air and pushed, wings flaring a fraction more solid.

“Again,” he ground out.

Dean carved another break, then a third. On the fourth, the nearest gunman lunged the angle and fired. The round caught Dean’s shoulder like a sledgehammer, slamming him into the wall. His vision popped white. The world narrowed to heat and the wet slide under his collar.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice—shredded.

“I’m good,” Dean lied. He wasn’t. He indexed the pain, shoved it into the box where pain lived. He braced, cut the last mark. The sigils faltered. The field dropped like a curtain torn off a window.

Castiel stood.

No blast. No theater. Just the room realizing, too late, it had tried to drown something that could breathe water. His wings unfurled to fill the hallway, every feather iron-solid now, edges hissing where they met the sigil lines and burned them out. He raised a hand, and the rifles jerked from human grip as if yanked by invisible hooks, clattering down the corridor. The shooters slammed back against their slots, eyes wide, mouths open on sound that didn’t come.

Gordon wheezed a laugh anyway, desperate, ugly. “There he is. God’s little—”

Dean drove an elbow into his gut to shut him up. “Cas,” he said, breathing hard. “Easy. We keep ’em breathing if we can.”

Castiel’s gaze cut to Dean, then to the blood blooming on his shoulder. Something lethal softened by a degree. He flicked two fingers; the cage door howled and jumped its track, crashing to the floor. Sam surged through, booted a rifle farther out of reach, covered the shooters with a flat, merciless stare.

Lark chose that second to go for a blade strapped at her back. Sam pivoted, knocked her wrist, the knife skittering. She swung with her free hand anyway—caught Sam’s cheek with her ring and opened him up. He didn’t blink. He shoved her to the concrete and planted a knee in her spine. “Stay down,” he said, voice gone winter-cold.

Dean hauled Gordon up and slammed him to the wall, zip-tie cutting deeper. “You like cages?” he asked, wild light in his grin. “We’ll find you one.”

Castiel turned to the rescued angels. He laid a hand on the standing one’s broken wing; heat and light stitched through the joint, crude but enough to keep them upright. He touched the bound one’s brow. The sack wasn’t there anymore, but the damage was—raw, mean. He gentled something Dean couldn’t see; the angel’s breathing evened.

Then Castiel swayed.

It was small. Anyone else would’ve missed it. Dean didn’t. The dampeners had taken a pound of flesh; grace was back, yes, but scuffed raw. He stepped in close, shoulder brushing Castiel’s—blood, heat, and steadiness. “With me,” Dean murmured.

“I am,” Castiel replied, and meant it.

Sirens flowered in the distance—someone had finally dialed the world. Dean did the math—response times, exits, stories to tell and not tell. He looked at Sam; Sam nodded, already grabbing the ledger, bagging it. He looked at Lark and Gordon and the shooters, all cowed and heaving. He looked at the stairs.

“We spoke too soon,” he said, half to Castiel, half to the hallway. “But we spoke.”

Castiel’s mouth tilted—the ghost of a smile that wasn’t humor. “We finish them.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. He clapped Castiel’s shoulder once, quick. “Let’s haul our trash and get the hell out.”

They moved—fast, efficient. Sam zip-tied wrists, kicked weapons into a pile. Dean shouldered Gordon up the steps, pain burning a track through muscle; he rode it like an old road. Castiel lifted the injured angel like he weighed nothing and shepherded the other with a wing. At the top, the bar on the door didn’t resist them. Outside air slapped their faces, cold and honest.

Headlights cut the trees—sirens closer now. Dean shoved Gordon into the back of the van they’d come to hate and Sam tossed Lark after him. Sam slid into the driver’s seat, engine coughing awake. Castiel climbed in last, folding a wing around the rescued in a shape that read as mine from any distance.

Dean slammed the doors. He took one last look at the warehouse—the rust, the dark, the dead symbols cooling—and then he ran for Baby with his shoulder on fire and his heart too full of things he wouldn’t name.

They weren’t done. Not by a long shot. But they were breathing. And that counted.

***

Back at the bunker, the place felt crowded in a way Dean wasn’t used to. Not just because Sam had dug up more lore than anyone could ever want, or because the air was thick with silence—but because three angels now filled the war room, their wings stretching into the shadows, the weight of their presence pressing against the walls like storm clouds.

Dean sat at the edge of the map table while Castiel moved behind him, steady hands touching firmly over his shoulder. Grace flared—hot, bright, a sharp sting of light. Dean’s muscles twitched, then released all at once. The throbbing pain was gone, though the blood stayed, dried dark across his shirt like a badge he didn’t want.

Castiel moved on to Sam, brushing his palm over the shallow cut at his cheek. It vanished instantly, leaving his skin smooth again. But the touch wasn’t the same. Brief. Detached. Nothing like the deliberate way Cas lingered over Dean, fingers close enough to graze if Dean shifted even an inch.

“Better?” Castiel asked quietly.

Sam nodded, as if to say yeah, sure, that’s enough.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean muttered, rolling his shoulder to test it. He caught the gaze of the two angels seated at the table, their postures stiff, too straight-backed, like soldiers bracing themselves. They were younger—newer to the earth, maybe. Not as weathered as Castiel, but carrying the same gravity in their eyes.

“You guys okay?” Dean asked, and their attention snapped to him.

They had been healed, bodies mended by Castiel’s grace, but the shaken look hadn’t left their faces.

“Yes. We’re fine. Thank you… for saving us,” said the blond one, his voice careful, formal.

Dean gave him a short nod, the kind that said don’t mention it.

Castiel stepped back into Dean’s orbit and sat down beside him, closer than casual. Close enough that Dean felt the warmth radiating off him, grace humming under his skin. The other two angels noticed. Their eyes lingered, flicking between Castiel and Dean, reading something Dean wished they couldn’t.

“You’re bonded,” said the one with longer, darker hair, no hesitation, no shame in the observation.

Sam lifted his head, eyes darting between Dean and Castiel, then back to the pair of strangers. His brow creased. “How do you—”

“His grace is radiating off Dean. We can sense it,” the blond one explained.

Heat shot up Dean’s neck, burning across his cheeks. He ducked his head, cracked open a beer, and drowned the answer in a long swallow. Under the table, Castiel’s hand found his knee. It was a steadying touch, grounding, quiet. Dean half-expected himself to jerk away, but he didn’t move. He stayed, anchored.

Castiel was the one to break the moment. “Where will you go?” he asked, voice low.

The darker-haired angel hesitated, then answered, “We were hoping… we could stay here.” His tone carried the weight of hope, as though it might collapse under its own fragility.

Dean’s mouth opened—ready to say no, you can’t, it’s not that simple—but Castiel cut the words off.

“You cannot,” he said, calm and final. No room for argument.

The two younger angels didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. They only exchanged a look, nodded once, and rose from their seats. Their borrowed clothes—loose jeans and old shirts Sam had dug from storage—hung awkwardly on them. Their own garments had been shredded beyond recognition.

“We will find a way back to our garrison,” the blond one said, more formality than conviction.

Dean’s face twisted like he wanted to argue, to tell them something else, but his eyes slid instead to Sam.

“No,” Sam said, voice gentler. He straightened, giving them the kind of earnest look only Sam Winchester could pull off. “We can… I can give you a ride. Wherever you need to go.”

The two angels paused at Sam’s offer. Their gazes flicked once more to Castiel, as though his word would tip the scale. They weren’t wrong. Even bruised and raw, Castiel carried authority like a mantle, the kind that had been carved into him over millennia.

Dean felt the press of Castiel’s hand still lingering against his knee under the table, steady and grounding. His throat tightened, heat crawling up the back of his neck at the thought that they could see it. Not just the grace, not just the bond humming under his skin—but the way he leaned into it, the way he didn’t move away.

The blond angel inclined his head slightly. “If you trust them…” His eyes flicked to Dean, then Sam. “…then so will we.”

Dean swallowed hard and reached for his beer again, trying to mask the way his pulse kicked. He didn’t like being under the microscope, not like this. Not when every inch of him felt exposed. Bonded. That word still rattled in his chest.

Sam gave a quick, reassuring nod. “Then it’s settled. I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.” His voice was steady, warm, filling the space in a way Dean couldn’t right now.

The darker-haired angel shifted his weight, wings rustling faintly behind him, but his eyes softened when he looked at Castiel. “You’re stronger than we expected,” he said, almost reverent. “And different. You… belong here.”

Castiel didn’t look away. He only shifted closer to Dean, the warmth of his arm brushing against Dean’s sleeve. “I belong where I am needed.” His tone was flat, but the warmth in the small touch said more than his words ever would.

Dean’s fingers twitched around the neck of his bottle, fighting the urge to glance up, to confirm with his own eyes that Castiel was still right there, pressed into his side. He didn’t need to. He felt it. Felt him.

And across the table, two younger angels sat straighter, their decision made—not because of Sam’s kindness, not because of Dean’s gruff hospitality, but because Castiel had already chosen.

***

The spray hissed down in sheets, beating against the knots in Dean’s neck and shoulders, sluicing away the blood and grime that clung stubborn as second skin. His forehead rested against his arm braced on the tiles, the water coursing over the slope of his back, gathering in rivulets that traced down his spine before disappearing at his waist. He let out a low, shaky exhale, steam curling up around him like a shroud.

The shift in air was subtle, but Dean knew it instantly. A charge, a pressure—more than just presence. Castiel.

He didn’t look. Didn’t move. He only felt when Castiel stepped up behind him, silent, until warm hands settled heavy and grounding on his shoulders. Warmth trickled under the touch, a steady thrum that pulsed through his skin and sank bone-deep, chasing out the ache left behind by the night. Dean shivered, even though the water ran hot.

“Sam will be gone for a couple of hours,” Castiel murmured, lips close enough to stir the steam by Dean’s ear. His voice was low, rougher than usual, a private register meant only for him. “The door to the angel’s garrison is outside of town. They will erase his memory. He will be home safe.”

Dean swallowed, the tension in his throat bobbing under the spray. He lifted his head, letting the water hammer against his face, over his jaw, down his chest. “Why did you tell them no,” he asked, voice hoarse but steady, “that they couldn’t stay here?”

Castiel’s grip firmed slightly on his shoulders, a tether as his chest pressed against Dean’s back. Not cloth this time. Not denim, no shirt. Just skin—solid, unyielding, hot despite the water cascading over both of them. Dean’s eyes shut hard, his body locking tight at the realization.

“We are bonded to each other,” Castiel said, tone steady, the truth in it resonating low against Dean’s ear. “They cannot stay because of that reason. Angels cannot remain in proximity to another’s bond. It destabilizes us.” His breath brushed Dean’s damp hair as he whispered the last word. “We become… feral.”

The word reverberated through Dean’s chest, sparking heat that coiled low and heavy in his gut. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides, his pulse tripping. He wanted to say something smart, wanted to push the tension back into the realm of safe banter, but his voice stuck.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them, Castiel’s wings. The water made them shimmer, droplets rolling off glossy feathers, each quiver and twitch catching the dim light. They weren’t just invisible. They were there, arching over him, cocooning the space in velvet shadows and steam.

Dean’s breath hitched, chest rising harder against the wet heat between them. His lips parted as he leaned forward into the wall, not away but deeper into the circle Castiel made around him.

The angel pressed closer, wings curling with the subtlety of touch—protective, possessive, enclosing him in a shelter Dean hadn’t asked for but couldn’t pull away from.

The water roared on, a constant curtain, and Castiel’s hands began to move.

At first, it was barely motion—thumbs pressing into the tense knots just inside Dean’s shoulder blades, slow circles that coaxed the ache to uncurl.

Then his palms slid outward, smoothing over the rounded caps of his deltoids and up the cords of his neck. Dean let out a breath he hadn’t meant to, a low sound that fogged the tile in front of him.

Castiel followed the line of tendon to the hinge of Dean’s jaw, fingers pausing there as if committing the shape to memory, then traced back down—over the slope of his muscles, along his triceps—patient, reverent.

He wasn’t rushing.

A palm flattened between Dean’s shoulder blades and pressed, just enough to guide him a fraction forward, to lengthen the curve of his spine. The other hand drew down his side, skimming the ribs, counting them—one, two, three—then fitting into the dip of his waist and resting there, tightfisted in a way that felt more like shelter than claim. Dean’s muscles trembled under the careful pressure. His lips parted. The steam tasted like rain.

Castiel leaned in with the slightest shift of weight, and Dean felt all of him—chest to back, hips to hips—solid heat through the cascade. Wings folded closer, the soft outer sweep brushing Dean’s arms, feathers slick with water, their barbs catching on skin like a whisper. The subtle cup of them around his sides made the whole world small and private; sound dropped to the hiss of the shower and the stagger of his own breathing.

“Cas,” Dean said, but it came out more like permission than a question.

Fingers slid forward from Dean’s waist, smoothing across the lower edge of his abdomen, not dipping, not taking—skirting the boundary with a restraint that felt more intimate than anything rough could have.

The heel of Castiel’s hand anchored over the hip-bone, his thumb finding that shallow groove there and teasing the line without crossing it. Dean’s knees nearly buckled. His hand shot back blindly, catching Castiel’s thigh, grounding himself on muscle and heat.

The angel’s mouth found the place beneath Dean’s ear, a press of lips that was soft at first, then firmer when Dean tilted to meet it. Castiel drew the kiss down—jaw, then the angle where neck met shoulder—each touch slow enough that Dean could feel the shape of it after the lips lifted. He shivered, not from cold.

“Turn around,” Castiel murmured, voice low and sure, the request brushing Dean’s skin like a vow.

Dean did. He pivoted carefully inside the cage of wings until they were chest-to-chest, water carving bright paths down both of them. He didn’t hesitate. One hand came up to the back of Castiel’s neck, the other to his ribs, and he pulled him in.

The kiss met him halfway—hungry, unguarded, nothing tentative left in it. Dean opened for him with a little sound that surprised them both, and Castiel swallowed it, deepening the kiss with a patient insistence that said he could do this forever. Their mouths slid, caught, learned. Dean tasted heat and something electric that wasn’t taste at all but feeling, a hum in his teeth and tongue like there was a word he almost knew.

Castiel pressed forward, guiding Dean back a step until his shoulders met warm tile. The wings came with them, arching overhead, cutting off the last of the light. It felt like being hidden in the hollow of a storm. Castiel’s hands framed Dean’s jaw for a beat—thumbs sweeping the freckles of his cheeks, reverent—and then traveled down, palms spreading over his chest, splaying to feel the thud of his heart under wet skin.

Dean broke the kiss to breathe and immediately chased it again, catching Castiel’s lower lip between his own, teasing, then giving. Castiel answered with a soft, wrecking sound that went straight through Dean’s spine. The angel’s hips settled flush, a promise without pressure. His hands roamed—over Dean’s shoulders, down his sides, stopping at the brackets of his hips like a man holding precious weight.

They hovered at the edge. Dean could feel it: one more inch, one more decision, and the line would vanish. Instead, Castiel let the tension bloom and hold. He kissed Dean again—slower this time, more deliberate—before lowering his mouth to Dean’s throat, placing a single, open-mouthed kiss there that lingered just long enough to brand.

“I want us to be closer,” Castiel said, breath warm on his skin. “I want to make love to you.”

Dean’s answer was a shudder and a hand fisting gently in Castiel’s wet hair, not to pull him closer, not to push him away—just to feel that he was real. He pressed his forehead to Castiel’s, noses brushing, their breaths tangling. The water drummed an urgent rhythm around them; they didn’t follow it. They made their own—slow, aching, steady.

Castiel’s touch kept to the perimeter—throat, shoulders, chest, the dip of waist, the honest bones of hips—every stroke a question that didn’t need words. Dean’s body answered anyway, leaning into each pass with quiet need, heat coiling tight and held on a leash by will alone.

They stayed there, on that thin, incandescent edge, until the want gentled into something deeper and the urgency bled into warmth. When Castiel finally eased back half an inch, the wings loosened too, letting a sliver of light return.

Dean blinked up at him, breathless and flushed, a laugh caught somewhere behind his tongue. “Okay Cas,” he whispered, like he’d solved a problem no one had given him.

Castiel kissed the corner of his mouth—brief, anchoring—and slid his hands back to Dean’s shoulders, thumbs pressing once more into the knots he’d already undone. “Okay,” he smiled warmly, and for the first time in hours, Dean felt the word settle all the way through him.

The water kept falling.

The wings curled in, sheltering them from the rest of the world a little longer.

Notes:

Kudos and comments are gratefully appreciated! Since this story is basically complete, I'll be updating frequently, just because I need to edit and go through and fix any mistakes. Do you have any idea how hard it was to google "door traps" ?? Like... I hope I did it justice because I feel like I sucked ass at describing it. Next chapter will be posted in a couple of days; they finally get their smutty angelic grace sex 😮‍💨 well... Dean does.

Until then!

Chapter 8: You Are the Stars

Dean left the lamp on when they stepped into his room, the amber glow throwing soft shadows against the walls. His chest was still damp from the shower, hair sticking to his temples. He perched on the edge of the bed like he needed the grounding.

“Cas, we gotta… we gotta talk first before we… we—” His voice cracked halfway, nerves catching in his throat.

“Before I make love to you?” Castiel asked, blunt, his voice quiet but sure.

Dean flushed hot. His ears burned. “Yeah, Cas, before we fuck, um—”

“Do you want me to fuck you instead?” Castiel interrupted again, tilting his head as if he were trying to decode a puzzle.

