[Fic] Broken Wings (NC-17) 2/2 for stageira

[deancas_xmasmod]

Gift type: Fanfic
Title: Broken Wings
Recipient: stageira
Author: yellowhorde
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, masturbation, language, wing!porn
Spoilers: General spoiler alert for all aired episodes through 5.8 - just in case
Summary: There are gaps in Dean’s memories of Hell so he asks the only other person who would know.
Author notes: I was inspired by a fanart done by cugami on LiveJournal and a comment she had made about Castiel’s wings and how Misha Collins had quipped that Castiel wore his trench coat all the time because he thought they were ugly.
You can find the fanart inspiration HERE

Continued from here.



When Castiel resumed speaking, he kept his head turned from Dean as if unable to face him. His voice was strained and his words halting as if they were stuck in his throat and unwilling to come forth.

“I’ll never…” He faltered for a moment, then continued picking his words carefully. “I’ll never forget the pain as I dove into those fiery depths, my sword cutting down the enemies barring my way to you. Hurled weapons pierced my armor, my body. The air burned my throat, my skin. And all I could smell was sulfur, the reek of blood and charred feathers. We fought on as fierce as the sun. But there were so many.”

“So many.”

His voice had fallen to a whisper and then to silence again and Dean waited patiently for him to compose himself. The retelling was obviously painful, he wouldn’t compound it by being an impatient dick.

“My brothers and sisters of the garrison were falling, their dying screams all around me.”

“Wait a minute,” Dean interrupted. “I thought that the only way an angel could be killed was by another angel? That’s what Uriel said, wasn’t it?”

Castiel’s nod was slow and tired. “Yes, normally that is correct.”

“Normally?”

“Yes, that’s right.” A smile touched Castiel’s lips, but it was bitter and incredibly sad. “But there wasn’t anything normal about that day, Dean. We, the heavenly Host, had laid siege to Hell itself. I don’t know if it was because we simply lost faith in the face of such unfathomable hordes of pure evil or that perhaps the demons’ powers were simply amplified within the confines of their own domain.”

He shook his head, wearily. “Whatever the reason, we were vulnerable to pain, to fear, to doubt. We could even be killed.”

“Many fled. I can’t say I blame them.”

He stared bleakly down at the half-empty bottle in his hands, eyes distant and unseeing. Castiel’s physical body was here with Dean now in this motel room, but his mind was back in Hell, reliving what sounded like one of the most horrible moments of his life. And he had done it for him. For Dean Winchester.

Throat tight, Dean reached out and laid one of his hands on Castiel’s and gave a small, reassuring squeeze. It’s okay, that squeeze said, You’re not alone.

Blue eyes cleared, became focused as Castiel pulled back from his memories. He glanced at Dean and gave him a grateful smile. Dean nodded his head. What were friends for?

“For the first time in my existence I was afraid,” Castiel confided in a hoarse whisper. It couldn’t have been an easy thing for an angel, an all-powerful immortal creature to admit. “Afraid for my life, for the lives of my brothers and sisters, and for our mission.” He turned his eyes to Dean. “But most of all, I feared for you, Dean. That our failure would mean that you would be condemned to reside in Hell for all eternity.”

Dean shuddered. “Well,” he said bravely, “As you can see, I’m right here.”

“Indeed you are. And for that I am glad.”

“What happened then?”

Again, Castiel’s face clouded. He didn’t pull away from his touch, but Dean sensed that he was uncomfortable with what he was about to say. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled his hand away.

“It’s okay, Cas,” He whispered, in what he hoped was a reassuring voice, “I’m here. I’ll always be here for you.”

Castiel nodded slowly but didn’t look at Dean. It wasn’t a good sign. Whatever it was, it must be bad.

“I fought my way to you, Dean. But you were so intent on your duties… on the bleeding soul on your rack that you didn’t seem to notice the additional chaos an angelic invasion was causing.”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face when he realized that Castiel had actually seen him in action down there. Of course he had known about it. But while the knowledge was bad enough, the thought of his Cas witnessing the tortures he inflicted upon all those helpless souls… frankly, it sickened him. The shame rose up hot though his body, poured into his throat, but he bit it back, pushed it down, locked it up.

Castiel knew what he had done, what he had become and yet he had still faced the demon horde to save him. And had stayed by his side ever since. There were no words at the moment to describe how grateful he was that he hadn’t given up on him even when he had seen him at his very worst.

“You were busy slicing at your… victim…“ Castiel’s eyes flickered to Dean’s then away, “with what looked like a cat o’ nine tails with bloody barbs on the end. The screams were horrible. I landed behind you, grabbed your wrist as you pulled back you arm to deliver another blow…”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel whispered raggedly. “This.. is harder than I thought it would be.”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbled, clearing his throat. “Tell me about it.”

Cas’ description began to stir the long dormant ashes of forgotten memories. Images began to swirl through his mind. And his stomach sank. He knew, or suspected, why he couldn’t recall the events of his rescue. Someone had tampered with his mind and that someone was sitting next to him.