Dean blinked. His mouth went dry, and he cleared his throat hard.

“There’s a difference. I understand.” Castiel’s tone was calm, matter-of-fact, but his eyes stayed fixed on Dean with that unyielding curiosity.

Dean tried to concentrate, he really did—but then Castiel peeled the towel from his hips and let it drop. He stood in the middle of Dean’s room, gloriously naked, skin still glistening from the shower, droplets racing down the ridges of his chest and stomach. His cock hung thick and heavy, mostly soft, and Dean’s heart slammed against his ribs.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean muttered under his breath, dragging his gaze away, trying to hold onto the conversation instead of drowning in the sight. He swallowed and gestured stiffly to the bed. “Can you… can you sit down for a second?”

Dean sat first, hands clasped in front of him, knuckles white. Castiel followed, lowering himself beside Dean with unhurried grace, utterly unashamed in his nakedness. The heat of him bled into the space between them. Dean stared down at his own knees, as if eye contact might undo him completely.

“You’re nervous,” Castiel said softly, eyes searching Dean’s profile. “Your heart is beating so fast.”

Dean let out a rough laugh, shaking his head. “Well… well yeah, Cas. Um… I haven’t… been with a man like that, not in a long time. I’ve messed around with guys but—”

“You’ve never been… fucked,” Castiel finished, the word landing heavy in the quiet. His eyes flickered with understanding. “You’re used to being the penetrative partner, not the one being penetrated.”

Dean’s face went scarlet. He coughed, awkward, turning his head as if the lamp’s glow was too much on his skin. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, wishing his pulse didn’t feel like it was echoing in the room. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice low. “Something like that.”

Castiel tilted his head again, not in judgment, but in thought—like Dean had just offered him something sacred instead of something shameful.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, the air in the room thick as if the lamp’s glow had turned solid. His gaze dropped to his hands braced on his knees, knuckles pale. God, Winchester, spit it out. You’ve faced down worse than this. But this wasn’t a monster or a hunt. This was Castiel. Naked. Beside him. Close enough that Dean could feel the heat rolling off his body, mixing with the humid trace of the shower still clinging to them both.

Castiel tilted his head, studying him, eyes impossibly blue under the soft light. He didn’t look away. Didn’t fidget. Just watched, waiting. “You’re so nervous,” he repeated, softer this time, more observation than accusation.

Dean barked a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh, clearing his throat again. “Yeah, well. Not every day a guy like me’s got… an angel like you sittin’ next to him naked.” He risked a glance and immediately regretted it—Castiel’s body, all broad lines and scars like sigils, pale skin damp with a faint sheen. His cock rested heavy against his thigh, unbothered by Dean’s stammering.

Dean whipped his eyes back to the floor, ears red. “It’s just—like I said. I haven’t done that. Not… not on the other end. And I don’t—” He stopped, mouth tight, words sticking like they always did when it came to truth. “I don’t know if I can be what you expect.”

Silence stretched. Dean’s chest squeezed tighter by the second until he thought he might suffocate on it.

Then Castiel moved—not sudden, not startling, just deliberate. One hand reached out, fingers brushing the inside of Dean’s wrist. He turned Dean’s hand gently, palm up, and pressed his own against it. Warm, steady. Their fingers didn’t lace, just rested, skin to skin.

“I expect nothing,” Castiel said. His voice had the weight of gospel, as if the words were carved into stone the second they left him. “I only want what you want to give.”

Dean blinked, his throat working. His chest stung with something sharp and tender at the same time. “Cas…”

Castiel leaned a little closer, his shoulder brushing Dean’s. “If you wish for me to stop—if you wish for distance—you need to tell me.”

Dean lifted his eyes slowly, finally letting them meet the angel’s. His stomach turned, not from dread but from something far more dangerous: relief. The kind that cracked him open.

And before he could talk himself out of it, Dean closed the space, leaning in. His mouth found Castiel’s—no hesitation this time, just lips against lips, hungry and unguarded.

Castiel answered instantly, pressing into him, kissing back with the same quiet intensity he gave everything else. His hand slid from Dean’s wrist to his jaw, thumb grazing the line of stubble, tilting his face to deepen the kiss. Dean’s breath hitched, heat coiling low, but instead of bolting, he leaned in harder, tasting, learning.

Castiel shifted, pressing his body flush against Dean’s side. Naked skin against naked skin, water-warmed muscles against tense lines. Dean gasped into his mouth at the sudden, overwhelming reality of it. Castiel was solid, heavy, real—and his wings flickered faintly in the glow, shadows curling against the walls like they wanted to hold Dean too.

Dean pulled back a fraction, lips parted, eyes blown wide. “Jesus, Cas…”

Castiel only murmured, voice low and sure: “Dean.”

And then he kissed him again.

Castiel’s palms framed Dean’s face like he was learning it by touch alone—cheekbone, jaw, the small hollow just in front of his ear—before he kissed him deeper. It wasn’t careful anymore; it was hungry. His tongue slid into Dean’s mouth, slow at first, then surer, swallowing the small, helpless sounds Dean couldn’t hold back. When Castiel finally broke the kiss, he pressed at Dean’s chest—no force, just direction—and Dean let himself be guided, scooting up the mattress until he lay flat on the bed.

The towel lost the battle with gravity, shedding off Dean’s hips. Heat flashed under his skin as the air touched him; he lay there, bare beneath an angel who looked like sin wearing reverence.

Castiel dipped to press a kiss at the corner of Dean’s mouth, then along his jaw, then lower—teeth grazing, lips soothing—until he found the notch of Dean’s throat. Dean shuddered, fingers clamping around Castiel’s biceps, feeling the hard line of muscle as if it were a lifeline.

A tongue traced up the column of his neck and stole his breath. Castiel returned to Dean’s mouth and took him apart with a kiss that was deep and patient and utterly consuming. One hand stayed at Dean’s cheek, thumb brushing across a constellation of freckles like they were sacred text.

“You’re so beautiful…” Castiel whispered, voice wrecked with sincerity.

Dean’s gaze jerked away, color climbing his throat. “Can’t say shit like that, Cas.”

“Why not? You are. In all of my millennia… I have never seen a man so beautiful.” No teasing, no angle. Just truth. “Not just… physically but… all of you.”

Dean tried to laugh it off, a rough, dry sound that fell to pieces when he dragged Castiel back down for another kiss—messier this time, wet and uncoordinated, teeth clicking, tongues catching. It should’ve been clumsy. It wasn’t. It was desperate and alive and them.

Castiel’s hand drifted down, mapping the cut of Dean’s ribs, the warm flat of his stomach, until it found the bracket of his thigh. He eased Dean’s leg open and Dean jolted, breath hitching, eyes wide.

“Do you even know what—what you’re doing, Cas?” Dean asked, voice pitching up as that steady palm slid higher. “You didn’t know what music or… or anything, Cas… I can’t…not yet—”

“Dean, you need to relax,” Castiel told him—gentle, not scolding. The hand on Dean’s thigh stayed where it was, warm and sure, not pushing further. The other returned to Dean’s jaw, steadying him, coaxing his gaze back.

Wings unfurled—more feeling than sight at first, a pressure change in the room, a rush of air that stirred the lamp’s shade. Then Dean caught them in his periphery: black and immense, arching around the bed until the world narrowed to lamp-glow and shadow and breath. The tips skimmed the blanket near Dean’s hips like a dare, like a promise.

Castiel leaned in and kissed the worry off Dean’s mouth, slower this time. “I know what you like,” he said quietly, lips ghosting Dean’s. “I learned.”

Dean swallowed, throat working. “Yeah? From…?” He trailed off, embarrassed by the answer he already knew.

“From you,” Castiel said simply. “From how you respond.” His thumb stroked once along the crease where Dean’s thigh met his torso; he wasn’t touching anywhere dangerous, but God, it felt like he was. “From dreams. From here.” He tapped Dean’s sternum lightly, then pressed a kiss there, open-mouthed and reverent.

Dean’s head hit the pillows, a soft thud. “You’re a menace,” he muttered, but it came out fond. His hands climbed of their own accord—one to Castiel’s shoulder, the other into the damp, dark hair at his nape, tugging just enough to draw a sound from Castiel’s chest that lit Dean up from the inside.

The angel nuzzled lower, mouth charting across Dean’s clavicle, pausing to taste the salt there, then down to a nipple already tight from the air and attention. He didn’t suck; he breathed warmth over it first, waited for Dean’s breath to stutter, then closed his lips around it, careful and slow. Dean’s hips twitched without permission. He bit off a noise that still escaped as a wrecked ah.

“Cas,” he warned—and begged.

“I’m stopping when you say,” Castiel murmured against his skin, heat pooling in every word. He shifted higher again to kiss Dean deep, letting the sensation crest and recede like a tide. The wing nearest Dean curled closer, covering his thigh with a slick, feathered edge that tickled and soothed all at once, making his muscles jump.

Castiel’s wandering hand slid down the outside of Dean’s thigh to his knee, then back up the inside—slow enough that Dean had time to think about every inch of skin being touched, slow enough that saying yes felt like something deliberate and not a fall. He stopped with his palm splayed wide on Dean’s inner thigh, warmth sinking deep, keeping a respectful inch between touch and too much.

“Tell me what you want,” Castiel said, voice low, gaze steady—even, impossibly, tender. “Tell me where.”

Dean’s mouth worked. Words stalled. He tipped his head back, swallowed a curse, and let out a breath that trembled. “Just… keep doing that,” he said, and hated how it sounded, and loved how Castiel smiled like Dean had handed him the galaxy.

“Okay,” Castiel said. He didn’t push higher. He stroked along the same maddening path—knee to upper thigh, back again—then pressed a slow, anchoring kiss to Dean’s mouth each time Dean’s hips threatened to lift. The rhythm built heat without breaking anything open.

Dean’s hands roamed now—over Castiel’s shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the dip of his waist. He traced an old sigil-scar with his thumb and felt the shiver chase across Castiel’s skin. “You’re unreal,” he whispered, then shook his head. “No… you’re fucking here man just—"

“Always,” Castiel answered, and the word landed like a vow.

The wings tightened their circle. One curved up and over Dean’s shoulder, the soft edge brushing his neck; the other cupped his hip from the far side, not restraining—holding. Castiel crowded in, letting his weight settle enough that Dean could feel every line of him: the long plane of his thighs, the heat of his stomach, the unmistakable shape of him growing hard where they touched—but he kept the angle careful, the pressure less grind than promise.

Dean’s breath came rough now. He turned his head and kissed the underside of Castiel’s jaw, then the pulse point just beneath his ear, tasting skin and heat. “You keep this up,” he muttered, voice frayed, “and I’m gonna forget I said ‘not yet.’”

Castiel huffed a laugh that sounded almost human. “We can stop,” he offered, earnest as ever, and then ruined the offer by kissing Dean so thoroughly the world went white at the edges.

They balanced there, a hair’s breadth from ruin: Castiel’s hand stroking Dean’s inner thigh in that same deliberate path; Dean’s fingers flexing at the angel’s nape, guiding, grounding; wings closing and opening like breath. It was filthy only in implication—the tilt of hips, the wet catch of kisses, the tiny sounds Dean made when the feathers brushed a new patch of skin—but it felt more intimate than anything either of them had done in years.

When Castiel finally eased back, it wasn’t distance so much as a gentling. He shifted his hand to Dean’s hip, squeezed once, and rested their foreheads together.

“I will be gentle, Dean… do you trust me?” Castiel’s voice was low, rough, almost a moan in itself. His hand squeezed and rubbed at Dean’s hip like he was tethering himself there, like his whole being depended on the touch. Every pass of his palm inched closer to Dean’s inner thigh, and Dean’s body screamed nerves—but his mouth, his answer, screamed trust.

“Yeah, Cas… yeah, I trust you. I’m just—” Dean swallowed hard, his voice a crack of uncertainty, “it’s gonna hurt, isn’t it?”

“I will never harm you,” Castiel whispered against his ear, breath molten, grace humming in every word. “You will enjoy it. I can… make you take it.”

Dean tried not to melt right there, but God—Castiel’s voice, deep and hot against his ear, made his spine curve, his legs parting instinctively, just a little wider.

“You need some lube or something?” Dean asked, almost desperate to ground himself in practicalities.

“I don’t need lubricant,” Castiel murmured, pressing his body tighter to Dean’s side. His cock smeared precum against Dean’s damp thigh, hips shifting in restless, needy rhythm. “My grace will allow your body to relax, to bring you pleasure, less pain. It will be so warm… inside you.” His tone broke on the edge of a whine—unlike anything Dean had ever heard from him. Desperate. Human, almost.

Dean’s chest ached at the sight, at how undone he looked. He turned his head, lips brushing the shell of Castiel’s ear. “Show me,” he whispered, raw.

The growl Castiel gave in response was deep, vibrating through Dean’s bones. His hand slid down, fingers tracing between Dean’s thighs until they found his entrance. Dean whimpered at the first touch, just a circle, the pad of Castiel’s finger brushing over sensitive muscle. It was warm—tingly, like the slick slide of heated oil—but somehow more alive.

Castiel kissed at his throat as he pushed, slow and careful, until the tip of his finger slipped past the tight ring of muscle. Dean gasped, his body clenching hard around the intrusion, but the flare of discomfort melted almost immediately into heat. That honey-warmth spilled into him from Castiel’s touch, easing the stretch, making room where there shouldn’t have been any.

“Jesus,” Dean breathed, head tipping back against the pillow, chest rising and falling like he’d run miles. His heart pounded against his ribs, ears roaring with it, but his body—his body was opening.

“You feel so good,” Castiel whimpered, voice breaking in awe. “So tight.”

Dean’s lips parted in a trembling gasp when Castiel kissed down his chest, tongue flicking along the curve of his sternum. Dean instantly missed the weight of him pressed close, but his eyes dropped, riveted, as Castiel moved lower—mouth on his ribs, then his stomach, then hovering over his cock.

“Cas—Cas, you don’t have to—fuck.” Dean’s hips jolted when Castiel’s tongue licked a hot stripe over him, tentative but deliberate.

“You like this,” Castiel said simply, eyes fixed on Dean’s face. His finger pumped gently inside him, spreading grace with every curl, while his tongue swirled around the swollen head, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves beneath.

Dean groaned, hips lifting despite himself. “Have you… have you sucked a cock before, man?”

The answer was obviously no, and yet Castiel was a fast learner. His lips wrapped around Dean, sliding lower with each pass. His tongue mapped the vein running along the underside, tasted salt, learned every twitch that pulled a noise from Dean’s throat. He matched the rhythm of his hand inside him—one finger, then two, stretching him slow, careful, but relentless.

Dean’s thighs trembled, spread wide under the angel’s grip. His head rolled back against the pillows, vision blurring as his eyes fluttered shut. “Fuck. Fuck! Cas.”

When he forced them open again, what he saw undid him—Castiel looking up through soaked lashes, lips stretched around his cock, wings twitching in concentration and need, fingers plunging slow and sure into his body while grace flooded every inch of him.

Dean moaned brokenly, hands tangling in Castiel’s hair, his voice wrecked and high, a plea and a surrender in one. His body trembled on the edge of pain—but there was none. Only warmth, only fire, only Cas.

Castiel pulled off Dean’s cock with a wet pop, lips swollen, a trace of spit clinging to his mouth. But his fingers didn’t stop. They kept pumping into Dean, slow and steady, his gaze fixed intently on Dean’s face, searching for any shadow of discomfort. There was none. Only want.

Dean’s back arched into the mattress, his chest heaving, eyes glassy with the intensity of it. Castiel’s wings fanned wide behind him, the enormous black span arching like waves, the tips trembling in sync with the clench of Dean’s body.

Then Castiel crooked his fingers, just enough to drag across the bundle of nerves buried inside.

“Ah! Fuck—Cas!” Dean’s cry cracked, desperate, half-moan, half-panic at the pleasure flooding him.

Castiel stilled, watching, learning. Dean’s whole body twitched, thighs trembling, sweat streaking down his temples. So he did it again. Pressed his fingers into that spot and rubbed, slow and deliberate. Grace spilled with every pass, warm as molten honey, easing the stretch, making Dean’s nerves sing until stars burst behind his eyelids.

“You like that,” Castiel murmured, voice low, awed. “Your body is aching for more.” He pressed deeper, let Dean writhe and clench around him. “Do you want me to stop?” His tone was so calm it bordered on cruel, delivered like a scholar making notes.

Dean’s breath hitched violently, his hand snapping down to grab his cock, swollen and leaking. “N-no—I’m gonna—” His words broke into a strangled whimper as his fist wrapped around himself, pumping helplessly to match the rhythm of Castiel’s fingers.

The angel kissed his inner thigh, a comfort, a claim, while feeling the way Dean’s body seized around him. The muscles fluttered, squeezing tight, pulling his fingers deeper as if Dean’s body had its own demands.

And then Dean came apart.

His cock pulsed in his hand, hot cum spilling across his stomach, his chest, his trembling fingers. His thighs locked around Castiel’s arm as his body jerked, breath tearing free in raw, broken sounds that echoed off the walls. The arch of his back, the red in his cheeks, the wet tremor of his mouth—it was devastating.

Castiel stayed with him, drawing out every spasm with careful thrusts of his fingers until Dean’s body went slack. Then, slowly, reverently, he withdrew, his lips ghosting over Dean’s thighs in a trail of tender kisses, as though soothing the overstimulated muscle back into calm.