“Finish it, Castiel. I want to know. All of it.”

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice was strained, his eyes pleading. “These memories won’t change the past and will likely have little to no effect on the present or your future-“

Sensing where the angel was going with this, Dean cut him off, sharply. “These are my memories, Cas. They make up who I am as a person. The good and the bad. I want-“

He broke off for a moment to take a calming breath.

“I need to know the truth. All of it. And you’re right, it won’t change the past. It may not have any bearing on the future. But those memories are mine.”

Thunder rumbled but it was fading, growing more distant as the storm spent its fury. Castiel stared at him for several seconds, blue eyes dark, haunted.

We’re not just flesh and bone, Cas.” Dean insisted. “Our memories and experiences make us who we are. They define us.” He leaned forward, keeping his eyes on his friend’s, knowing that this might not make any sense to him, but having to try to explain anyway. “Memories can hurt. And they can make your heart bleed like a son of a bitch. But they can also be a source of strength. Understand?”

“Yes,” Castiel murmured after a few moments. Then he nodded his head sadly. “I think I do.”

“Then, please, Cas. Tell me.”

With an almost imperceptible nod, Castiel did.

“When I grabbed your wrist, you turned on me like a savage animal. Your face twisted in a mask of hatred. The whip lashed out - no human could move with such speed, such strength. It struck me across the face, here.” Castiel traced his fingers lightly along the length of one cheek, drawing an invisible line from the corner of one eye down to his chin. Dean winced.

“Not the greeting you were expecting, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t.” Castiel conceded grudgingly. “And I admit that I was surprised at the time. Taken aback by your hostility. But it wasn’t your fault. The things Alistair had done to you… what you in turn had done to others… It was too much to bear. All that anger, all that pain, it had to go somewhere. So you turned it on me.”

Dean didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t want to argue that it had been entirely his fault. He had made his choices for good or bad. He wasn’t proud of the things he had done, but the fact remained that he had done them of his own free will. He had stepped down from the rack. Taken up Alistair’s knife, his instruments of torture. Carved his way through countless souls. No one made him do that. He had done it because he hadn’t been strong enough to tell Alistair no yet again. Because he just couldn’t stand the pain anymore. The endless torment. It had simply become too much.

Castiel stared intently at him, blue eyes full of silent understanding. He must have seen his emotions play across his face because he didn’t try to press.

“You fought me, lashing out. Screaming wordlessly. I tried to restrain you, but your skin was slick with sweat and blood. You fought like a wild thing. I seized your shoulder, intent on dragging you away by force. The shock of our skin touching sent bolts of pain through my arm, but I held on determined to carry out my mission.”

“Never before had I come into contact with a human soul while in my true form. I- I didn’t know that my touch would hurt you.” Castiel murmured softly. “And for that I am sorry.”

“What this?” Dean touched his shoulder, where the flesh had been branded in the shape of a hand - Castiel’s. “Forget about it. I’ve had worse.”

Castiel regarded him solemnly for a moment, expression uncertain.

“Okay, fine. Maybe not.” Dean amended with a shrug, “But it’s a small price to pay to get out of Hell, wouldn’t you say?”

For a moment Cas was silent, but Dean could practically see the wheels of his mind working as he contemplated what he had said. His face cleared and he sat up just a bit straighter. “Yes,” he replied softy. I suppose it would be, wouldn’t it?”

Again Dean felt a subtle shifting as if his memories were rearranging themselves within his head. His mind carefully assimilated this new information. And as it did, other memories rose out of the haze of forgetfulness, faint at first, but growing increasingly clearer.

He remembered his tormentor racing toward him, black eyes ablaze in fury as he realized that his favorite and most apt pupil was making a break for it. How one clawed hand had drawn back, like a pitcher getting ready to throw a fast ball, the blazing fire that he called upon, the power of Hell itself.

“Alistair,” Dean breathed, eyes widening, “While you were busy with me, he-“

“Yes,” Castiel whispered, nodding his head slowly. “While my guard was down, he attacked with all his strength.”

“I remember,” Dean exclaimed. “He slammed you from behind with some sort of fireball, didn’t he?”

Castiel looked away from him, bowing his head.

“And your wings…”

The roar of the flames, white feathers curling and blackening as the hellfire engulfed them. The coppery stink of boiling blood, burning flesh, at once nauseating, sweet and putrid. A smell so rich and thick it coated the tongue and throat. The angel, for that was what he was, even Dean knew that and he had never seen one before in his life, falling to his knees, screaming…

Another nod.

“Cas…” Without thinking, Dean reached out and laid a hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

“I never regretted my actions,” Castiel’s voice was strained as he raised his face to Dean’s. “If I had to, I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. But the mission left… scars.”

“Oh, Cas, I’m sorry.”

Closing his eyes, Dean tried to shake the memories of Hell that threatened, once again, to engulf him. The screams of the damned, the reek of blood and charred flesh. Castiel had saved him from that, fought his way to his side. Corrupted perfection. His cries of pain echoed in Dean’s head as he remembered being literally dragged up and up. Away from Hell. Away from the monster he had become.

I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.

Yes, Castiel had saved him. But at what cost?

Fresh guilt tore at Dean’s gut. It made sense now. Why the wings in the Michael painting bothered him. They served as a reminder of lost perfection. Snow white, clean, pure.

Castiel wasn’t perfect. His wings, symbol of his divinity, weren’t perfect. Not any more. And in all likelihood they never would be again. Because of him.

“Is that why you erased the memories of my escape, Cas?” Dean asked gently.

“I was,” he floundered as he searched for the right word. “I was ashamed. Of what happened, my weakness, my vanity. I didn’t want you to remember me like that. So I took those memories away and left you with only the knowledge that you had been saved. Once I secured this vessel, I returned, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell you everything.”

In a small voice, Dean asked, “Can I see them?”

“No,” In a flash Castiel was on his feet, eyes wide and hurt as he stared down at Dean in something akin to horror. “No, no.” Each no was accompanied by a sharp shake of the head.

“Why not? I was the reason you were hurt in the first place.” He rose to his feet and took a step toward the angel, who retreated until the back of his knees hit the armchair. Dean raised his hands in front of him, palms up, fingers pointing to the ceiling. He kept his voice soft, even. “I won’t poke fun at you, I swear. I just… please, Cas. I just want to see.”

“But they’re ugly…” Castiel hissed, then broke off as if not certain what to say or perhaps afraid he had said too much.

“No, they’re not, Cas.” Dean took another step forward, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. “They can’t be because you’re not. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. And I don’t say that to just anyone.”

Castiel’s expression was doubtful.

Ouch.

Dean shrugged in resignation. “Okay, yeah, it’s a popular pick up line, so sue me. But this time I mean it.”

The angel didn’t seem convinced.

“I’m telling you the truth, Cas. Seriously. You came barreling down into the Pit to save me. Without hesitation. Knowing what I had done. Even after having seen me in action first hand. And you still thought I was worth saving.”

He closed the distance between them and this time he was the one who invaded Castiel’s personal space instead of visa versa. From only a few inches away, he watched emotions warring in the angel’s deep blue eyes. Castiel bowed his head, but Dean tilted his own head to maintain eye contact.

“Cas, if that isn’t true beauty, then I don’t know what is.”

Reaching out, Dean rested his hands on Castiel’s shoulders. The angel flinched at the contact then turned his head away, hiding his eyes. But he didn’t pull away. Dean took that to be a good sign.

“Please, Cas.” He whispered, “Show me.”

Without a word the angel slowly stretched his arms out to his sides, palms up, fingers curled toward the palms. Dark lashes brushed his cheeks as he closed his eyes and after a moment, the muscles of his face relaxed, wiping away all expression. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.

After a few moments, Castiel began to glow. A brilliant light that started at his feet then rushed up through his legs, his torso, and into his arms until his entire being was aglow. Light filled the motel room, brighter than the flickering candles, warm and pure and brilliant. Dean let go of Castiel’s shoulders with a startled cry and stepped back, raising the crock of his elbow and bringing his forearm toward his face to protect his eyes.

“So, what, that’s it?” Dean asked, a small uncertain smile tugging his lips. His voice shook imperceptibly. “Nice light show, by the way.”

“Wait.” Castiel insisted quietly.

Before Dean had a chance to open his mouth and ask, Wait for what, Castiel’s eyes flew open. No longer blue, they glowed with a fierce, inhuman light. Solid white. Dean had seen Lilith’s eyes turn that same, blank white and for a moment he was afraid. The effect was kind of creepy, like the angel had suddenly been stricken blind. And then Castiel turned those blazing, empty eyes to him and said, in a voice that resonated with an almost unimaginable power, “You may want to step back, Dean.”

Dean didn’t hesitate to obey. He dropped his hands from Castiel’s shoulders and stepped back a few steps, almost stumbling backward in his haste, uncertain of what to expect. Memories of Pamela flashed through his mind, her eyes melted from her eye sockets when she caught a glimpse of Castiel’s true form. The fear must have shown on his face because Castiel spoke again.

“There is nothing to fear, Dean,” Castiel assured him in that strange, otherworldly voice, “As long as I am contained within this vessel, it is safe for you to look upon me.”

The flaming wicks of the candles Dean had so carefully arranged around the room flickered wildly as the wings rose up and out of Castiel’s back. Then, they unfurled completely in a whoosh of air that blew out most of the candles closest to him. The subtle scent of melted wax wafted into the air on rising tendrils of smoke. And still they stretched out, knocking one of the lamps from the end table. It fell to the carpeted ground and smashed. The sound was nearly drowned in the rushing wind that filled the room and it sent Castiel’s trench coat flapping like a cloak.

“Oh my God, they’re huge!” Dean exclaimed, his mouth dropping open in amazement. He had to tilt his head back to get the full effect, eyes dancing back and forth to take it all in. These were no tiny, ineffectual cherub wings but the wings of a creature born to fly the blue skies with the sun on his face and the wind playing invisible fingers through his hair. To sit and lounge on clouds glittering with silver linings.