He kissed higher, over Dean’s hipbone, his stomach, up the slope of his chest, until he hovered just above him. Grace still hummed in the air like static, the scent of sex thick around them.

“You had… an orgasm,” Castiel said, tone bewildered, as if cataloguing a sacred event.

Dean laughed breathlessly, face flushed scarlet. “Yeah, Cas,” he rasped, his voice wrecked but warm.

Castiel blinked down at him, expression caught between reverence and hunger, his wings flexing high and dark above them, dripping faint trails of liquid stars onto the sheets. He looked every bit the angel and every bit the man who wanted to consume Dean whole.

Dean trembled still, but he didn’t shy away. If anything, he tilted his face up, silently inviting Castiel closer.

Dean didn’t give himself time to recover. Still flushed and trembling from release, he surged forward, kissing the angel hard, wet, desperate. Castiel’s mouth opened to him instantly, a low groan vibrating through his chest as Dean pushed, shifted, and rolled them.

Now it was Dean straddling him.

The sight made his head spin—Castiel sprawled beneath him, wings unfurled like a black sea crashing over the sheets, feathers fanning wide and twitching with every kiss Dean laid on him. They spread and arched in instinct, shadows stretching up the walls, tips curling back around Dean like he was already caged, already claimed.

Dean’s lips left Castiel’s mouth to drag down the strong line of his throat, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, kissing over the hard ridge of his collarbone. His hands smoothed down Castiel’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of each shaky breath.

His mouth found one nipple, licked a teasing circle before sucking it between his lips. Castiel gasped, arching, the sound guttural and raw. Dean hummed at the reaction, teeth scraping lightly, then switched to the other side, lavishing equal attention until the angel’s head pressed back into the pillows, lips parted, eyes heavy.

The wings reacted before Castiel did, twitching and curling around Dean’s body. The soft edges brushed along Dean’s arms, stroked down his bare back like they were memorizing him. Then one tip dragged lower—ghosting between his thighs, teasing over sensitive skin. Dean jolted, moaning into Castiel’s chest when the feathered edge flicked across his balls, another brushing the underside of his cock.

“Shit… Cas—” Dean gasped, hips jerking forward. He clutched at Castiel’s ribs, trembling with how wrong it should feel and how fucking good it did. The tips of those feathers weren’t just touch—they were grace made tangible, silky and electric all at once, lighting him up in places he hadn’t even known he could feel.

Castiel’s hands settled firmly on Dean’s hips, not to stop him but to guide, grounding him even as his wings teased mercilessly. Dean moaned louder, needy and open, grinding down instinctively against the angel beneath him.

His mouth continued its path lower, leaving hot, wet trails across Castiel’s chest and stomach. Every kiss tasted like salt and heat, every lick met with another flutter of wings that made Dean’s thighs quiver. Then he shifted further down, chest sliding against Castiel’s cock, the thick length smearing precum against his skin. Dean groaned at the contact, shameless, as the heavy weight dragged across him.

“Christ, Cas…” Dean muttered into the soft skin of his stomach, his lips brushing the taut skin there. He looked up through his lashes, flushed and wrecked, as he kissed just above the thick length, now rubbing just under his throat.

Castiel groaned in answer, his wings flexing wide in response, the tips sweeping across Dean’s hips, his cock, stroking him in featherlight brushes that made him buck and gasp.

Dean moaned again as he kissed lower—mouth finally hovering over the swollen head, lips parted, tongue slipping out to taste the sticky mess smeared across Castiel’s skin.

Dean lowered himself with intention, breath warm over the flushed head before he licked a slow, claiming stripe from base to tip. Castiel’s answering inhale was sharp and unsteady—almost a gasp, almost a prayer. Dean wrapped his hand around the base to steady the weight and then took him in, lips stretching, tongue flattening as he slid down in a smooth, practiced glide.

He didn’t tease. He meant it.

Castiel’s head tipped back, throat working. Little sounds slipped out of him—caught, reverent hums that stuttered when Dean hollowed his cheeks and took more, swallowed, then eased back with a slick pull.

The wings unfurled wider beneath them, feathered edges fanning across the sheets like black surf; one tip curled under Dean’s thigh, another traced lightly along the seam where hip met groin.

Dean’s rhythm faltered with a choked noise when a feather ghosted over his oversensitive cock. He jerked, hips twitching; he was already getting hard again, thickening between his legs, the soft brush teasing him back to need. He breathed through it, shook once, and sank down again, deeper, eyes watering pleasantly as he fought his gag and won, nose brushing neatly trimmed hair, tongue pressed hot along the vein.

“Dean,” Castiel breathed, the name unraveled on an exhale. His fingers slid into Dean’s hair, not pushing, just cradling—guiding the angle like he was aligning a star. The wings trembled; their tips flitted along the insides of Dean’s thighs in featherlight strokes that made his muscles jump and his pace stumble.

Dean groaned around him, the sound buzzing through the shaft, and then he doubled down—hand firm at the base, mouth working with needy precision. He bobbed and twisted, tongue circling the head each time he rose, lips sealing tight as he sank. Spit slicked everything; he let it be messy, let it run, because the wet sound of it drew more of those quiet noises from Castiel—soft, astonished, human.

The feathers got bolder. One stroked the underside of Dean’s cock, a teasing, silky pass that made him gasp and lose the beat; another tickled behind his balls, making his spine bow and a raw sound climb out of him. He nearly yelped when the tip passed over his hole, and then back down.

He pulled off with a gasp, panting, a string of saliva stretching from his mouth to the flushed head before snapping. “You tryin’ to make me cum again,” he rasped, voice wrecked, and then he swallowed Castiel down again, greedy.

Castiel’s hips lifted—just a little, careful—and Dean welcomed it, meeting him halfway. He changed angles, took him deep, then eased back to lave attention around the ridge, tongue flicking at the slit, thumb stroking lower where mouth couldn’t reach. Every time the wings touched him, his rhythm stuttered; every time it stuttered, he came back rougher, more determined, a low, hungry noise thrumming in his chest like he needed to prove something to the angel beneath him.

“Fuck,” Castiel managed, voice frayed, so out of character. “You are—” The rest dissolved into a shiver when Dean sucked hard and slow, drawing him to the back of his throat and holding, swallowing around him. Wings flared, a full-body tremor; the tips swept up Dean’s ribs, down his sides, a dozen barely-there touches that made his newly-hard cock twitch helplessly against his thigh.

Dean eased off to breathe, spit-slick and flushed, then took him again, faster now—hand and mouth working together, a practiced rhythm driven by need.

He moaned around the length, the sound shameless, because the wings wouldn’t stop touching, skating over the tender skin between his legs, teasing him right at the edge of unbearable.

Castiel’s breaths came in deeper pulls, little breaks in them like he was learning how to fall apart. “Dean,” he said again, softer, almost warning, almost plea.

Dean squeezed at the base, swallowed down, and let his free hand slip lower, cupping himself, a hiss breaking free when a feather beat him to it—light, silky, shocking. He laughed breathlessly against Castiel’s cock, the vibration dragging a stunned, wrecked sound out of the angel.

“Yeah,” Dean panted, pulling back just long enough to speak, lips swollen. “Let me have it. I want you to feel good.” Then he sealed his mouth again, eyes on Castiel’s, and worked him with single-minded focus—ruthless and reverent, desperate to please, letting the wings toy with him as he dragged Castiel closer to the edge with every greedy, grateful pull.

Castiel slid his hand into Dean’s hair and tugged—gentle, anchoring—before easing him off with a wet pop. Dean gasped, spit-slick and flushed, and in the same breath Castiel moved. The mattress dipped, wings sweeping wide and then folding as he rolled them, quick and sure. Dean landed on his back with a soft grunt, shoulders sinking into the pillows, legs still loose from shaking.

“Cas—” he started, but the name broke when the angel hooked Dean’s knees and pushed, opening him. Dean’s thighs came up to his chest, calves bracketing Castiel’s ribs. The position stole the air out of him; it felt filthy and vulnerable, and he wanted it anyway.

He bit his lip hard enough to sting as he watched Castiel wrap a fist around his own shaft, slick with Dean’s spit and leaking with precum. The sight of that thick, flushed length in Castiel’s hand—vein standing, head swollen—made Dean’s stomach flip. Castiel dragged the head down, rubbing insistently over Dean’s quivering entrance in slow, circling passes that made Dean’s breath saw in and out.

“Wait, Cas—fuck,” Dean whined, the plea torn between caution and need.

“I’ll be gentle,” Castiel promised, voice low and steady, like an oath. His wings arched above them, wide as a night sky, shadows flickering over the walls. He pressed the wet head forward, not forcing, just there, a warm, heavy pressure that made Dean’s toes curl against his own forearms.

Dean had been on the giving end enough times to know how the first push could bite. And Castiel was big—too big—big enough that Dean’s nerves screamed brace even as his body tried to open. He gripped Castiel’s biceps, fingers digging in, eyes squeezing shut for a heartbeat as if he could muscle through with will alone.

Then the grace came.

It poured through the press of Castiel’s cock like heat blooming in a cold room—honey-thick, electric, easing the ring of muscle from inside. The first inch slipped past the resistance with a melting, stretching ache that didn’t crest into pain. Dean gasped at the shock of no burn, his back bowing off the bed. Castiel growled—deep and raw—at the tight clutch around him, the sound vibrating through his chest and into Dean’s bones.

“Easy,” Castiel murmured, forehead dropping to Dean’s, breath hot. He kissed along Dean’s jaw, his cheek, the hinge of his mouth—little anchors—while his hips inched forward. Another inch. And another. The wings trembled, feathers shivering overhead; the tips grazed the bed beside Dean’s ribs like they were bracing too.

Dean’s body fought him for a heartbeat—fear, memory—then the need underneath took the wheel. He forced his shoulders down, loosened his grip on Castiel’s arms, and pulled in a breath that shook. “Okay,” he managed, voice rough. “Okay—keep going.”

Castiel did. Slow, relentless, reverent. The slide was obscene: thick, hot, filling. Grace threaded along every nerve, smoothing the stretch until Dean wasn’t sure where the ache ended and the wanting began. When Castiel finally bottomed out—hips flush to Dean’s ass, heat nested all the way inside—Dean cried out, the sound cracking right down the middle into something that was nearly a sob.

“Shit!” It tore from him raw. He felt full, split wide and somehow held together at the same time. Too tight, too warm, too much—and exactly right. His fingers skated from the angel’s biceps to his shoulders, clutching for balance as his chest heaved. “Holy—God—”

Castiel kissed his temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth, each touch a steadying beat. “You’re taking me so well,” he said, voice frayed with awe. “You feel… incredible.”

Dean laughed a shattered little laugh that wasn’t a laugh, blinking up through wet lashes he’d never admit to. “That’s your—your damn angel lube,” he rasped, trying for swagger and landing on wrecked. “I should be cursing you out right now.”

“Later,” Castiel breathed, and the word was almost a smile. He held still, buried to the hilt, letting Dean adjust while his wings shifted—one curling along the outside of Dean’s thigh, the other cupping his hip like a second pair of hands.

“Move,” Dean whispered, then firmer. “Move—please.”

Castiel drew back an inch—unbearable—and slid in again, the drag slow enough to map every ridge. Dean’s head tipped back, mouth falling open. Another stroke, just as measured, finding that angle that made heat spike sharp and sweet behind Dean’s eyes. The third thrust kissed that spot dead-on—pleasure detonated, bright as a flashbang.

“Fuck—there—right there,” Dean choked, hips jerking to meet him. His hands climbed to the back of Castiel’s neck, dragging him down for a kiss that was all teeth and breath and need. Castiel answered with a noise that didn’t sound human, hips stuttering as he caught the rhythm Dean was begging for.

The pace built by inches, not miles—slow, deep, grinding strokes that kept catching that nerve and milking a wrecked sound out of Dean every single time. The wings tightened around them, a black halo that turned lamp-light to amber dusk, tips flicking over Dean’s ribs and lower belly, teasing him until his cock twitched back to full, aching want between them.

Castiel’s hand slid from Dean’s thigh to his cock, wrapping him in a slick, sure grip, stroking in time with the roll of his hips. Dean cursed, high and helpless, every muscle strung tight. “You’re gonna—oh—you’re gonna break me,” he gasped.

“I am holding you together,” Castiel said, and somehow it was true. Every thrust felt like being taken apart and put back right. Grace pulsed warm inside him with each slide, as if the angel was painting heat along the stretch from the inside out.

Dean’s thighs shook around Castiel’s ribs. He hooked his ankles behind the angel’s back, pulling him deeper, chasing that perfect drag. “Harder,” he rasped. “Please.”

Castiel’s control frayed another notch. His hips snapped just a little sharper, still careful, still with Dean rather than through him—but the impact landed. Dean’s eyes rolled, a broken moan spilling loose as his cock pulsed in Castiel’s fist. The feathers stroked across his belly again, soft as sin, and he bucked into the touch like it was a mouth.

“Look at me,” Castiel said, breathless.

Dean did—green blown dark, pupils wide, sweat on his lip. Castiel’s gaze held him there, wings flared to their widest, body buried deep. “That’s it,” the angel whispered, reverent. “Take me.”

Dean answered with a sound that lived somewhere past language and dragged Castiel into another kiss—messy, desperate—while the bed creaked and the room narrowed to heat and breath and the steady, perfect drive of hips that knew exactly what he needed.

Dean’s arms slid under Castiel’s, gripping his shoulders tight as his legs cinched around his waist. His whole body was trembling, slick with sweat, chest heaving with every breath.

“I’m gonna cum, Cas…” Dean whined, voice high, needy, desperate. The sound tore right through Castiel—he loved it, reveled in it. His thrusts sharpened, brutal in their precision, every push angled to grind over that spot inside that made Dean quake. His fist moved faster around Dean’s cock, coaxing, demanding, pulling his human toward the edge.

Above them, Castiel’s wings arched wide, trembling shadows cast against the walls. They tucked in close for a heartbeat, enclosing Dean, then spread again in a display of raw power, feathers twitching as if they too felt the impending release.

Dean’s body clamped down, squeezing so fucking tight around him as another orgasm ripped through him. His cry was ragged, a broken moan that filled the room as his cock pulsed in Castiel’s fist. Hot ropes spilled across his own stomach, chest, and Castiel’s knuckles, the mess warm and wet and filthy. Dean’s thighs shook violently, every muscle spasming as pleasure wrung him dry.

The sight undid Castiel. The sounds Dean made, the flutter of his body around him—it dragged a guttural moan from deep in his chest. His hips snapped forward, once, twice, and then he was spilling too—coming hard, deep inside Dean, filling him until it overflowed. Dean gasped at the sensation, the thick cock inside him pulsing like a heartbeat, the heat of it spreading through him, undeniable.

Castiel collapsed against him, their bodies slick, pressed together, wings twitching involuntarily as tremors raked down his frame. Dean clung to him, kissing whatever he could reach—the slope of his neck, the curve of his shoulder, the corner of his jaw—soft, frantic kisses as if grounding himself in the aftershocks.

The sweat cooled quickly in the air, but their bodies stayed hot, flush to flush, breath mingling. Dean’s hands wandered instinctively, finding the base of Castiel’s wings, stroking where feathers met muscle. The wings trembled under his touch but welcomed it, curling faintly around them in response, as though purring.

“Fuck, man…” Dean sighed, shaky and wrecked, his voice catching as he nuzzled against Castiel’s temple.

In return, Castiel pressed tender kisses to Dean’s neck, his jawline, finally catching the corner of his mouth, lingering there.

“Was it good? Did you like what I did?” Castiel murmured low against his ear, voice still husky, edged with awe.

Dean’s lips curved in a lazy, vulnerable smile, his voice nothing but a whisper. “Yeah, Cas… it was good… fucked me so good…fucking wrecked me man.” He babbled, like he couldn’t find the correct words.

For a long while, neither of them moved. Castiel lay heavy against Dean, his chest pressed close, his wings still twitching faintly in the aftershocks. Dean smoothed his palms over the broad expanse of his back, dragging slow circles into damp skin, just to feel him there—real, solid, breathing.

Eventually, Castiel shifted, lifting himself just enough to look down at Dean. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, lips swollen from too many kisses. His hand cupped Dean’s jaw like he was fragile. “You are… alright?” he asked softly.

Dean huffed out a shaky breath, and his mouth twisted into something between a smile and a wince. “Yeah, Cas. More than alright. Just… full in a way I’ve never been before.”

Castiel’s eyes softened, impossibly blue even in the lamplight. He leaned in, pressing a careful kiss to Dean’s brow. “I do not wish to cause you harm,” he murmured. “Tell me if I ever do.”

Dean swallowed, throat tight. Vulnerability sat sharp under his ribs, but he nodded. “You won’t. I trust you.” The words came out quieter than he meant, but truer for it. He let his forehead rest against Castiel’s, eyes closing as he breathed in the warmth of him.

Castiel’s grace pulsed faintly in the space between them, not overwhelming now, just steady—like a heartbeat. He seemed to realize it too, because his wings curled inward, enfolding them both in a cocoon of dark feathers. Dean’s hand reached up instinctively, stroking along the base of one wing, and he felt the tremor ripple through Castiel at the touch.

“Still so damn sensitive,” Dean muttered, half-smile curling on his lips.

“Yeah” Castiel answered immediately, without a hint of jest. His gaze locked onto Dean’s, so earnest it made Dean’s chest ache.

They lay like that for a while, Dean tracing idle shapes on Castiel’s shoulder with his fingertips, Castiel brushing his knuckles along Dean’s cheekbones as if cataloguing every freckle. Silence stretched, comfortable and grounding.

Then Dean broke it, his grin lazy and sharp-edged. “You liked that a little too much, huh? Being inside me?”

Castiel blinked, head tilting just slightly in that familiar way. “I… did. More than I anticipated. The way your body received mine—tight, warm—it was…” His voice trailed off, roughened with memory.

Dean chuckled, cheeks heating even as pride surged through him. He tugged Castiel down into another kiss, quick and sweet, then murmured against his lips: “Good. ’Cause I think I’m already addicted to it.”

Castiel blinked, face still inches from his, wings slowly folding tighter around them. “You were very tight. Every time you clenched around me, it made me lose control.”

Dean choked on a laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus, Cas, you can’t just say shit like that so casually.”

“But it’s true,” Castiel replied without missing a beat, tone flat and earnest. “You squeezed me until my grace surged. It was… overwhelming.”

Dean’s ears burned. He dragged a hand over his face, half-laughing, half-mortified. “Overwhelming? You make it sound like you’re writing a damn research paper about my ass.”

Castiel tilted his head, studying him. “It was not a paper. But if you wish, I could write a more detailed description. There are many things about your body I could record—how you taste, how you sound when I touch you, how hot you feel around—”

“Whoa, whoa!” Dean interrupted, laughing so hard his stomach cramped. He shoved at Castiel’s shoulder, though he didn’t push him away. “God, you’re unbelievable. Do you even hear yourself?”

Castiel’s brows knit. “Yes. Do you not want me to describe how much I enjoyed being inside you?”

Dean groaned, covering his face again. “You’re gonna kill me, Cas. Honest to God, you’re gonna talk me into a heart attack one of these days.”

There was a pause, and then Castiel, with perfect seriousness, murmured, “If your heart stopped, I would restart it.”

Dean peeked through his fingers at him, still flushed, still trying not to laugh. “You’re the worst. The absolute worst. And I can’t even be mad about it because—” He trailed off, smile softening as he looked at Castiel, really looked. “Because you mean every word, don’t you?”

Castiel’s gaze softened, his palm cupping Dean’s cheek, thumb stroking gently over his freckles. “Of course. I will always mean it.”

Dean exhaled slowly, leaning into the touch. “Yeah… I know.” His grin crooked back into place, smaller this time, playful but vulnerable at the edges. “Still—remind me to shut you up with a kiss next time you get too descriptive about my ass.”

Castiel blinked, then tilted his head as though considering it seriously. “That would be acceptable.”

Dean barked another laugh and pulled him down into a kiss, warmth blooming in his chest.

***

By the time Sam got home, the bunker was quiet except for the clink of spoon against ceramic. Dean sat in the kitchen, half-naked in pajama pants, hunched over a bowl of cereal. He shoveled in the last bites and tipped the bowl back to drink the milk, a mug of coffee steaming within reach. His hair was still damp, sticking up in the back, his whole body loose with the kind of bone-deep fatigue that only came after… well.

Sam appeared in the doorway, brows lifting. “Oh. You’re up.”

Dean set the bowl down with a clatter and wiped the back of his mouth with the heel of his hand. “Yeah. Cas passed out.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “He… fell asleep? I thought angels don’t sleep.”

“They don’t.” Dean shrugged, reaching for his coffee. He took a sip before adding, “Not usually.”

Sam lingered a moment, clearly fishing for something more. Dean shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his eyes darting anywhere but at his brother. “Overusing his grace during the hunt didn’t help. And uh…” He scratched at his jaw, cheeks heating. “Turns out, overusing his grace during sex actually wears him out too. Guess I’m just that good.”

Sam made a face. “Dean.”

Dean chuckled, but it came out more sheepish than cocky. “What? I’m just saying. He’s out like a light right now. Guy’s wings twitched once and then—bam. Out cold.”

Sam sighed, poured himself a cup of coffee, and turned his back to Dean as if that would save him from hearing more.

Dean smirked into his mug, then decided to just rip the Band-Aid off. “So… our, uh… bond ended up being… you know.”

“I don’t know,” Sam said flatly, his tone warning him not to elaborate.

Dean ignored it. “Remember a few days ago, you mentioned that a bond between an angel and a human can be sexual? Well… it’s definitely that. Me and Cas just—”

“Ooookay,” Sam cut him off, loud and final, spinning back with his coffee in hand.

Dean barked a laugh, leaning back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying Sam’s pained expression. “What, you brought it up first!”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not like that.”

Dean just smirked again and took another long sip of coffee.

Sam leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee slowly, his eyes never leaving Dean. The silence stretched a beat too long, and Dean knew what was coming before Sam even opened his mouth.

“You’re… okay, though?” Sam asked carefully, his tone softer than usual. “I mean, you haven’t changed your mind about… breaking the bond?”

Dean froze mid-sip. The mug hovered in the air for a second before he set it down hard enough to make it clink. His jaw worked, eyes fixed on the countertop like he couldn’t bring himself to meet Sam’s gaze.

“I don’t want to,” Dean said finally, his voice low, rough. “Hell, I can’t.”

Sam’s brows drew together. “Can’t?”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “Something… fucking deep inside me, Sammy… it’s like—it’s making me… obsessed with him. Like I can’t get him out of my head. Every time he’s not in the room, I feel it. Every time he’s close, it’s like…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, trying to find the right words. “It’s like my whole body knows he’s… mine.”

Sam frowned but didn’t interrupt, just let him keep talking.

Dean finally looked up, green eyes raw, unguarded. “I don’t see myself without him now. I don’t even want to. It’s not just some angel magic thing, okay? It’s—it’s him. The way he looks at me. The way he touches me. It’s like he rewired me, Sammy. And maybe that should scare me, but it doesn’t. Not anymore.”

Sam leaned back, processing, his lips pressed in a thin line. He studied Dean the way only a brother could—like he could see every crack, every truth hiding under bravado.

Dean smirked weakly, trying to shake off the heaviness, though his voice stayed quiet. “So yeah. Breaking the bond? Not gonna happen. Not now. Not ever.”

Sam nodded slowly, thoughtful. He didn’t say I’m worried about you, though it hovered in the space between them. What he said instead was, “Guess you finally found somebody who scares you less than being alone.”

Dean’s throat tightened, but he smiled crookedly. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

***

After his talk with Sam, Dean padded down the quiet hall, coffee still humming faintly in his veins. He paused at his door, hand on the knob, and when he pushed it open, the sight hit him like a punch to the chest.

Castiel lay sprawled across the bed, half-buried in blankets, face turned into the pillow. His arms were folded beneath it, shoulders relaxed for once, one leg bent and hiked up in careless abandon. His wings were out—huge and magnificent—even in rest. They weren’t flared, but neither were they hidden, the dark span tucked loosely around him as if his body had simply let go of its usual vigilance.

Dean swallowed hard, heart twisting. The vulnerability of it—the quiet, the trust—left him standing in the doorway longer than he meant. Finally, he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

The lamp on the nightstand still glowed, warm amber filling the room. Dean tugged the chain, dimming it to darkness but for the faint glow spilling from the hall through the crack beneath the door. He peeled off his shirt and climbed into bed carefully, easing himself in beside his angel.

He shifted until he found his place: sliding beneath the broad sweep of Castiel’s right wing, letting the feathers brush against his shoulders, his chest, until he could tuck himself against the angel’s back. His arm curled naturally around Castiel’s waist, hand splayed over his stomach.

Castiel stirred at the touch, though not enough to wake fully. Instead, he reached back blindly, fingers closing over Dean’s hand and pulling it higher—pressing it across his chest, snug against his collarbone as though he wanted Dean closer, tighter.

Dean exhaled through a small, crooked smile. He pressed a kiss to the joint where wing met shoulder, nuzzling into the soft, heavy feathers. They smelled faintly of rain and ozone, even now.

With a low, unconscious twitch, Castiel’s wings tucked further in, curling around Dean’s body until the human was fully enclosed—wrapped in the cocoon of feather and shadow. Warmth pooled instantly, thick and encompassing, as though the wings themselves were intent on shielding him from every possible harm.

Dean sighed, his lips brushing against the smooth line of Castiel’s back.

“Yeah,” he murmured into the dark, letting his eyes drift shut. “This’ll do.”

And for the first time in too long, Dean let himself sink into sleep not with his guard up, but wrapped safe in the wings of an angel.

Notes:

Kudos and comments are gratefully appreciated!! Charlie is going to make an appearance in the next chapter! This fic was fun to write! Too bad it's... almost over 👀

Chapter 9: A Quiet Claim

Dean didn’t know what time it was when he stirred awake. His room was swallowed in darkness, the faint hum of the bunker’s pipes the only sound. But something was off—someone else was awake. He felt it first in the subtle shift of the mattress, the warm press of a body sliding closer.

He’d rolled onto his side in his sleep, leaving his back exposed. Now Castiel was pressed flush against him, solid and unmoving except for the soft brush of lips along the back of his neck. Gentle kisses—barely there, grazing skin and sending shivers darting down his spine. Dean’s stomach tightened at the sensation, heat spiraling low as his cock gave a traitorous twitch, his nipples pebbling in the suddenly cool air.

Behind him, feathers rustled, low and restless in the dark. Castiel’s wings moved like shadows stretching, the faint sound of them almost soothing until warmth pooled over him. Then they settled, curling forward to brush against his sides, tips tickling at his ribs, at his stomach, teasing.

“Cas,” Dean mumbled sleepily, voice thick, the name more like a breath than a word.

The angel didn’t respond, not with words. Instead, a hand slid over Dean’s chest, the pads of Castiel’s fingers tracing slow circles until they brushed over a hardened nipple. The heat of it sent a shock straight through him, and Dean bit back a sound, swallowing hard as warmth spread, coiling in his belly.

For one dizzy second, he thought he was dreaming. Castiel had slipped into his dreams before—filling them with phantom touches that felt too real, too good. Maybe this was another one of those. Maybe his body was still half-asleep and he was giving in again.

Dean made the choice. He caught Castiel’s hand and guided it lower, slow and deliberate. His palm smoothed down over his own chest, down the curve of his stomach, until he was pushing that too-warm hand under the waistband of his pajama pants.

A sharp inhale ghosted against his neck—Castiel’s breath. Shaky, human-sounding. His fingers wrapped obediently around Dean’s cock, already swelling in his sleep-fogged arousal. The angel sighed against his skin, the sound frayed at the edges as though the act itself was undoing him.

Dean’s eyes fluttered shut, a soft groan spilling past his lips as he arched into the touch. It wasn’t a dream. Couldn’t be. Not when he could feel the distinct weight of Castiel behind him, the twitch of feathers against his sides, and the shiver in the angel’s breath as his fist tightened, slow and worshipful, around Dean’s cock.

The angel’s tongue was everywhere—dragging up the arch of Dean’s neck, flicking over the shell of his ear, then back down to taste the hollow of his throat. Each pass was wet, claiming, leaving Dean’s skin burning and damp.

Castiel slid his other arm beneath Dean’s neck, cradling it like he was both holding him steady and refusing to let him go. His palm cupped Dean’s jaw firmly, guiding him, forcing his head to turn until their mouths met.

Dean felt Castiel’s tongue trace his lips, teasing, before plunging deep into his mouth. The kiss was wet and messy, more possession than affection, and Dean groaned against it, immediately giving back everything he had. He turned under the angel’s weight, shifting onto his back, opening himself up.

Castiel didn’t stop. His hand on Dean’s cock worked with an aching patience at first, slow deliberate pumps that had Dean’s hips jerking with frustration. But the rhythm broke, grew harsher, rougher—jerking his cock in earnest while his tongue worked Dean’s mouth like he was fucking him through it.

Dean moaned, the sound muffled and raw, his body arching. It only got louder when Castiel sucked on his tongue, pulling it into his mouth, making it obscene. His thumb pressed under the sensitive ridge of Dean’s cockhead, right on the swollen bundle of nerves, and Dean’s whole body shook.

The sound that ripped out of him wasn’t even a word—just a helpless, broken noise. Precum spilled freely, coating Castiel’s knuckles, making the strokes slicker, smoother, filthier.

Dean couldn’t hold back anymore. His hips started moving of their own accord, thrusting up into the tight fist like he was chasing something just out of reach. He fucked himself into Castiel’s hand, jaw slack, panting into the angel’s mouth between kisses. Every stroke dragged a deep groan, every pump another twist of pleasure down his spine.

Finally, Castiel tore away from the kiss, letting Dean gasp for breath, his mouth spit-slick and bruised. The angel looked down at him with glowing eyes, pupils blown wide, wings quivering around them like they were caught in the same frenzy as his body.

Dean’s chest rose and fell sharply, his throat working as he tried to swallow, his hand flying to Castiel’s wrist to hold him there, to keep that hand moving. “Don’t stop,” he gasped, voice shaking. “Fuck, Cas—don’t you dare stop.”

Dean’s back arched hard into the mattress, his breath catching as Castiel’s fist worked him relentlessly—tight, slick, merciless in its precision. Every stroke slid perfectly, knuckles grazing the swollen ridge beneath the head, thumb pressing just enough to make Dean’s hips jerk up. His cock leaked freely, every thrust into Castiel’s palm leaving another slick string across his stomach and chest.

Above him, wings flared wide, trembling with each pulse of the angel’s body. Then they folded in, curling around Dean until he was wrapped completely—cocooned in shadow and silk, the feathers brushing against his ribs, his thighs, even the sensitive head of his cock when they flexed.

Dean’s throat worked around a ragged moan. “Fuck, Cas—fuck!”

“Cum Dean,” Castiel rumbled, his voice low, reverent, commanding. His eyes glowed faintly in the dark, gaze locked onto Dean’s.

Dean whined, head tossing side to side against the pillow. His whole body trembled, the tension coiling too tight, sparking out of him in helpless jerks of his hips.

“You look so good like this,” Castiel murmured, stroking him faster, thumb circling the slit where precum spilled.

That voice—deep, coaxing, impossibly certain—pushed Dean right over the edge. His stomach clenched, his chest heaved, and then his orgasm tore through him, violent and overwhelming.

“Cas!” The cry broke apart as his cock pulsed, spilling thick over Castiel’s hand, his stomach, his chest. He gasped for breath, every muscle locking tight, toes curling hard into the sheets. His release spattered across both of them, hot and endless, until he thought he had nothing left to give.

Castiel held him steady, stroking him through every wave, his wings wrapping tighter, feathers trembling as if they felt it too. His lips brushed Dean’s temple, his jaw, grounding him with soft kisses even as his fist worked out the last shudders, milking him for every last drop.

When Dean finally sagged back, utterly wrecked, Castiel’s hand eased, loosening to a slow caress. He pressed his forehead to Dean’s, whispering, “You’re so beautiful with you cum.”

Dean let out a shaky laugh, throat raw, chest still heaving. He buried his face into Castiel’s shoulder, voice muffled but full of awe. “Jesus Christ… you’re gonna ruin me.”

“You asked me not to stop,” Castiel replied simply, still stroking a soothing line down Dean’s side, his voice calm, steady—even as his wings shivered and curled protectively around the man he’d just undone.

“I did say that,” Dean huffed a laugh, still breathless, still flushed.

He tugged his pajama pants back up with shaky hands and reached over to flick on the lamp. The dim light filled the room, making it impossible to ignore what he saw when he turned back over. Castiel was sitting there, unbothered, bringing the back of his hand to his mouth. His tongue slid slowly across his skin, licking Dean’s cum like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dean’s oversensitive cock gave a traitorous twitch, a soft ache rushing back to life in his gut. His voice cracked low and raw. “Fuck, Cas…”

“You like this,” Castiel said simply, as if naming a fact. His face gave nothing away—no embarrassment, no hesitation—as the thick fluid met his tongue. He accepted it without flinching, his gaze steady on Dean.

“I—” Dean started, words tangling in his throat.

“You like when women or men swallow your—”

“Cas…” Dean cut him off quickly, his blush burning hot under the lamplight. He rubbed a hand over his face and muttered, “You don’t have to say it, man.”

Castiel tilted his head, confusion etching across his features. “You don’t like dirty talk.”

Dean swallowed hard, shifting back against the headboard, arms folded across his chest like a shield. His voice was quiet, vulnerable. “Not that kind.”

Silence filled the room for a moment, broken only by the faint hum of the lamp. Castiel leaned in slightly, studying Dean with that unyielding focus that always made him feel seen, stripped down. “Tell me,” the angel insisted softly. Not a command—more of a request.

Dean’s eyes dropped, unable to meet his gaze. His stomach twisted, caught between the need to keep things close to the chest and the stronger, gnawing ache to let Castiel in. He licked his lips, hesitating, heart pounding. Did he really want to lay all that out? To admit the kinds of things he liked, the things that left him vulnerable, open, weak?

His fingers twitched against the bedspread, nervous energy rattling through him. He wanted to deflect, make a joke—but the weight of Castiel’s eyes, patient and unyielding, made that feel cheap. He exhaled slowly, still not looking up. “I… don’t even know if I should say it.”

“Why not?” Castiel asked quietly. “You trust me.”

Dean’s chest tightened. He did. Too much. Maybe enough that he could actually tell him.

“I do, Cas,” Dean said softly, finally lifting his gaze. “But… maybe we can explore that later, yeah?”