A powerful combination of joy, elation and awe swelled his heart. He’d never seen anything like them, and he had seen a lot in his life. More than anything he wanted to reach out and touch the wings, stroke them, prove to himself that his eyes were not deceiving him. He actually stretched out his hands to do just that, but at the last moment he pulled them back, uncertain. It had been pretty apparent that Cas was sensitive about his wings. He probably wouldn’t like them being touched.

These were no illusions he told himself, no shadowy representations cast by a celestial being and hidden from mortal perception. They were real - bones, muscle, and feathers. But while the picture of the Archangel Michael showed perfect, snowy wings, Castiel’s wings were twisted, misshapen, a mottled grey and white. The feathers themselves, once no doubt pristine, were now ragged, uneven and still bore the effects of the fire that had devastated them.

“Cas…” But he couldn’t say more. He didn’t have the words.

“Yes, I know,” Castiel sighed and averted his gaze. “Like I said, they’re ugly.”

“What the hell are you talking about, you idiot?” Dean demanded, “They’re beautiful.”

Castiel’s white on white eyes snapped back to meet his and as he stared at him in confusion, the color slowly seeped back into them until they were that rich shade of blue again. The inner glow dimmed and faded and when it was gone, Dean blinked and saw the lingering afterimages as if they had been burned into his brain, his memory.

“It’s okay,” Castiel murmured, “You don’t have to try and make me feel better. I know what they are.” With a shrug of his shoulders he brought those giant wings toward his body, tucking them close so that they wouldn’t cause any more damage to the room or its furnishings. “And I know what they aren’t.”

He gave Dean a pointed look.

“Hey, look, man, they’re a bit banged up, yeah,” Dean said, “But they aren’t ugly. I’ve seen ugly, and it lived next door.”

This earned him another tilted head look of utter confusion.

“Never mind, I was just… Forget it,” Dean edged a little closer and cleared his throat. “So, uh, can I touch them?”

Castiel’s eyes widened in shocked surprise and he pulled back a step. “Why would you want to do something like that?” He demanded, obviously suspicious.

“I don’t know,” Dean replied, “Maybe I’m just a touchy feely kind of guy.”

“You are definitely not that,” the angle huffed.

“Okay, you got me. I’m not fond of chick flick moments, so let’s just chalk it up to curiosity, what do you say?”

“You’re curious… about my wings?”

“Well, yeah! Let me tell you, dude, I’ve seen a lot of things in my time, most of them nasty or just plain weird. But your wings, well,” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “they’re kind of cool.”

For several long moments Castiel was silent, his brow furrowed as he seemed to give the matter a great deal of thought. Eventually he raised his eyes to meet Dean’s and sighed.

“You may touch them if you wish.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

Dean stepped up to the angel and stretched his hand out slowly. His eyes flickered to Castiel’s and the angel gave an almost imperceptible nod. Okay. He traced one fingertip lightly along the damaged feathers, which elicited a small gasp from Castiel.

The huge wings arched and spread out in what might be considered an aggressive stance. Now Dean didn’t know anything about birds and even less about their wings, but he imagined that if they were trying to warn someone away, they would spread their wings much in the way that Castiel had done. Glancing at the angel, he noted that his eyes were closed, his expression pinched. His chest rose and fell in rapid heaves. He looked… terrified and resigned.

“Cas…” Dean whispered, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Opening his eyes, Castiel met Dean’s hazel eyes. He licked his lips nervously and released a shuddery breath. With visible effort he relaxed and lowered his wings. “Yes… It’s just that you are the first human to ever… see my wings. The first to every touch them.”

“But you are okay with that?” He wanted to be clear between them. No misunderstandings.

“Of course, I am,” He whispered, then added, “As long as it is you then I don’t mind.”

Dean sensed an unspoken ‘much’ in there, but didn’t comment on it. Instead he turned his attention back to Castiel’s damaged wings. A shiver of awe worked its way through his body as he realized that Castiel had risked his life, his wings and Hell itself to save him. It was a pretty powerful thought. And it was something he didn’t think he’d ever be able to repay. He wouldn’t even know where to start.

When he approached Castiel again, he laid his hand lightly on the closest wing. The angel trembled slightly at the contact and he tensed beneath his touch, but he didn’t pull away, nor was there any strange aggressive posturing. Dean took that to be a good sign.

As if calming a frightened animal, Dean began crooning low in his throat, more sounds of reassurance than actual words. He had calmed an infant Sammy with much the same way, though he doubted his brother would remember.

Stroking his hands gently over the feathers and muscles, Dean noticed that a few of the larger feathers - flight feathers? His mind whispered - were loose and dangling from the others. The damaged looked recent and there was fresh blood. Curious, he touched the tips of his finger against it and Castiel gasped and twitched the wing away. His blue eyes were on Dean and there was a gentle warning there.

“Okay,” Dean said, holding his hands up in apology. “I’ll try to be more careful.”

“Please do,” Castiel said in a low voice that practically vibrated with tension.