Castiel studied him for a beat, then nodded once. “Of course.” He leaned in, pressing his lips to Dean’s, and Dean let him. The kiss was soft, unhurried, almost tender.

It felt so damn domestic it nearly startled Dean. He was slowly getting used to it—this closeness, this quiet. After all, just last night he’d told Sam the truth: Castiel was his. The angel was his, and maybe it was time to stop being afraid of being open about that.

It had only been a week since he’d found him, broken and bleeding in the woods, and yet Castiel was already so fiercely, obsessively his. And Dean—well, he was too.

“Come on,” Dean muttered against Castiel’s mouth, pulling back with a half-smile. “I’m starving.”

But before he could move, Castiel’s hand caught his jaw, pulling him in again. Dean let out a small, surprised noise in his throat as Castiel kissed him once more, deeper this time, before pulling away to rub his thumb over the scatter of freckles along Dean’s cheekbone.

As if on cue, Dean’s stomach gave a loud, protesting gurgle. Castiel’s eyes flicked down toward the sound, his expression faintly bewildered.

Dean barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Told ya, Cas—I’m starving.” He chuckled again as he slid off the bed, bare feet hitting the floor. “Let’s go.”

Castiel followed his movement with steady eyes, but Dean could feel it—like those wings of his, invisible but still there—every ounce of his attention wrapped around him.

***

Dean tugged on an old T-shirt as he and Castiel made their way out of the bedroom, the sound of voices drifting faintly down the bunker’s hall. He slowed, brows knitting—Sam was talking, but there was another voice. One Dean hadn’t heard in months.

“So yeah, that’s why I’m here,” the familiar voice said, light, warm, and just as sharp as he remembered.

Dean’s stomach dropped, then flipped. No way.

“Well, we’re glad to have you,” Sam replied, the sound of him shifting in his chair carrying through the war room. “But… there’s a minor detail you should probably know about.”

“Oh? What do you—Dean!”

Before Dean could even brace himself, a flash of red hair came barreling across the room. Charlie. She hit his chest like a bullet, tiny arms wrapping around him, clinging to him like he might disappear if she let go. Dean let out a shocked laugh, arms curling instinctively around her smaller frame. “Charlie, what the—”

The reunion barely had a heartbeat to settle before Castiel was suddenly there, his presence looming sharp and immediate. His hand shot out, fingers curling around Charlie’s arm as if to pry her off of Dean’s chest.

Dean blinked, startled. “Cas—hey!” His voice cracked half between warning and disbelief, but Castiel’s grip didn’t falter.

Charlie jerked her head up at the unfamiliar touch, startled too, though her wide grin never faltered as she looked between them. “Uh—Dean? Who’s tall, dark, and handsy?”

Castiel’s eyes were fixed on her, his jaw tight, wings stirring invisibly in the air like a storm threatening to break.

Castiel’s grip tightened on Charlie’s arm, not enough to hurt, but enough that the air around them seemed to bristle with his intent. His wings stirred invisibly, the rustle sharp like flint striking stone. Dean felt the weight of it instantly—Castiel’s grace spiking with territorial energy.

“Cas. Hey,” Dean said firmly, placing a steady hand on Castiel’s wrist. His voice was low but sharp, the kind of tone he’d use to stop a fight before it started. “She’s not a threat. Let her go.”

For a long moment, Castiel’s blue eyes stayed locked on Charlie, as if searching her for something unseen. Then, reluctantly, his fingers uncurled, releasing her arm. The tension in the room eased fractionally, though his wings still twitched in agitation, wrapping subtly closer around Dean as if they couldn’t stop themselves.

Charlie rubbed her arm lightly, more out of reflex than pain, then looked between them with wide eyes. “Okay, so… wow. Someone’s got serious possessive-boyfriend energy.” She smirked, flipping her hair back like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Dean, you didn’t tell me you were seeing anyone, let alone Mister Tall-Dark-and-Handsy here.”

Dean groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Charlie, he’s not—”

Castiel cut in, still watching Charlie warily, his voice blunt and certain. “I am.”

Dean’s stomach dropped. His face flushed hot while Charlie’s grin turned absolutely feral.

“Oh my God, you are!” she crowed, looking back at Dean like she’d just uncovered the juiciest secret. “No wonder you’ve been all squirrelly. And here I thought you were hiding porn under your mattress, not a whole-ass boyfriend.”

Dean sputtered, glaring at her. “Charlie—”

But Castiel leaned just slightly into Dean’s side, his hand brushing against the back of his arm, eyes never leaving Charlie. “He is mine,” he said softly, with a raw honesty that made Dean’s chest ache. Not defensive this time, not aggressive—just true.

Charlie blinked, the teasing softening for a moment as she caught the weight in Castiel’s tone. Then, because she was Charlie, she shook it off with a grin. “Okay, protective and literal.”

Dean muttered something under his breath, cheeks still red, but when he glanced up at Castiel, he caught that flicker—vulnerability beneath the protectiveness. Castiel’s need to guard him, even from friends, wasn’t about trust; it was about instinct. About fear of losing him.

Dean sighed, reaching out to tug Charlie into another hug just to prove a point, though his free hand slid back to rest on Castiel’s forearm. A grounding touch, meant only for him. “Yeah, yeah. Jackpot.”

Charlie grinned, entirely too pleased, while Castiel’s wings finally stilled, wrapping around them both like he was silently conceding.

***

Charlie looked at Dean like he’d just sprouted two extra heads. Her brows climbed so high they practically disappeared into her hairline. Dean, on the other hand, gave her the same stoic, half-shrug expression he always did. Casual, like he hadn’t just admitted the wildest thing in the world.

“An angel,” Charlie finally said, as if saying it out loud might make it make sense.

Dean nodded once. Across the table, Castiel eyed Charlie like she’d grown a few extra heads. He was studying her carefully, the way he studied everything that seemed to orbit too close to Dean.

“So… let me get this straight,” Charlie continued, gesturing with her hands like she was trying to map it out in the air. “You found him dying in the woods. You brought him home, healed him, developed some kind of—bond. And now you guys are what, like… mated for life?”

Dean winced. “I mean… yeah. Just about.”

“That’s… wow.” She blew out a breath and shook her head, lips twitching into a grin. “Didn’t expect you to settle down that quickly, Winchester. All this happened in, what—a week?”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbled.

He was about to add more, but Charlie was already moving, circling around behind Castiel. The angel turned his head slightly, watching her approach like a wary cat. His grace flared, and Dean nearly doubled over, feeling the heat enveloped him.

“So you’re an angel, huh?” she said brightly. “Where’s your wings? Or your harp? Don’t you guys do the whole flowing robe thing?”

“I am not that kind of angel,” Castiel said, deadpan, his voice stern. “My wings are hidden—”

Before he could finish, Charlie’s hands reached out, and she touched them. Castiel stiffened, eyes widening as her fingers pressed against the intangible-yet-tangible curve of silky feathers.

“Whoa…” Charlie whispered, her grin splitting wider. “They’re so soft. And warm.” She glanced over at Dean with a mischievous glint. “Dean, you’re lucky. This is like… memory-foam meets velvet blanket.”

Dean groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Charlie, for the love of God—”

Castiel’s wings twitched under her touch, feathers flexing like they were trying not to give themselves away. His voice dropped, unamused but a little vulnerable. “They are not meant to be handled so casually.”

“Oh relax, Big Bird,” Charlie teased, finally pulling her hands back as she flopped into a chair across from them. “I was just confirming they’re real. And, for the record? They’re amazing. If I had those, I’d show them off constantly. The internet would never recover.”

Castiel blinked at her slowly, like he was still trying to determine whether she was a threat or just deeply confusing. Dean, meanwhile, sat slumped with his head in his hands.

“Welcome back, Charlie,” he muttered.

“Thanks,” she chirped, eyes dancing as she looked between them. “So… when do I get the full, uncensored story of how you two went from strangers in the woods to celestial soulmates?”

Dean groaned louder. Castiel tilted his head, considering her words, then murmured, “It was inevitable.”

Charlie grinned like Christmas had come early.

She leaned forward across the war table, her chin resting on her palm, eyes glittering like she’d just uncovered a brand-new fandom and was desperate for spoilers. “So. Dean Winchester. Domestic bliss with an angel, huh? Didn’t exactly have that on my apocalypse bingo card.”

Dean groaned, tipping his beer bottle up and avoiding her stare. “Charlie…”

“What?” She grinned, unrelenting. “I’m happy for you, dude. Just… didn’t think this is how you’d end up with someone, an angel.”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his jaw, cheeks faintly pink. “It’s not—it’s not like that.”

“Mm-hm.” She raised her brows. “So you’re not all heart-eyes and domesticated? Because that’s what it looks like to me.”

Dean opened his mouth, then shut it again, because hell if he had a comeback that didn’t prove her point. He shifted in his chair, staring down at the condensation ring his beer left on the table. His voice was quieter when he finally spoke. “It’s… complicated.”

Before Charlie could push, Castiel—still looming close, arms folded—spoke in his steady, gravel-rich voice. “It is not complicated. Dean is mine. He is always safe with me. I would never allow harm to come to him.”

Charlie blinked at him, then at Dean, then back again. “Wow. Okay. Possessive and sweet.”

Dean nearly choked on his own spit. “He’s not—” He cut himself off, exhaled hard, and gave Charlie a look that begged her not to push.

She softened a little at that, her grin fading into something gentler. “Okay, jokes aside… you’re really okay with this? The bond thing. Him.”

Dean finally met her eyes, and the wall he usually kept up around his feelings cracked just enough. “Yeah. I wasn’t, at first. Thought it was too much, too fast. But now…” He hesitated, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Now I can’t picture being without him.”

Castiel’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and intent, as though memorizing every word. “Nor I,” he murmured.

Charlie watched them both for a beat longer before letting out a long sigh, leaning back in her chair. “Okay. Fine. I’m sold. Still weird as hell—but if it makes you happy, Dean, then I’m in your corner. Even if it means I have to get used to Captain Literal over here.”

Castiel tilted his head at her, completely serious. “I am not a captain.”

Charlie grinned wide, pointing at him like she’d just won. “See? Adorable.”

Dean buried his face in his hands, muffling a groan.

Charlie smirked like she’d just won some cosmic prize. “So, tell me, Castiel—do you actually do anything angelic? Or is your whole vibe just broody boyfriend with invisible accessories?”

Dean grumbled. “Charlie…”

But Castiel, instead of bristling this time, tilted his head. “I am not broody,” he said evenly. “And my ‘accessories’ are not invisible. They are simply hidden from mortal eyes.”

Charlie clasped her hands together dramatically. “Oooh, mortal eyes. Okay, Gandalf.”

Dean barked out a laugh despite himself, shaking his head. Castiel’s gaze flicked to him at once, the tension in his shoulders softening slightly when he saw Dean smiling.

“I do not know this… Gandalf,” Castiel admitted, still very literal.

“He’s basically you,” Charlie said cheerfully. “All-knowing, scary powerful, socially awkward, makes men with swords fall in love with him.”

Dean choked on his coffee, coughing. “Charlie!”

“What?” she said innocently. “I’m just calling it like I see it.”

Castiel blinked at her, expression as stoic as ever, but his voice was quieter now, almost contemplative. “If that makes Dean laugh, then I don’t mind the comparison.”

Charlie froze, then broke into a wide grin. “Oh my god. He’s learning. Dean, your angel’s got jokes.”

Dean huffed, but his lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Don’t encourage him.”

Charlie leaned toward Castiel conspiratorially. “Encouraging him is my job. You’re new here, wing boy, but trust me—you’ll thank me later.”

For a beat, Castiel only studied her, silent. Then his wings shifted faintly, the air in the room losing some of that razor-sharp edge. When he finally spoke, his tone was almost—almost—warm. “If she is your friend,” he said to Dean, “then she is mine too.”

Dean glanced at him, something soft sparking in his chest at the admission. Charlie caught it instantly, and her grin turned smug. “Wow. Look at that. Mister Broody’s already making friends. Guess my work here is done.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the quiet laugh that slipped out. Castiel’s eyes followed the sound again, his own lips tugging ever so slightly, as if he were finally beginning to understand why Dean kept this strange, fiery woman close.

***

The war room conversation eventually bled into the kitchen. Charlie padded ahead of them, snagging a chair and spinning it around so she could sit backwards at the table, elbows braced against the backrest. Castiel trailed close to Dean’s side like a silent shadow, his hand brushing against Dean’s arm as though the small contact was enough to reassure him that the woman wouldn’t be pulling any more surprise tackles.

Dean rummaged through the fridge, fishing out leftover pie and a half-empty carton of milk. “You hungry?” he asked, glancing back at Charlie.

“Always.” She grinned, eyes flicking deliberately toward Castiel. “Does your angel eat, or is he strictly powered by brooding and Dean-gazing?”

Castiel frowned slightly, missing the jab. “I am capable of consuming food.”

“Yeah, but do you like it?” Charlie pressed, leaning in, her grin widening.

Dean shook his head, setting the pie on the counter with a clatter. “Don’t get him started, Charlie. Last time he ate pizza, he acted like it was a war crime. Spat it out on his plate and everything.”

Charlie cackled, slapping the table. Castiel’s brow furrowed further. “It was… confusing,” he said, deadpan. “There were too many ingredients. The flavors were at war with one.”

That only made Charlie laugh harder. “Oh my god, you are Gandalf. Dean, he’s Gandalf, and you can’t tell me otherwise.”

Dean groaned, grabbing forks and plates. “Why do I let you two gang up on me?”

Against the opposite counter, Sam leaned back with his mug of coffee, watching the dynamic with an amused smirk. “Honestly?” he said, raising his eyebrows, “it’s kinda entertaining, domestic, like your sister is making sure your boyfriend is good enough for you.”

Dean froze mid-slice, shot his brother a look, and muttered, “Yeah, thanks for pointing that out, Sammy.” His ears went pink, and Charlie’s grin doubled in size.

She swung her gaze back to Castiel, lowering her voice as if confiding a secret. “Don’t worry, Boyfriend. I’ve got dibs on best friend status. You can’t take that crown from me.”

Castiel blinked slowly, his head tilting with that trademark confusion. Then, after a beat, he said seriously, “I have no intention of replacing you. Dean has… room for both.”

Something in his voice—flat but utterly sincere—made Dean’s chest tighten. Charlie blinked, her grin softening before she clapped her hands together. “Okay. That’s… adorable. Like, nauseatingly adorable.”

Dean shoved a plate of pie in front of her to shut her up. “Eat.”

Charlie took a dramatic bite, humming exaggeratedly. “Mmm. I missed this.”

Dean dropped into the chair across from her, shaking his head but fighting a smile. Castiel remained standing at his shoulder, watchful as ever, though his wings had settled into stillness. Dean noticed it, and the knot in his chest eased just a little—his angel finally letting down his guard, even if just for a moment, because Charlie was here. Because Dean was laughing.

Sam sipped his coffee, shaking his head. “God help me. This is my life now.”

“Welcome to the family sitcom,” Charlie quipped, fork poised mid-air.

***

By the time the pizza boxes hit the kitchen table, the bunker was humming with something Dean hadn’t felt in a long time—domestic noise. Familiar. Safe. Charlie was digging into her second slice of supreme already, Sam nursing another beer, and Dean balancing his own plate while reaching for the hot sauce. Castiel, of course, just sat quietly at first, watching them like he was waiting to be told what to do.

Dean shoved a plate across the table toward him. “Here. Plain cheese. Figured we’d keep it simple for you this time.”

Castiel blinked down at the plate, then back up at Dean. His brows furrowed in that way that meant he was trying very hard to understand the gesture. “You chose this… for me?”

“Yeah, Cas. It’s just pizza. Just cheese, no other toppings. Try it.”

Charlie leaned in, eyes bright with mischief. “Yeah, Angel Boy. Welcome to humanity 101. You don’t get your wings until you pass pizza night.”

Castiel stared at her for a long beat before picking up the slice and biting into it. His expression didn’t change immediately—but then he chewed, swallowed, and blinked again. “This is… agreeable.”

Dean snorted. “High praise.”

“No, really,” Castiel said with the faintest crease at the corners of his mouth. “The flavors do not fight. They… cooperate.”

Charlie barked out a laugh, nearly spilling her beer. “Oh my god, he gets it, Dean!”

Sam chuckled from where he was leaning against the counter. “This is seriously the weirdest family dinner I’ve ever walked in on. Feels like I’m watching best-friend drama and boyfriend drama unfold all at once.”

Dean shot him a look but couldn’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching. “You’re not wrong,” he muttered, taking another bite of his slice.

The night stretched on that way—pizza, pie, beer, and Charlie telling story after story that had Dean snorting into his drink. She teased him about everything from his terrible texting habits to the time he nearly broke his wrist trying to impress someone in a bar fight. Sam occasionally added details, throwing gasoline on Charlie’s fire while Dean flipped them both off half-heartedly.

Through it all, Castiel listened. At first silent, then slowly—hesitant, awkward—offering his own dry interjections. When Charlie cracked a joke about Dean being the “princess” of their ragtag trio, Castiel frowned. “Dean is not a princess. He is…” He paused, searching for the word, before finally adding with stubborn gravity, “a warrior.”

Charlie burst out laughing, doubling over the table. Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and proceeded to bury his face in his hands, but when he peeked through his fingers he caught Castiel’s expression—so serious, so absolute—that his chest ached with something more than embarrassment.

And then it happened. Charlie fired back with some absurd joke about “Sir Dean of Pie Kingdom,” and Castiel… laughed.