The blood bothered Dean and he tried to keep his voice casual. “What happened?” he asked, gesturing toward the fresh injury.

The angel looked away, but not before Dean caught the sadness in his eyes. “I… had an altercation with some of my brothers.”

“They attacked you?” Dean exclaimed, “Why didn’t you say something?”

Castiel turned his head sharply back to Dean. “And what would you have done? Could you have done? I’m hunted, Dean. I defied Heaven. There is an order of execution hanging over my head. Though not all of my brethren have forsaken me, the ones I encountered… were not inclined to chat.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not you’re fault,” Castiel whispered.

But Dean knew better. None of this would have happened if not for him. He cleared his throat and tried to change the subject.

“You can still see the damage that Alistair had inflicted,” Dean murmured as he walked carefully around the angel, ducking under his wings so he could see the enormous wingspan from behind. With infinite care he drew his fingers down along some of the feathers, feeling the soft, silkiness of them. “Here, here… and here.” Castiel trembled with each gentle touch, but didn’t pull away.

“Looks like they’ve healed up quite a bit,” He peered at Castiel. His head was down, his shoulders tense. His breath shuddered in and out in uneven gasps.

Does it hurt that badly? he wondered. If he were hurting him, as he had accidentally done a little while ago, Dean had no doubt that Castiel would say something or, at the very least, pull away as he had already done. As he did none of these things, he was content to continue.

His caresses became more confident and he played his hands over the wings in long, slow strokes. Though the damage seemed to be extensive, most of it was actually more cosmetic than structural. Obviously he was able to fly around with them which confirmed his belief that they were basically functional.

“Dean…”

The strangled quality of Castiel’s voice dragged Dean out of his reverie. He stopped what he was doing and ducked around one wing so he was standing in front of the angel. Castiel’s eyes were wide and shocked, his face flushed. His breath had become even more ragged.

“Am I hurting you?” Dean asked. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Castiel gasped, then added in a very quiet voice, ‘But I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

“I don’t - What?”

“It feels… good.” The last word was barely a whisper.

“Good, how?” Dean asked. Now what in hell did that mean?

The angel glanced away, painfully embarrassed. He pressed his lips into a thin line and a small needy sound that was almost a moan escaped his throat. “Very good,” he said as if that should clear up everything.

“Very good,” Dean echoed slowly.

Castiel nodded helplessly.

“Now, if I felt really good, that would mean that-“ Comprehension slapped him across the face and suddenly he thought he understood what the angel meant by very good. He allowed his eyes to wander downward, until, there it was, the telltale signs that something did indeed feel very good.

“Oh.” Dean said then chuckled low in his throat.

“This isn’t funny, Dean,” Castiel gasped, trying for angry but coming out desperate.

“You’re right, of course,” Dean murmured, “It isn’t funny. It’s freaking hilarious.”

“Dean.”

“I mean, I’ve heard of some weird ass erogenous zones, but this,” he reached out and stroked his hand along the rim of one wing. Castiel’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t quite suppress his grin. “this takes the cake.”

“Please, Dean, you’ve got to… to.”

“To what, Cas? What do you want me to do? Huh?”

“I - I don’t know.” Castiel’s eyes pleaded with him, a question burning in his eye but left unasked. “Something.”

Seeing his friend in obvious distress, Dean decided to take matters into his own hands. So to speak.

Stepping closer, Dean reached out to touch Castiel’s rumpled hair then cupped his cheek. The angel’s eyes seemed to grow wider, darker and his breathing hitched in his chest. He leaned in slowly and whispered hoarsely, “I’ll take care of you, if you’ll let me.”

Castiel swallowed hard and nodded his head. His deep blue eyes were large, his expression a mixture of curiosity and fear.

“Will you kiss me?” The question came on the back of a whisper.

“Yes,” Dean groaned. “God, yes.”

He closed the distance between them, pressed his lips against Castiel’s gently. They were soft, he thought, surprisingly so. Castiel didn’t kiss back, only stood there, trembling as if he had suddenly caught a chill. When Dean pulled back, his eyes were wide, surprised. His breath was coming way too hard and fast for a simple kiss. As if in a daze, he raised one hand and touched his own lips.

“So, that’s what a kiss feels like,” He whispered.

“Yeah. Good?”

“Oh, very.”

Dean leaned in and kissed him again, just as gently. Only this time Castiel kissed back. It was obvious that he didn’t know what he was doing, but he seemed more than eager to show him that he wanted this just as much as he did.

Then he felt one of Castiel’s hands on his shoulder and he was being pulled hesitantly forward. Dean didn’t need any further encouragement. Slowly he pulled his full bottom lip between his lips and sucking gently. And when Castiel mirrored this a few moments later, he moaned lustily.

His tongue brushed Cas’ bottom lip and as if sensing his intentions, the angel parted his lips, allowing him to explore further. Their tongues brushed and Castiel moaned and it was a low, needy sound that sent darts of desire through Dean’s body. He thrust his tongue into that warm, willing mouth, mimicking a far more intimate act as his hands roamed restlessly up and down the edges of Castiel’s wings, groping, blind and deaf to the storm, the bursts of blue white lightning that regularly filled the windows and the growling thunder. He shuddered and clutched him closer, not wanting to let go, knowing that he’d have to… eventually.

Dean’s normally dexterous fingers tugged at Cas’ blue tie, loosening it and then fumbled with the buttons of his white dress shirt, tugging at them frantically until they slipped through the little buttonholes. The fabric parted and Dean could see a slender v of warm flesh… and a familiar metallic shape. His necklace. His eyebrows arched in surprise.

“So you’re wearing it now, huh?” He panted, pleased in spite of himself.

Castiel nodded his head, eyes glazed. “Yes,” he finally managed. “It seemed the best way to keep it safe.”

“Yeah, you do that.” Dean nodded, “Keep it safe for me until you find what it is that you’re after.”

Strong hands shifted to Castiel’s shoulders to push at first at the rumpled trench coat then the dark suit jacket beneath it, intent on pulling them from his shoulders.

“My wings,” Castiel said, “I should-“

“No,” Dean said quickly, “No, keep them out. Keep them visible. I want to… oh, God. They’re beautiful, Cas.”

He stepped back, taking hold of the angel’s hand, pulling him along with him. But then the back of his knees hit the couch. He felt an alarming shift in his balance and then he was falling backward, pulling a startled, wide eyed angel down with him. He landed heavily on the couch cushions and Castiel’s weight, landing awkwardly on top of him a fraction of a second later, pushed all of the air out of his lungs in a violent rush.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel muttered, trying to push himself up out of his lap, but Dean wasn’t having any of it. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his hips and held him in place until he stopped struggling, feeling the warm weight of him in his lap and liking it.

“’S’okay,” Dean gasped. “I kind of like this. Very intimate.”

His moved his hands to the v of flesh exposed by Castiel’s unbuttoned shirt, resting his rough palms against that soft, warm flesh. Moaning softly, Castiel arched up into him, trembling. Dean’s fingers fanned out until they found one erect nipple. This earned him another moan. And when he first brushed his thumb over the nub then tweaked it between thumb and forefinger, Castiel cried out hoarsely.

Dean couldn’t believe he was doing this - making out with an angel. And a male one at that. Blasphemous, his mind supplied. That’s what this was. No ifs, ands or buts. It was wrong as hell, but it didn’t feel wrong. If it was wrong, shouldn’t it feel bad? But it felt good, in fact, if felt glorious. Right or wrong, he wasn’t about to stop now. Not when they both obviously wanted this.

Dean leaned back against the back of the couch with Castiel perched in his lap, panting and disheveled. Beautiful. His for the taking.

Suddenly, Castiel grabbed his hand and pulled it away with surprising strength. His head dropped back, his eyes pinched closed, face flushed. He shook his head back and forth.

“Uh,” He gasped, “What’s wrong? Are you - Are you okay?”

“I ache,” Castiel managed and, with an embarrassed gesture indicated exactly where he ached. Dean’s eyes slid lower and sure enough, the front of his pants were still tented, his arousal evident beneath the dark fabric.

Dean didn’t know what to say. Over the years he’d done a fair bit of sexual experimentation with his various partners, but none of them had ever been guys. And though this wasn’t exactly alien territory, it was far enough out of his comfort zone to give him pause. For a moment he wracked his mind for something to say, to do, and then it hit him. And the idea was hotter than he thought it had any right to be.

“Have you,” He paused, licked his lips. “Have you ever touched yourself, Cas? Down there?”

Castiel blinked, frowned. “No,” he replied slowly, shaking his head. “I-I…Never.”

Dean reached out to touch Castiel’s cheek, then reached down and caught one of his hands. “You should try it,” he urged. “It helps.”

He guided Castiel’s hand down to the bulge in his pants with one hand and fumbles with his belt with the other. It jangles at it finally came undone and then there was the rasp of a zipper being dragged down. He urged him up for a moment and then Cas’ thighs were bare and warm against the denim of his jeans. A moment later he griped the waistband of his boxer shorts, pulling them down as well.

Slowly, Castiel dragged the tangle of clothes down the length of his legs until the fabric fell in a pool around his ankles with a soft whump. And now he sat there, bare and exposed. At least from the waist down. His coat, jacket and shirt gaped open, his tie loose about his neck.

He should look ridiculous, Dean thought through a haze of lust, but he doesn’t. In fact, he realized that this was probably one of the sexiest things he’s ever seen. The pupils of Castiel’s eyes were blown, surrounded only by a thin ring of deep blue. Color washed over his cheeks. He settled himself onto Dean’s lap, his gaze direct and trusting.

Taking a breath, he guided Castiel’s hand to his erection, wrapping his fingers around the shaft. “Here,” he whispered, “Like this.”

He wrapped his own fingers around the hot flesh and stroked him carefully. Castiel’s breath hitched in his throat as he urged him to find his own rhythm, alternating pressure and speed. And under his patient tutelage, Castiel touched himself slowly, carefully, a frown on concentration creasing his brow.