Not a scoff. Not a snort. A real, unguarded laugh. Rough, low, and strangely boyish, like it had been pulled out of him against his will.

Dean froze. He didn’t even realize he was staring until the sound worked its way under his ribs, uncoiling something he hadn’t let himself feel in years. Longing. He couldn’t imagine the bunker without it now. Without him.

He laughed too, helplessly, like the sound itself was contagious, and for the first time all night the table quieted just enough for the moment to settle in the air. Castiel’s eyes flicked to his, their laughter mingling, and Dean swore the whole damn room tilted.

Charlie grinned knowingly but said nothing, letting them sit in it, letting it become part of the night.

And it did.

Empty bottles and greasy pizza plates crowded the table, but nobody seemed in a hurry to move.

Charlie had claimed most of the storytelling duty, reliving old hunts she’d tagged along on and tossing in plenty of jabs at Dean along the way. Sam filled in details with his dry humor, occasionally smirking into his beer whenever Charlie made Dean sputter.

And Castiel—Castiel stayed quiet for the most part, but every so often he offered something that had the whole room pausing before breaking out into laughter.

For the first time, the angel didn’t look like he was on the outside looking in. He was part of it—his posture easing, his words less stilted. The longer the conversation spun, the more he seemed to let his guard down, wings twitching faintly in a way Dean knew meant relaxation.

Eventually, Charlie leaned back, stretching her arms over her head with a groan. “Okay, you guys win. Too much beer, too much pizza—I’m calling it. I need sleep before I turn into a zombie.”

Dean snorted. “We’ve seen worse.”

She hopped off her chair, brushing crumbs off her jeans. “Alright, where’s my room? Or am I crashing on the couch again? Can I have a bed?”

Before Dean or Sam could answer, Castiel spoke up, his voice low and certain: “You will not be sharing a bed with Dean and me.”

The room went silent for a beat.

And then Sam barked out a laugh, Charlie doubled over the table wheezing, and even Dean let out a loud, startled snort.

“Oh my god,” Charlie gasped between giggles. “Did he just—Dean, did your angel just—”

Dean was already covering his face with one hand, shaking his head. “Cas…”

Castiel looked between them all, utterly serious, confusion etched into his features. “What is humorous? I was clarifying boundaries. Those are important to Dean.”

That only made Charlie laugh harder, wiping tears from her eyes. “So territorial. You’ve got your hands full, Winchester.”

Dean mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “tell me about it,” and Castiel tilted his head, still uncomprehending of the joke.

But when Dean glanced up at him, he saw something flicker there—soft, vulnerable. A man who didn’t understand the laughter, but who understood the need to keep Dean close, no matter the cost.

And for once, Dean didn’t correct him.

***

Charlie’s laughter still echoed faintly down the hall long after she’d excused herself, Sam leading her to her borrowed room, leaving Dean and Castiel alone in the bunker’s quiet. The war room was a mess of pizza boxes and empty bottles, but Dean couldn’t be bothered to clean it up just yet. He stretched, rubbing the back of his neck, and started to head over to their room to lay down. He glanced at Castiel, who was still walking close, standing close, posture stiff, wings faintly stirring as though he was still on guard.

Dean smirked, shaking his head. “You know, Cas… you don’t have to worry about anyone else crawling into our bed. Nobody’s ever gonna do that.”

Castiel’s gaze fixed on him, heavy and unblinking. “Good,” he said plainly. “Because no one will ever sleep next to you or fuck you but me. You are mine. I will not share you.”

The words hit Dean like a fist to the gut—raw, unpolished, and so filthy coming out of Castiel’s mouth that his ears went hot instantly. He swallowed hard, his body betraying him with a twitch of arousal. “Jesus…”

He backed up a step until the backs of his knees hit the bed, then let himself drop onto it, leaning back against the pillows with a shaky laugh. His hand reached out, tugging Castiel down on top of him. His lips brushed the angel’s ear, voice hoarse. “Say it again.”

Castiel tilted his head, confused for only a heartbeat. Then he caught the flicker in Dean’s eyes, the pulse in his throat. The realization clicked into place. This was the kind of dirty talk Dean wanted—not abstract, not clinical, but raw possession.

His voice dropped, gravel deep, right against Dean’s ear. “You are mine, Dean. No one else will ever touch you like this. No one else will ever hear you make those beautiful sounds.”

Dean’s breath stuttered, his hips arching up against Castiel’s instinctively. “Fuck… Cas…”

Castiel pressed closer, his wings shifting to curl around them like a cocoon. “No one will ever fuck you but me,” he growled—again—softly, each word like heat pouring straight into Dean’s veins. “You’re mine. Always.”

Dean let out a shaky moan, fingers digging into Castiel’s back, dragging him even closer. His heart hammered, his cock swelling traitorously, and all he could do was gasp against Castiel’s lips, begging him not to stop.

And Castiel did. His words spilled like fire and honey, literal as ever, but now sharpened into the filthy, possessive truth Dean couldn’t help but crave.

Dean’s pulse hammered as Castiel hovered above him, wings arched like a cathedral ceiling, feathers brushing faintly against his bare arms and ribs as if reminding him who held him there.

Castiel dipped his head close, lips grazing Dean’s ear, voice thick as smoke. “You think anyone else is ever going to touch you like this, to pin you down under me?”

Dean groaned helplessly, hips jerking up into the hard line of Castiel’s body. “Fuck, Cas…”

Castiel shifted, deliberately pressing their cocks together through the thin barrier of fabric, rolling his hips until Dean whimpered. “You like this, don’t you?” His tone sharpened, taunting. “Say it, say you like it and that you’re mine.”

Dean’s throat went dry. “Yeah… Cas I like it. ‘M yours.”

A low growl vibrated against his jaw. Castiel nipped at his neck just enough to sting. “Not good enough. Say it like you mean it.”

Dean clutched at his shoulders, gasping as Castiel rutted harder, wings cocooning them in velvet shadow. “I’m yours, Cas. I promise…”

“That’s better,” Castiel purred, his voice a jagged mix of satisfaction and hunger. His hand slid over Dean’s hip, grip bruising, pulling him into the rhythm. “Look at you—you’re already so wet,” Castiel reached down to touch Dean’s dick through his pants, thumb brushing the small wet stain there.

Dean’s head snapped back against the pillow, a broken moan spilling from his lips. His cock throbbed, leaking into his jeans, each dirty word sending him closer to the edge. “Jesus Christ, Cas…”

“No, Jesus isn’t here, just me.” Castiel teased, voice low and cruel.

Dean’s whole body trembled, his thighs squeezing around Castiel’s hips. He dragged the angel down into a wet, desperate kiss, panting into his mouth.

Castiel grinned against his lips, hips grinding down harder, relentless.

Dean cried out, muffled in Castiel’s mouth, every nerve ending set on fire. He was unraveling, and Castiel was savoring every second of it.

“Cas… I need you… now… can—can we?” Dean moaned against his lips, the plea breaking out ragged and desperate. His fingers scrabbled at Castiel’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “Is your grace back to normal, or did you use it all up when we fucked last night?”

Castiel’s breath ghosted over Dean’s mouth. “No,” he said simply, voice thick. “My grace isn’t fractured.”

“Good.” Dean’s reply was a growl, and then he was tugging at his own shirt, peeling the damp fabric over his head. He scrambled to rip Castiel’s shirt away too, hands fumbling, impatient. The air between them thickened as pants were shoved down, clothes tossed aside until there was nothing left to hide behind.

Castiel gripped his cock, achingly hard, ready to sink inside, but Dean suddenly shifted, flipping onto his hands and knees, chest pressed to the mattress, ass up. Castiel froze, his eyes dragging over every line of him—the arch of his back, the curve of his ass, the nape of his neck. His gaze locked onto the spot between Dean’s shoulder blades as though he could burn a brand there.

“You want me to take you like this?” Castiel’s voice dropped, rough and questioning. “On your hands and knees, like an animal?”

Dean dropped his head, a shaky laugh spilling from him despite the flush crawling up his neck. “C’mon, Cas…” He pushed back against the heat of the angel’s cock, desperate, growling low in his throat. This position is one of his favorites, and if missionary sex with the angel was fucking good, this will be even better. “Fuck me already.”

Castiel’s eyes darkened, grace flickering in his pupils like lightning. He placed one steady hand on Dean’s hip, grounding him, the other curling tight around his own length. He teased, rubbing the swollen head across Dean’s hole, sliding down over the seam of his cock, then dragging back up to his entrance again. Dean jolted with every pass, his breath hitching.

And then—pressure. The thick head pushing forward, slipping past the initial resistance. Dean moaned, sharp and broken, his arms trembling under him. The stretch was there, but the warmth of grace rushed in with it, coating every inch, easing him open.

“Fuck—fuck, Cas…” Dean shuddered, hips canting forward then back again, needy, his upper body lowering until his chest pressed to the mattress.

Castiel’s grip tightened on his hips, thumbs digging into the curve of his ass, spreading him wider as if mesmerized by the sight. He stared, enraptured, watching the way Dean’s tight body clenched around him, swallowed him like it was where he belonged.

“Perfect,” Castiel rasped. He pressed deeper, until his hips met Dean’s, his heavy balls slapping against Dean’s own.

Dean shook beneath him, a groan tearing out of his chest. “So fucking full,” he gasped, forehead pressed into the pillow, knuckles white as he clutched the sheets.

Castiel bent forward, wings arching overhead like a heavy velvet cloak, his chest pressed against Dean’s back, his lips grazing the shell of Dean’s ear. His cock pulsed inside him, throbbing heat, and Dean could feel every inch, every heartbeat.

“Mine,” Castiel whispered again, as if staking the claim with every breath, every thrust of his grace-wrapped cock.

Castiel didn’t move at first. He just held himself there, buried to the hilt, cock throbbing deep inside Dean as if his body needed the time to memorize it. His chest pressed against Dean’s back, wings spread wide and trembling, their shadows cast long across the walls. His lips curled against Dean’s ear, voice rough.

“Feel that? Every inch of me… inside you.”

Dean groaned, fists twisting in the sheets, head turning just enough for his cheek to brush Castiel’s jaw. “Fuck, yeah—I feel you.”

The angel rolled his hips forward slowly, dragging his cock out almost to the tip before sliding back in, careful and precise. Grace licked through Dean’s nerves, the stretch eased by warmth that felt like fire spilling into his bones. Dean moaned low, his thighs shaking, his ass clenching tight around the thick length filling him.

“God—you’re so fucking big,” Dean panted, eyes screwing shut.

Castiel hummed, pleased, his hands tightening on Dean’s hips as he set another slow, steady thrust. “You can take it. You were made to take me.”

Dean nearly collapsed forward, his chest pressing into the mattress. “Shit…”

Castiel’s pace stayed slow, almost groveling, until Dean’s hips started pushing back on their own, seeking more. He gave it to him. His rhythm snapped sharper, faster, driving into Dean with a wet slap of skin, the bed creaking under them. Dean cried out, his voice raw.

“Harder Cas.” He begged.

The angel obeyed, hips snapping forward with punishing precision, the sound of their bodies colliding echoing in the room. His wings arched above them, quivering with every thrust, feathers grazing Dean’s back and thighs.

Dean sobbed into the pillow, caught between pleasure and desperation.

Castiel growled low, rutting into him fiercely, his voice a filthy rasp in Dean’s ear. “So tight, clenching around me like you don’t want to let me go. You love it, don’t you? On your knees, stuffed full of my cock.”

Dean moaned so loud it broke into a whimper, his body shaking as he pushed back against every brutal thrust. His cock leaked against the sheets, untouched, but the friction inside him was enough to have his vision sparking white.

“You’re mine, Dean,” Castiel snarled, his rhythm sharp and relentless now. “Say it again.”

Dean gasped, teeth biting into the pillow. “I’m yours! Fuck—!”

And the angel drove into him harder, claiming every word with every thrust, until Dean’s whole body bowed, overwhelmed and undone.

Castiel’s thrusts were relentless now, pounding into Dean with enough force to rattle the bed against the wall. Each deep, brutal snap of his hips had Dean moaning, voice broken and raw, his body arching and trembling under the angel’s weight.

“Cas—fuck—” Dean gasped, his face pressed into the pillow, fingers scrambling for anything to hold. The sheets bunched in his fists weren’t enough. His whole body screamed with pleasure, overwhelmed and aching for release.

Castiel bent low, chest flush with Dean’s slick back, his wings curling around them both in a black shell. His voice rumbled hot against Dean’s ear, filthy and commanding. “Touch yourself, I want you to cum while I fuck you.”

Dean whimpered, but obeyed. His hand slid under his body, grabbing hold of his cock, already wet and leaking. He started jerking himself in rhythm to Castiel’s thrusts, his fist sloppy from the constant spill of precum. Each stroke synced with the thick drag of Castiel’s cock inside him, the dual sensations forcing incoherent sounds from his throat.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Castiel growled, hips driving harder. “Stroke it for me, Dean. Make yourself come while I split you open.”

Dean’s voice cracked into a moan, his body shuddering. “Fuck, Cas—I’m close…”

Castiel’s grip tightened on his hips, thumbs spreading him wide, obsessed with watching Dean’s body take him, clench around him. His wings trembled, feathers brushing Dean’s thighs and back like teasing touches, pushing him further over the edge.

Dean’s hand moved faster, cock, thick, hot and slick. The rhythm of Castiel’s brutal thrusts hit that spot deep inside, and Dean’s vision went white.

His body convulsed, cock pulsing in his fist as thick ropes of cum spilled across the sheets beneath him, soaking the fabric. The sound he made was guttural, desperate, shaking as he rode the climax out with Castiel still driving into him.

The sight of it—the sound, the feel of Dean clenching so tight around him—dragged Castiel over the edge. With one final, sharp thrust, he buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spilled hot inside Dean. A growl tore from his chest, wings arching wide in a violent shudder before they curled tight around them both, protective and possessive.

Dean collapsed forward into the mess of sheets, his body trembling, his breath ragged. Castiel stayed inside him, still trembling too, pressing kisses to Dean’s shoulder, his temple, grounding him even as the aftershocks left them both shaking.

Dean swallowed hard, voice hoarse, whispering into the pillow. “Holy fuck…”

Castiel kissed the back of his neck softly. “You liked it? Me being rough like that?”

Dean laughed breathlessly, weak and ruined.

“Yeah… yeah Cas I liked it.”

 

The water had washed away the mess, leaving Dean boneless, quiet, and heavy-limbed as he padded back into the bedroom. His hair was still damp, clinging to his forehead, the hem of his pajama pants brushing against his ankles. Castiel followed close behind, silent as ever, but Dean didn’t need to hear him to know he was there. He felt him. The weight of his presence in the air, the faint hum of grace that still buzzed low in Dean’s chest.

They slid beneath the covers without a word, but the silence wasn’t empty. Dean rolled toward Castiel, tucking himself into the angel’s chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. Castiel’s arms encircled him with slow certainty, and then his wings unfurled, spreading wide before curving in to drape over them like a second blanket. Warmth enveloped Dean instantly, feathers brushing his bare arms, the soft, protective shield cradling them both in absolute safety.

Castiel pressed a lingering kiss to the back of Dean’s neck, his lips barely moving against damp skin. “Rest,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent.

Dean hummed, already sinking, letting his eyes drift shut. He could feel every beat of Castiel’s steady presence—grounding him, keeping him tethered. The weight of the day, the domestication, the lust—it all bled away until there was nothing left but this: warmth, wings, and the quiet rise and fall of the chest beneath his cheek.

Notes:

I kind of forgot to update 🥲🥲 I got distracted with the second chapter to "A little Pain" which... I might start regular updates since this story is almost finished! Kudos and comments are gratefully appreciated! Until then!

Chapter 10: Where He Chooses to Stay

A few months had passed since that night in the bunker when everything between Dean and Castiel had shifted from survival to something deeper, something steadier. Their bond had grown stronger in ways Dean hadn’t thought possible.

The edge of possession that had once left him restless, almost claustrophobic in those first weeks, had softened into something warmer—domestic, grounding.

Life with Castiel had begun to feel easy. The angel moved through the bunker like he belonged there, like he’d always been meant to walk those halls at Dean’s side. He’d learned how to relax—how to let his shoulders drop when they weren’t hunting, how to stand close without the air sparking with intensity every second.

Dean found himself loving those quiet moments more than he ever expected. It was comfortable.

So comfortable, in fact, that he stopped guarding the pet names. At first it had been “sweetheart” muttered under his breath in private, too intimate for Sam’s ears or anyone else’s, especially Charlie who would’ve teased the ever-living daylights out of him. But somewhere along the way, it slipped into everyday conversation.

A casual “sweetheart, hand me the salt” across the table. Or a low “sweetheart, get in the car” when the angel took too long staring at the sky. Castiel, for his part, had taken to returning the favor in his own awkward, earnest way—names that made Dean’s ears burn but that he secretly loved all the same.

Dean found himself opening up more too. One confession at a time, late at night, over coffee or whiskey. Stories about his mom, memories of his dad, the gnawing self-doubt he kept locked tight. And Castiel always listened—still, steady, holding it all without judgment.

It was winter when it cracked him open completely. Sam had gone out chasing police reports, leaving the two of them behind in a half-empty motel room. Dean had been drinking, a little too much, his defenses stripped thin by the whiskey burn in his chest.