Dean leaned back and watched, fascinated. Some small part of him wanted to turn away, to give the angel his privacy, but he couldn’t drag his eyes away. While he’d jerked himself off plenty of times, he’d never watched another man at work. And an angel at that. It was… he swallowed and felt his own arousal building. It was something else.

“Do you like that?” He breathed, though it was obvious that Castiel was enjoying the sensations that worked their way through his body. His flushed face pinched in an expression that said he was walking that thin line between pleasure and pain, where feelings were at their most intense.

Cas’ head fell back with a breathy moan, eye closed, mouth open and panting. A fine mist of sweat glistened on his brow. Behind and above him, his scarred wings arched and unfurled, and a few small, downy feathers float above them, falling slowly like snow. When one of them brushes across Dean’s face, he shuddered and clenched his eyes in a desperate effort to keep himself from shooting in his pants.

Jesus.

With growing confidence, Castiel’s hands moved, stroking the underside of his shaft, brushing a thumb over the tip and spreading the moisture there over the rest of his skin. White teeth dug into the flesh of his lower lip and he brought his hand to his mouth, pressed his palm against his lips to stifle his cries.

“Hey, no,” Dean crooned, “Don’t. Let me hear you, Cas. I want to hear your voice.” He placed his hands on the angel’s hips, stroking the smooth flesh. “Please.”

“Dean,” Castiel cried out in a low, hoarse voice. Hip buck erratically and the breath stuttered in his throat. Small incoherent sounds escaped his lips. The chords of his neck stood out as he arched his back, his pleasure peaking. Blue eyes, wide and unfocused, slid closed. His voice trembled with shock as his orgasm slammed through him. “Oh… Dean!”

The tension drained from him and he collapsed heavily against Dean, burying his face against his shoulder, shuddering uncontrollably against him as his breath puffed, hot and ragged, against his throat.

“I’m here, Cas,” Dean whispered, stroking his hand through the damp, rumpled hair. “I’ve got you.”

For a long moment Dean held the trembling angel, stroking his hands down his back, the wrinkled fabric of his ever-present trench coat. His fingers lightly stroked down the fall of feathers, marveling at how incredibly soft they were. Eventually Castiel pulled away, and Dean groaned as he accidentally brushed against his own erection.

Castiel glanced down, then up into Dean’s face, eyes dark. He nodded encouragingly and then watched with silent fascination as Dean pulled at the front of his jeans, fingers shaking as he dragged the zipper down. Then he’s dragging both his jeans and boxers down in sharp, frantic tugs, pulling up from the cushion only long enough to tug them down until they were over his knees and then, finally, around his ankles.

When Castiel reached out to touch his cock, Dean grabbed his hand lightly. “No, wait. Give me a minute. I’ll explode if you touch me now.”

He managed a shaky grin at the faint alarm that raced across Castiel’s face. Maybe it was a poor choice of words to use with the angel, but that was exactly how he felt. Licking his lips, he glanced at the end table. Remote control. Car keys, his battered leather wallet. He thought of the condom he has tucked in one of the pockets but shook his head. Not like he was going to knock up an angel. Nothing really helpful there…

And then he saw it, the little bottle of hotel lotion he’d knocked over earlier. He frowned, not one hundred percent certain that it would do the trick, but knowing that it would better than nothing. Nothing would probably hurt like hell and he didn’t want that.

“Any port in the storm,” He mumbled and snatched up the tiny bottle, desperately hoping his brother hadn’t used it all on those ginormous hands of his. Tipping it over, he squeezed the bottle. Nothing came out. Crap. Urgently, he smacked the bottle against the palm of his hand until a small glob of white lotion squirted out. A few more whacks and he had a good sized dollop. He tossed the now empty bottle aside and smeared the lotion over his aching shaft, praying that it was enough.

Castiel watched his movements with rapt attention, eyes bright and a touch too wide.

“Come here,” Dean rasped, wrapping his slicked hands around his waist and pulling him closer, lifting him and shifting until he was ready and in position, the tip of his cock pressing urgently against Castiel’s rear. Then, with a glance up into those deep, blue eyes, he lowered him, lifting his hips as he did so.

He pushed upward, felt something give and then he was inside.

Hot, oh God, he was so hot. And tight.

Castiel gasped and went rigid, his hands gripping his arms, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Dean glanced up and Cas was pale, eyes wide with shock and pain. His breath came in shallow, tight pants.

“You okay?”

Castiel nodded his head, mutely, as if unable to trust his voice to not break into a thousand pieces. His thighs tensed and relaxed as he pushed slowly down, his breath coming out in sharp exhales as Dean slowly slid deeper, letting the sound of Castiel’s breathing guide him, stopping when it became tight and labored, easing deeper when he sighed and relaxed.

“I-“ Dean licked his lips, “I’ve got to… you know, move. Please.”

“Yes,” Castiel whispered and, lifting his arms, rested his hands on Dean’s broad shoulders. His wings swept forward, drawing around them, a curtain of feathers. A few of the tips brush against the line of Dean’s face and he shivered hard, caught his breath and began to move in long, slow slides.