And that was how Castiel found himself with an armful of Dean Winchester—sobbing, uncharacteristic, his face pressed hard against Castiel’s chest, mumbling through hiccuped tears that he wasn’t good enough. Not for this. Not for Castiel. Not for anyone.

Castiel simply held him, wings invisible but wrapped all the same, murmuring words into his hair that Dean only half-heard until one slipped clear enough to stick.

“I love you.”

Dean froze, blotchy-eyed, staring up at him with disbelief. “What?” he whispered, a sound so small it barely carried.

“You are good enough. You will always be good enough. You’re worth it, Dean.”

Dean swallowed hard, trying to wipe his face, but Castiel didn’t let him look away, steady, unflinching, because to him it was as obvious as breathing.

Dean blinked, breath stuttering. “No, Cas. The other thing.” His voice cracked, as though he already knew the answer and just needed to hear it again.

“I love you,” Castiel said, the simplest truth in the universe, spoken like it was inevitable. Because to him, it was.

Dean didn’t respond with words. He couldn’t. His throat was too tight, his heart too wrecked. Instead, he surged up and kissed him—sloppy, wet, tasting of salt and whiskey and every ounce of fear and gratitude knotted in his chest. It wasn’t graceful, but it was real. Every tear, every gasp, every shuddering press of lips carried the answer he couldn’t force himself to say aloud.

And Castiel kissed him back, like it was all the answer he needed.

The angel had even grown closer to Sam in recent months. It wasn’t just tolerance—there was a kind of trust there now, almost friendship. Dean was everything to him, but Sam was Dean’s blood, his anchor, and by extension Castiel had begun to value him too. Dean appreciated it, though he didn’t always say it out loud.

Still, there were cracks. Their first fight came quietly, so ordinary in its cause that Dean barely remembered why he’d raised his voice. But to Castiel, it was catastrophic. He sat alone in the kitchen hours later, the bunker’s overhead lights dimmed, hands folded on the table as if in prayer, staring hard at nothing. His face was expressionless, but his wings—faint and invisible to anyone else—trembled against the chair like a restless current he couldn’t suppress.

Sam padded in barefoot, hair mussed, pajama shirt hanging loose. He’d only meant to grab a glass of water, but stopped short at the sight of the angel sitting like a statue at the table.

“Hey, Cas… you—uh—what are you doing up?” Sam asked softly, voice dipped low with genuine concern.

Castiel turned his head, eyes heavy with thought. “Dean raised his voice at me,” he said, flat as a report. “I believe we had… a verbal altercation.” The phrasing sounded clinical, but the weight behind it was anything but.

Sam frowned, moving to sit across from him. The cold wood of the chair creaked as he leaned forward. “I don’t want to get into you guys’ business—or interfere with your bond—but… what happened?”

For a moment, Castiel only studied him, as though deciding whether Sam had clearance for the truth. Finally, he spoke, voice quiet but edged. “I went out earlier. For air. I may have been gone longer than I realized. When I returned… Dean was upset. He raised his voice. I didn’t understand why. I attempted to speak with him, but he would not… listen to reason.”

Sam exhaled, rubbing his thumb along the handle of his glass before setting it aside. “Yeah. That sounds like Dean.”

“Sounds like him.” Castiel repeated the phrase, tasting it like it didn’t fit.

Sam nodded. “Dean cares about you, Cas. A lot. More than he’ll ever admit outright. And when he cares? He goes all in. Sometimes that comes out as anger. Sometimes he gets loud, not because he’s angry at you—but because he’s scared of losing you. He hides behind bravado when he’s nervous.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed, shoulders stiffening. “I am capable of defending myself.” His tone was sharp, defensive.

Sam smiled faintly, patient. “We know that. Hell, you’re obviously stronger than the both of us put together. But Dean…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Dean hasn’t really had anything permanent in his life. Not really. He’s always waiting for it to get taken away. And you haven’t left the bunker since the day he carried you in from the woods. You step out alone, and suddenly he’s panicking. Doesn’t mean it’s rational. Just means he’s Dean.”

Castiel let the words sit between them. His grace stirred, restless, like a pulse he couldn’t quiet. He lowered his eyes to the table again, silent. He understood—at least on some level—but there was still a question written across his face. A kind of wounded confusion he couldn’t quite mask.

Sam didn’t push. He just sat there with him in the quiet kitchen, the hum of the old fridge filling the silence. Sometimes understanding wasn’t instant. Sometimes it had to settle like dust before the shape of it appeared.

Castiel eventually thanked Sam with that quiet, deliberate sincerity of his and left the kitchen, disappearing down the hall to find Dean. He followed the familiar pull of their bond until he reached the “Deancave.” Dean was on the couch, the glow of the TV painting his features, a movie flickering across the screen that he wasn’t really watching. His jaw was tight, his eyes heavy—not angry, not anymore, just worn.

Castiel slipped inside without a word, lowering himself onto the couch beside him. He didn’t press, didn’t demand an apology. He simply sat in silence, shoulder brushing Dean’s, the warmth between them steady.

Dean’s eyes stayed on the screen, but his hand shifted, reaching across the cushion until it found Castiel’s. Fingers threaded together, his thumb brushing over the angel’s knuckles in a wordless apology. A promise. Castiel let him, let the touch linger, and they sat that way until the credits rolled.

Castiel never went out alone again after that.

***

“Okay, Cas… just—ease on the gas.” Dean’s voice was careful, taut with the effort of patience. His hand clenched into a fist on his thigh, resisting the urge to reach across and correct him.

Five months and counting…

Castiel’s knuckles were white against the steering wheel, the leather gripped like a lifeline. He kept his posture rigid, his attention fixed entirely on the stretch of empty road ahead. Part of it was because he was driving Dean’s most precious possession—the Impala—Baby—, polished and tuned with more devotion than Dean had ever given himself.

But part of it was something quieter, more vulnerable. Castiel was still learning what it meant to be human, to do these mundane things that Dean never thought twice about. To him, holding the wheel was as much a battle as any fight with demons had ever been.

Dean stole a glance at him, at the way Castiel’s jaw worked, tense with concentration, at the subtle furrow of his brow. He bit back a smile. He wanted to tease, to tell him he looked ridiculous. But instead, he just exhaled and softened his voice.

Patience…

“You’re doin’ fine, sweetheart. Just… little less pedal. She’s not built for angel strength, you know?”

Castiel’s lips pressed into a thin line, but Dean swore he saw the faintest flicker of relief in his eyes. He loosened his grip—just a fraction—and the car smoothed out under their hands.

Dean leaned back, a little less tight in his chest, watching the road roll by. Funny, he thought, how the scariest thing in the world to him wasn’t monsters or hunters or the bond with Castiel—it was trusting someone else with his baby. And yet, here he was, letting Castiel take the wheel.

And maybe that meant more than either of them had the words for.

Dean stretched one arm over the back of the seat, watching Castiel with a grin tugging at his mouth. The angel was hunched a little too close to the wheel, both hands gripping it like it might leap out of his control if he dared to let go. The Impala rumbled smoothly down the two-lane highway, winter trees rushing by in a blur of gray and brown, the horizon tinged with late-afternoon gold.

“Sweetheart,” Dean said finally, voice dripping with amusement, “I hate to break it to you, but you’re driving like my grandpa. Slow, stiff, and with both hands glued to the wheel. You’re killin’ me here.”

Castiel blinked, eyes flicking from the road to Dean and back again. “Your grandfather is deceased,” he answered plainly, his brow furrowed as though trying to make sense of the comparison.

Dean barked a laugh, throwing his head back. “That’s exactly what I mean! You drive like a dead man.”

Castiel’s grip tightened defensively, jaw ticking. “I’m maintaining the speed limit. That is what is required, isn’t it?”

Dean leaned in, smirking. “Yeah, but you don’t have to marry the speed limit, Cas. You can, you know, flirt with it a little. Maybe buy it a drink, take it out for dinner, ease her up a notch.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed slightly at the windshield, the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth betraying that he was trying not to react. “You want me to court the speed limit?” he deadpanned.

Dean wheezed out another laugh, pounding the dash once for good measure. “Exactly! Now you’re gettin’ it.”

Castiel glanced at him, finally letting the faintest smile curve his lips before returning his gaze to the road. “I think I prefer remaining faithful to the posted law.”

Dean groaned dramatically, sinking into the seat. “God, you really are the worst. I’m trapped in Baby with the one guy who takes traffic signs as gospel.”

“Would you rather I drive like your… dead grandfather?” Castiel asked, his tone so flat it made Dean snort all over again.

The Impala rolled on, tires humming against the asphalt, the sun slipping lower and throwing streaks of orange light across Castiel’s profile. Dean couldn’t stop staring at him—at the way he was trying, awkward but earnest, to bend toward Dean’s humor. And damn if it wasn’t working.

“Careful, Cas,” Dean muttered, still grinning, “if you keep makin’ jokes like that, I might fall in love with you all over again.”

Castiel didn’t take his eyes off the road, but his voice was steady, sure. “Then I’ll keep trying.”

Dean’s grin faltered for just a second, replaced by something softer as the world blurred past the windows—the cracked lines of the highway, the bare trees, the open sky. He leaned back, let the rumble of the engine and the quiet warmth between them settle into something he never thought he’d get: peace.

They had been driving for about three hours when the Impala’s headlights cut a narrow path through the trees, the hum of the engine low and steady beneath them.

Dean kept his eyes sharp on the winding backroads until the trees parted, and the gravel dipped down into a small clearing. He eased the car to a stop, the crunch of tires on rock giving way to stillness.

Castiel tilted his head as the engine went quiet. Beyond the windshield, a lake stretched out in front of them, dark and glassy under the silver wash of moonlight. Pines clustered tight around the shoreline, their branches swaying against a sky littered with stars. The water reflected it all back—stars, trees, the pale ghost of the moon—like a second sky folded onto itself.

It was empty, utterly secluded, no trace of human presence but the fading tracks Castiel had driven them in on.

Castiel shifted the car in park. Dean leaned back in the seat, and let out a low whistle. “Clearing’s been here since I was a kid. Used to come out here with Sammy—skip rocks, drink cheap beer when Dad wasn’t looking. Place is almost always deserted this time of year. Figured… maybe you could use it.”

Castiel’s gaze lingered on the water, eyes almost glowing with reflected starlight. “It’s beautiful,” he said softly, reverent in a way Dean didn’t expect.

Dean smirked, though his voice was low. “Yeah, well… figured you’d appreciate the whole angel-under-the-stars vibe.” He nudged Castiel with his elbow, playful, but his chest felt warm when he saw Castiel still staring, transfixed.

They got out of the car, boots crunching against the cold ground. Dean shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, breathing out clouds of mist in the chill night air. Castiel stood at the edge of the clearing, his posture easing in a way Dean rarely saw, wings brushing invisibly against the air like he could breathe better here.

Dean bent to grab a flat stone, weighing it in his palm before flicking it across the surface of the lake. It skipped once, twice, three times then plunked into the water with a splash. “Bet you five bucks you can’t beat that.”

Castiel looked down at the rocky ground, then back at Dean with an expression somewhere between blank and amused. “I don’t carry currency.”

Dean snorted. “Fine. Loser does dishes for a week.”

Castiel picked up a stone, studied it like it was a weapon, then flung it with surgical precision. It skipped across the surface—one, two, three, four, five times before sinking. Dean’s mouth fell open. “Oh, c’mon. That doesn’t even count—you cheat at everything!”

Castiel raised his brows in mock offense. “I followed the rules you established.”

Dean jabbed a finger at him, grin spreading across his face. “You’re not supposed to calculate the physics of the rock, Cas. It’s supposed to be luck. And dumb wrist action.”

“I am not dumb,” Castiel replied, deadpan, almost offended.

Dean barked out a laugh so loud it startled a few birds from the treeline. He shook his head, still chuckling. “God, you’re hopeless.”

“I thought the purpose of this game was to win,” Castiel said, blinking at him.

Dean sighed, his grin softening as he watched Castiel tilt his head up toward the stars, the lake shimmering quietly at their feet. The night air was cold, but Dean felt warmer than he should’ve, standing shoulder to shoulder with his angel in this little pocket of nowhere.

The laughter between them softened, slipping into the night air until it dissolved into silence. The lake stretched out before them, still and endless, stars scattered across its surface like spilled diamonds. The trees whispered in the breeze, branches bowing and swaying.

Dean glanced sideways, his breath catching when he caught the faint light off Castiel’s profile. The angel wasn’t watching the water anymore—he was watching Dean. His expression was unreadable, but those blue eyes glowed faint, reflecting both the starlight above and something far deeper inside him.

Dean’s chest tightened, something clawing its way up from the pit of his stomach. He didn’t think, didn’t weigh the risks or the rightness of it. He simply reached out, fingers brushing the edge of Castiel’s (Dean’s) hoodie sleeve before curling around his wrist.

Castiel allowed it—no, he leaned into it.

Dean tugged him closer, pressing him back against the cool metal of the Impala. The familiar hum of the car still clung to the steel, the scent of oil and leather grounding Dean even as everything else threatened to spin out of control.

He leaned in slowly, so close he could feel Castiel’s breath ghosting across his lips, warm against the winter air. For one suspended moment, the entire world seemed to pause—the rustle of the trees, the ripple of the water, the pounding in Dean’s chest.

Then he closed the gap.

The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant, but Dean poured months of weight into it. The bond, the fights, the laughter, the nights spent wrapped in wings. Castiel’s lips were warm, steady, and when he parted them slightly, Dean exhaled against him, trembling with the force of it.

Castiel’s hands rose, sliding to Dean’s waist, anchoring him in place. Dean pressed harder, desperate now, the Impala at Castiel’s back and his own body flush against him, a slow, grinding hunger in the way their hips brushed.

The world was quiet but alive around them—moonlight on water, cold air stinging against overheated skin, the low creak of the Impala under their weight. Dean kissed him again and again, deeper each time, until he finally pulled back, breathless.

The lake reflected the stars. The car held them steady. And for once, Dean let himself just feel safe in it.

Dean’s mouth didn’t leave Castiel’s. He kissed him hard, teeth nipping, tongue deep, swallowing the low noises vibrating out of the angel’s chest. His hands slipped lower, tugging at the hem of Castiel’s T-shirt until he slid them beneath the fabric, palms hot against skin that seemed to burn with grace.

Castiel shivered, wings unfurling behind him in a sudden, restless twitch, feathers rustling softly in the night air. Dean caught the sound in the back of his throat, a whimper he pretended wasn’t his, and pushed closer, pinning Castiel more firmly to the car.

His hands roamed upward, greedy for more—over taut stomach, higher along his chest until they settled over Castiel’s nipples. Dean rolled the sensitive peaks gently between his fingers, thumbs circling, tugging just enough to pull a startled cry out of the angel.

The sound made Dean groan into his mouth, hips grinding forward as he coaxed more of it out of him. “God… I love how sensitive you are here.” Dean breathed against his lips, though he kept his touches slow, careful, teasing rather than rough.

Castiel arched into his hands helplessly, wings stretching and curling like they were caught in a storm, feathers brushing against Dean’s arms, his sides, even his thighs. The soft rustle filled the clearing, almost blending with the ripple of the lake.

Dean kissed him again, deeper this time, while his fingers played with those hardened peaks, drawing little gasps and broken noises from Castiel’s throat. Every cry made Dean want more, but he tempered himself—gentle, his touches deliberate as if relearning this body under his hands.

Dean couldn’t stop himself. The longer he had Castiel pinned to the Impala, trembling under his hands, the more desperate he became. He quickly pulled Castiel over the hood, standing between his legs, and shoved the angel’s hoodie up, then his T-shirt with it, exposing pale skin to the night air. His mouth descended, hot and greedy, and he licked across one nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

Castiel cried out, wings spreading wide in a sudden flare that shook loose feathers into the night. They arched high before curling down and around, enclosing Dean in a cocoon of black feathers, trapping him in warmth and shadow.

Dean chuckled against his chest, lips dragging wetly over sensitive skin before switching to the other, tongue circling it lazily.

Castiel’s hands gripped his shoulders hard, fingers digging in as if he didn’t know what else to hold onto. His voice was wrecked, low and broken. “Dean—please—”

Dean pulled back just enough to breathe across the wet peak, watching it tighten even more from the cold air. “Please, what? You want me to stop?” He flicked his tongue over it again, earning another gasp. Dean grinned. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You love this, don’t you?”

The angel’s head tipped back, wings quivering as if the sensation was spilling straight through his grace. “Feels good… overwhelmingly so,” he admitted, voice ragged.

Dean groaned, grinding up against him, his hard cock pressing against Castiel’s thigh through his jeans. “Good. Let me overwhelm you a little. You’ve been doin’ that to me since the second I found you in the woods.”

He sucked harder this time, gently biting down until Castiel made a noise so guttural it sent a jolt straight to Dean’s cock.

Castiel only clutched him tighter, wings curling tighter around them, his body betraying how much he wanted more.

Dean finally tore himself away from Castiel’s chest, lips wet, cheeks flushed. He was panting already, restless, and when his hand went to the button of his jeans, Castiel’s gaze followed every motion like a hawk.

“God…” Dean muttered, fumbling with the denim until it finally gave, zipper tugged down. He shoved the jeans and his boxers just low enough to free himself, gasping when the cool night air hit his flushed skin. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already slick at the tip from how hard Castiel had wound him up.

Castiel’s lips parted in awe, blue eyes locked onto the sight of him. His wings trembled wide before curling in close again, feathers rustling as though responding to his own arousal. Slowly, reverently, Castiel reached down.