Castiel cried out and convulsed around him, tightening his thighs and throwing back his head. Long fingers dug into the flesh of Dean’s shoulders and he damned well knew that he’d find the perfect bruised imprint of those fingers tomorrow morning but right now he couldn’t bring himself to care about anything but the feel of those feathers brushing his skin, the cool, winter ice smell of the angel’s skin, the tight heat of him as he drove himself in and out in a frantic tattoo that made his heart race and his breath burn in his lungs.

He didn’t know how long it lasted, but it couldn’t have been too long. He had been too close to the edge to last long. But at one point Castiel stopped wincing and had started to relax and move with him, rocking his hips against him, giving voice to his pleasure.

Strong arms gripped Castiel’s waist and suddenly Dean spun him around, rolling him over and pressing him down into the couch cushions while still inside him. He rose above him, a pagan god desperate and savage, and drove himself into his body. When that familiar mind numbing feeling of white ecstasy swelled within him, threatening to drown him, he surrendered to it completely, snapping his hips with renewed fury.

Castiel reached out blindly, gripped Dean’s arms tightly and hung on for dear life. And when it came, when his orgasm rolled over him, he screamed, full throated, calling Dean’s name and collapsing back, shuddering. Dean joined him a few moments later and the warm strength of his body beneath him was a comfort in the semi-darkness.

***

It was very late by the time Sam maneuvered the Impala into the only available parking spot left in the lot. Much later than he had expected. For a moment he wished he had kept his promise and called Dean to let him know he was fine and on his way home. He knew Dean would be worried, but he didn’t want to wake him if he was indeed asleep.

The storm had blown itself out and the sky was clear and glittering with a splash of stars. He slipped the laptop case strap over his shoulder and got out, shutting the door as quietly as he could. The blacktop glistened from the rain and he had to skirt more than a few lake-sized potholes before he reached the sidewalk that wound its way through the complex.

When he reached their door, he dug the keys out of his pocket, cupping them in his hand to keep them from jingling. This was partly from force of habit - didn’t want the bad guys to know you were coming in - and partly because he didn’t want to wake his brother. Since they had gotten back together, Sam had been insisting that Dean start treating him like an adult, which meant, for starters, that he didn’t wait up for him at all hours of the night like a worried parent.

As expected, the room was dark when he entered save for the light that shone through the partly closed bathroom door. That habit hadn’t changed, he was glad to see. Walking blind through yet another unfamiliar motel room only increased the chance of tripping over something and perhaps breaking a leg - or running into some blood sucking creepy-crawly. Wouldn’t be the first time something had laid wait for them in their motel room. So, naturally some precautions were necessary, thus the bathroom light. Besides, it was less obtrusive than the ones in the kitchenette and less likely to disturb Dean’s sleep.

As he walked through the small combination living room/dining room area, Sam noticed that several candles had been strewn all over the place in small, inexpensive holders. Most had been burned down to nubs before burning out or being extinguished. The scent of melted wax and vanilla still lingered in the darkness so they hadn’t been out that long.

Sam guessed that the power had gone out at some point during the storm, probably due to downed power lines. While making a statement and answering questions over at the police department, the lights had flickered several times, but not because of any paranormal activity. The locals took it in stride and had a small supply of battery charged flashlights and lanterns set out on one of the deputies desks, just in case. Fortunately, the electricity remained on, thank God for small favors.

The little bottle of lotion he had left on the end table was on the floor by the sofa. Shaking his head, Sam leaned down and picked it up. Empty. Well, that figured. The low musk of sex permeated the room and Sam rolled his eyes. Why wasn’t he surprised? He glanced at his brother, who lay on his side on his chosen bed, covers up to his chest, one arm tucked under his head. His breathing was slow and rhythmic and he looked… peaceful. Relaxed.

Knowing some of the stresses and burdens that weighted down his shoulders during his waking hours, Sam was glad he could find peace in his sleep at last. For a long time his dreams had been disturbed by images of Hell and though Sam suspected that such nightmare images would linger on for the rest of his life, it was nice to see that tonight, at least, Dean slept easy.

He straightened up, about to toss the little bottle in the nearest plastic trash bin, when he caught another scent. It was a faint, unfamiliar odor, but not an unpleasant one. Sam’s nostrils flared as he tried to identify it. It was almost like… like icicles and fresh snow. But it wasn’t the right season for snow.

“Huh, weird,” he mumbled under his breath. Then something caught his eyes. Something white and fluffy on the carpet. Frowning, he knelt down and picked it up, tweezing the item between his thumb and forefinger.

It was a feather, a small one at that. Like the down they used to stuff feather pillows. He turned it this way and that in the low light, puzzled. Then he noticed that there were more of them on the floor scattered on and around the couch. A lot more.

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam scoffed and shook his head, shooting a glance over at the sleeping figure of his big brother.

“You know what? Never mind,” He muttered, letting go of the feather and letting it fall in lazy seesaw motions back to the floor. “I don’t want to know.”

THE END