Dean hissed through his teeth when those warm, calloused fingers wrapped around him. And then—then came the flood of it—grace, spilling from Castiel’s palm into Dean’s cock like molten honey. It shot down his length, into his balls, making them throb painfully full, and Dean almost buckled from the sheer wave of sensation.

“F–fuck, Cas…” His voice was a broken gasp as more and more precum spilled, smeared across Castiel’s hand, dripping down over his knuckles in a relentless drip that seemed to be unreal.

Castiel stroked him carefully, fascinated, his voice low and rough. “You’re leaking so much. My grace… it excites you.”

Dean’s hips jerked, head tipping back, a groan tearing free. “Mmm—yeah, sweetheart, you’re—fuck—you’re pumpin’ me full of it—”

Castiel’s wings rustled again, twitching above them, black silhouettes shivering against the pale shimmer of the lake. He leaned in close, lips ghosting Dean’s ear, his hand still stroking slow, deliberate, each pump coaxing another spill of thick wetness from Dean’s flushed tip.

“You can hardly contain it,” Castiel whispered, tone caught somewhere between wonder and hunger.

Dean moaned helplessly, thighs trembling, caught between teasing bliss and the ache of being denied release.

His body trembled, hips rolling helplessly into Castiel’s grace-slick hand, but still—still he didn’t let go. Castiel had learned over the months exactly how to hold him here, on this knife’s edge, dangling between unbearable need and the sharp sweetness of denial.

The angel’s voice dropped low, close against Dean’s ear, every word deliberate. “You ache for me. I can feel it in every pulse of you. Your cock is begging—swollen, leaking, desperate—and still, you let me decide when you’ll finish.”

Dean groaned, muffled against Castiel’s shoulder, thighs clenching. His cock jerked in Castiel’s hand, spilling more precum over his knuckles, and Dean swore his whole body would collapse from the pressure, the grace coursing through his body in waves of electric current.

Castiel’s wings curved tighter, sealing them into a swaddle of feathers. His strokes were slow, steady, each one measured with maddening precision. “You love this,” he whispered. “You crave the way I hold you here… trembling, needy, every nerve screaming for release. You want to cum, but you want my permission more.”

Dean’s head tipped back, throat bared, panting so hard it almost sounded like sobs. His cock throbbed again in Castiel’s hand, every squeeze milking more slick from him, and yet—he didn’t break. He couldn’t. Not without Castiel’s word.

“You’re beautiful like this, Dean,” Castiel murmured, pressing his lips to the curve of his jaw, down to his throat.

Dean gasped, hips jerking, his voice wrecked. “Fuck, Cas—”

Castiel stilled his hand suddenly, letting his grace hum low in Dean’s cock but not moving, not giving him the friction he so badly craved. Dean nearly sobbed at the loss.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Dean whimpered, hips stuttering forward into Castiel’s fist. He couldn’t help it—his body moved on instinct, chasing friction, chasing that burn. His hands scrambled down, clumsy with need, tugging at Castiel’s belt until it finally gave. He shoved fabric down enough to free him, and the second he did, Dean’s eyes went wide.

“Fuck…” Dean hissed, because Castiel’s cock was flushed and glistening already, precum smeared down the thick length as though the angel had been waiting for this moment all night.

Without another thought, Dean ducked down, wrapping his lips around him in one desperate swallow. The taste hit his tongue, sharp and salt-sweet, and Dean moaned around the girth filling his mouth. Castiel’s composure cracked instantly. His hand flew to Dean’s hair, fist curling in the strands tight, knuckles pale as he anchored himself.

Dean went to work like a man starving, sucking with obscene wet sounds, letting spit dribble down the angel’s cock to slick the heavy length even more. He bobbed his head fast, messy, his tongue flattening and circling, teasing the slit with filthy precision. The harder he worked, the rougher Castiel’s grip in his hair became, his hips jerking helplessly toward Dean’s hot mouth.

A noise tore out of Castiel’s chest, half-moan, half-growl, and his wings exploded open behind him. Midnight feathers glistened under the starlight, spreading wide, then twitching as though every nerve was wired straight through Dean’s mouth. The sight alone nearly made Dean groan around the cock stretching his throat.

He pulled off with a gasp, his lips swollen, wet, shining under the moonlight. A grin tugged across his mouth, smug, filthy, and so Dean. “Goddamn, Cas… you taste so fucking good.”

Castiel’s chest heaved, pupils blown wide, his voice rasping low and dangerous. “Dean…” His hand tightened in Dean’s hair, not forcing but anchoring himself.

Dean smirked, deliberately licking a long stripe up the thick shaft before sucking the head back into his mouth. He pulled off again with a lewd pop, breath hot. “You gonna make a mess for me, sweetheart.”

Castiel’s wings curved in, curling protectively around Dean as though to hide them both from the universe. He gasped, shuddering, his grace flickering hot in the air around them like electricity. Dean went back down, tongue dragging, throat working, sucking him in again, and the angel cried out—loud, broken, shameless.

Dean worked him deep, throat stretching around the angel’s cock, spit dripping down his chin and onto his chest. Every obscene slurp and suck echoed in the stillness of the clearing, blending with Castiel’s broken gasps and the restless rustle of wings beating the night air.

Castiel’s grip in Dean’s hair turned near brutal, tugging hard enough to sting, but Dean only moaned around the thick length sliding against his tongue. His own cock twitched, precum dripping down the shaft and into the fabric of his boxers, but he didn’t care—this was about Castiel, about wrecking him until the angel forgot what it meant to be composed.

“Dean—” Castiel’s voice cracked, a raw plea he couldn’t bite back. His hips stuttered, jerking helplessly, fucking into Dean’s mouth with none of his usual restraint. His wings arched wide and then curled in, cushioning them in velvet shadow, feathers trembling as if each nerve ending was lit up by Dean’s mouth.

Dean hummed low, hollowing his cheeks, tongue pressed flat against the underside of the shaft as he let Castiel push deeper. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but he stayed there, gagging slightly, swallowing, loving every second of it. When he finally pulled back, gasping for breath, he smeared spit with his hand and pumped the thick length a few times before diving back down, swallowing the angel again.

Castiel’s grace spilled through the contact, buzzing hot and electric against Dean’s tongue, into his throat, flooding down to his chest. It made his whole body sing, his nerves alight with power that wasn’t his.

The angel groaned low, guttural, almost animal. “Dean—I’m gonna cum.”

Dean pulled off just far enough to pant against the slick, flushed head. His lips glistened, his voice rough with filth. “Do it. Fucking cum for me, sweetheart. I want it—every drop.”

That broke him.

Castiel cried out, loud and sharp, his wings snapping open as his cock pulsed violently in Dean’s mouth. Hot, thick cum spilled over his tongue in heavy spurts, and Dean swallowed greedily, moaning as he took it down. The taste of him—otherworldly, sharp, electric—burned into his senses, and he reveled in it, lips sucking hard around the head to catch every last spurt.

The angel shook, gasping Dean’s name like a prayer, his wings curling tight around him until Dean was lost in feathers and heat and the ragged sound of Castiel falling apart.

When it finally ebbed, Dean pulled back with a wet pop, lips swollen, chin and chest sticky. He licked his mouth slowly, grinning up through damp lashes. “Holy fuck, Cas. You just—” he laughed breathlessly, wiping his chin with the back of his hand— “you taste like heaven, I swear to God.”

Castiel stared down at him, utterly undone, his grace still humming through the air. His hand stroked Dean’s jaw reverently, trembling slightly, as if the angel still couldn’t believe Dean had just done that. “You say that every time.”

Dean leaned into it, smug and tender all at once. “Because I’m right, every time.”

***

The night drive had been easy up until now, Baby’s engine rumbling low, headlights cutting long beams into the empty highway. Dean had been feeling warm, relaxed—still floating on the kind of glow that only came from having Castiel close, from touching him, from hearing him breathe. That bubble burst the moment Castiel spoke.

“I think I want to be human,” Castiel said, quiet but steady, like it wasn’t the sort of thing that could split Dean open.

Dean’s hands tightened on the wheel so sharply it creaked. His heart stuttered. “What do you mean you want to be human?”

Castiel’s gaze didn’t waver. “It’s a choice I must make. After months of our bond deepening, my grace begins to… thin. Flicker. It’s disintegrating, Dean.”

Dean’s mouth went dry. “Disintegrating?” he echoed, staring at the road but seeing nothing.

Castiel nodded once. “Not vanishing completely—no. It will never fully leave me. But I will not be what I was. I either let it unravel slowly until I am diminished, fractured… or I decide. Choose to become human, fully. Or fight to remain an angel while our bond gets stronger.”

Dean huffed out a laugh that came out sharp and bitter. “How the hell could this bond of ours get stronger than it already is?” His voice cracked on the word stronger. He didn’t like where this was going.

“Dean,” Castiel said, cutting through the noise in his head, “would you rather I stay as I am… or would you want me human?”

That landed hard. Dean swore under his breath, pulling Baby off onto the gravel shoulder, headlights slicing into the trees. He killed the ignition, the silence suddenly pressing in around them.

Turning fully to Cas, Dean’s eyes were hard, voice unsteady. “Why the hell are you telling me this now?”

“Because honesty matters to you,” Castiel said simply, like he was pointing out the color of the sky.

“Yeah, sweetheart, it does.” Dean’s laugh was sharp, bordering on panicked. He scrubbed a hand down his face. “But how long have you known?”

Castiel’s eyes flickered, the only tell he was holding something back. “A couple of weeks.”

Dean blinked at him like he’d been gut-punched. “A couple of weeks? Cas, what the hell? Did something change—something I missed? ‘Cause I don’t…” He trailed off, shaking his head, words failing him.

“Dean,” Castiel interrupted softly, his tone steady, anchoring, “nothing has changed with us. Not in the way you fear. It came to me… a voice in the back of my mind, not unlike those I once obeyed in Heaven. It told me that I had been gone too long. That I must choose: to remain an angel, as I am now. Or to surrender what remains of my grace and be human. For you.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Dean stared at him, jaw tight, throat working. Their bond hummed between them, that constant thread in his chest tugging harder, aching like it wanted him to do something—say something.

It wasn’t just about grace, Dean realized. Wasn’t just about wings or powers or any of the celestial crap. This was Cas laying everything on the table, asking him to weigh eternity against something fragile and mortal. Asking him, in some way, if Dean wanted him forever in a way that angels couldn’t promise.

Dean’s breath shook as he leaned back against the seat, eyes flicking up to the roof of the car. For the first time in a long time, words didn’t come easy.

His chest felt tight, too tight. He dragged his hands over his jeans like he needed grounding, but the air was heavy, his pulse hammering at his temples. “Cas…” His voice cracked, raw. “What happens if you… stay an angel? What then?”

Castiel’s blue eyes softened, but the answer was steady, without hesitation. “According to the information I received, I must return to Heaven. They will not allow me to remain here, not like this. The bond will grow too strong, and I will be recalled. It is inevitable.”

The words hit Dean like a punch to the gut. His breath stuttered out in uneven bursts, and he gripped the wheel even though the car was parked, knuckles whitening. His vision blurred for a second. “You’re saying—if you stay what you are—you leave. Just like that? You get dragged back up there, and I…” His throat closed up, panic clawing up his chest. He couldn’t get the words out. Lose you.

Castiel leaned in slightly, his voice lower, almost pleading for Dean to understand. “Dean, if I choose humanity, I stay. With you. Always. I will remain here—in your world, in your life. I will age, I will bleed, I will fall asleep beside you every night and wake beside you every morning. I will be yours until the end of my life.”

Dean choked, a rough sob tearing up his throat before he could stop it. His chest heaved, his body trembling as he tried to drag in a steady breath. “Christ, Cas… you can’t just drop that on me. I—” He blinked rapidly, swallowing hard against the burn in his eyes. “I can’t lose you. Not after all this. Not now.”

Castiel’s hand moved, steady and deliberate, covering Dean’s where it clutched the wheel. His thumb rubbed small circles into the back of Dean’s hand, grounding him. “You won’t. Not if I remain with you. But this choice is not mine alone. It is ours. I will not decide without you.”

Dean’s laugh was bitter, broken. “I’m not worth that. You giving up wings, giving up Heaven, giving up… whatever the hell you were before me. I’m not worth it, Cas.” His breath shuddered out, tears hot in his eyes. “But God help me—I’m too damn selfish to tell you no. I need you here. With me. Always.”

Castiel tilted his head, his expression patient, unyielding. “You are worth it. Every piece of me already belongs to you, Dean. My grace, my devotion. Choosing to be human does not diminish me—it makes me yours, wholly.”

Dean broke then, bowing his head into the heel of his hand as a sob slipped free. Castiel’s fingers tightened gently around his, wings stirring faintly in the silence. The bond pulsed between them, not demanding this time, but steady, sure, reminding Dean that whatever choice came, neither of them was facing it alone.

The Impala sat silent on the shoulder, the steady tick of cooling metal the only sound around them. Dean kept his head bowed, hands still tangled in Castiel’s, his breaths shallow and uneven. Every few seconds he dragged in air too sharp, too quick, like he couldn’t quite catch up.

Castiel stayed steady beside him, thumb stroking gentle circles over Dean’s knuckles. His grace hummed faintly, not overwhelming but soothing, like warm static. He leaned just enough that his shoulder brushed Dean’s, anchoring him.

Dean swallowed hard and obeyed, shaky but present, his body trembling less with each inhale. The bond between them steadied, the frantic pulsing in Dean’s chest easing under Castiel’s calm. For long moments, neither spoke, the silence filling with nothing but their breathing and the faint rustle of Castiel’s wings.

Finally, Dean rasped, “Cas… in all that lore Sam and I dug through, all the scraps about angels bonding with humans—I never saw anything about this. About you… having to go back to Heaven. Why?”

Castiel’s eyes softened, regret carved in every line of his face. “Because angels who bonded to humans rarely lasted as long as we have. Most ended before this stage—before the grace had time to unravel. That is why you never read it. But I didn’t know this would happen, Dean. And I didn’t know how to tell you. You love me as an angel—wings, grace, all of it. I feared telling you I could be human would take that away.”

Dean barked a weak laugh, broken and wet. “Cas… I love you—for you. Yeah, having a celestial boyfriend with wings the size of a damn barn and that… that angel lube trick? It’s hot. God, it’s hot. But I don’t want it if it means you’re gonna get yanked away from me.” He scoffed, shaking his head, voice cracking around the words. “Listen to me—I sound pathetic.”

A silence lingered. Castiel only looked at him, steady, unwavering.

Dean finally broke it, voice rough, chest aching. “I want you human. Stay here. With me. Don’t let them take you back.”

His words trembled in the air between them, but his grip on Castiel’s hand was iron, like he could hold him to Earth with just that.

Dean’s words hung in the quiet Impala like smoke—fragile, lingering, impossible to take back. For a moment Castiel only studied him, the way Dean’s eyes were raw and bloodshot, his jaw tight like he was waiting to be struck. Then Castiel moved, slow, deliberate, until his hand cradled Dean’s cheek.

“You have already given me everything I want,” Castiel said softly. “If being human means I stay by your side, then it is not a loss. It is freedom.”

Dean blinked fast, throat working, and before he could respond Castiel leaned in. Their kiss was unhurried but heavy, steeped in relief and quiet desperation, their bond thrumming hot between them. Dean gripped Castiel’s jaw with one hand, the back of his neck with the other, like he needed to hold him here, tether him to earth.

When they finally broke apart, Dean pressed his forehead to Castiel’s and breathed him in, every breath shaking.

 

Back at the bunker, the world was calmer, quieter. Dean had pulled Castiel with him into his room, where the lamplight softened the sharp edges of everything. They lay tangled on the bed, Dean curled into Castiel’s chest, drinking in his warmth. Castiel’s wings were fully visible now—towering arcs of midnight feathers fanning out and curving protectively around them, a cocoon of black that glimmered faintly in the light. The air hummed with grace, but it was no longer overwhelming. It was gentle.

Dean traced idle shapes across Castiel’s chest while Castiel rubbed slow, soothing circles into his back. Dean broke the silence first, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “How long do we have until… this fades?”

“Months,” Castiel said after a pause, voice low against Dean’s hair. “Perhaps weeks. I cannot be certain.” His thumb brushed over the dip of Dean’s spine, grounding him.

Dean huffed a laugh, though it cracked in his throat. “Then we better make the most of it, huh?”

Castiel’s lips curved, a rare smile flickering across his face. “Yes.” His wings twitched slightly at the same time, brushing Dean’s bare arm, the soft tips dragging like whispers across his skin. Dean shivered, and Castiel pulled him closer, feathers sliding down to tuck them in tighter.

Dean smirked faintly, trying to play it off, but his eyes softened as he looked up at him.

For a moment, it was enough—wrapped in wings, in warmth, in the knowledge that even if everything changed, this was theirs.

Notes:

So, hear me out, it might be the last chapter, but it is not over! I'm sorry for any mistakes, I'm currently very sick and won't be updating for a few days. I haven't even really started on Chapter 3 for "A little Pain" which is not like me at all 🥲 but I will be in bed most of the weekend, so I'll definitely update hopefully by Sunday. Part two of "Angel's Watch" will be posted in a week or so. It's not going to be as long as this one. I'm debating on a really long one-shot or 3 chapters, we'll see.

Kudos and comments are gratefully appreciated!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Angel's Watch