(no subject)
Dean kind of assumes they’ll just go away on their own. They spent days researching, but were never able to pin down exactly what caused his soul to physically manifest into a set of wings perched between his shoulder blades. Dean wakes up every morning half expecting them to be gone-to go as easily as they came.
They don’t go, though. Dean doesn’t mind, because it turns out no one can see them besides him and Cas, and sometimes Sam, if the angle is right. It doesn’t affect his work, so he goes about his business and tries not to think about it too much. Sam does enough thinking about the wings for the both of them anyway, and Dean’s never been one to stew over something he can’t control.
Castiel makes himself scarce, which Dean is grateful for. Dean’s taken to practicing with his wings, learning to make them bend this way and that, to make them beat and still at his command. But when Castiel is in the room, they do what they want, and that scares Dean. He knows when Castiel is staring at them without even looking because they heat up under his gaze, flutter in response when Castiel blinks.
Castiel appeared in their motel room once, nearly on top of Dean, and when his elbow grazed Dean’s left wing, Dean nearly went to his knees. He beat off in the shower a minute later, stripping his dick with a quick hand, and his wings shuddered hard when he shot off against the shower wall, thinking about putting his mouth on the insides of Castiel’s thin wrists.
Castiel only visits two or three times a month, for maintenance. He comes at night, and when he enters the room, Sam practically leaps to his feet, grabs his jacket and takes off. Seeing their ritual once was enough for him.
Dean’s wings need to be looked after, is the thing, and Dean can’t do it himself. Castiel calls it preening, but whatever it is, it’s their ritual, and Dean’s belly drops low and warm at the sight of Cas now, knowing what’s coming.
It’s a Monday night this time, and Dean can hear Sam pull the Impala from the lot outside as Castiel waits by Dean’s bed, eyes heavy.
“Are you prepared?” he asks Dean, like always. Dean scuffs his bare foot on the rough carpet and tugs up his sweatpants a little.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and let’s himself fall face-first down onto his bed. Castiel approaches and Dean can feel his wings perk up, heating against his shoulder blades, standing out from his back and fanning slowly, waiting for Castiel’s hand.
Castiel settles carefully on the edge of the bed and exhales softly. Dean braces himself, but like always, the first touch of Castiel’s fingertips to his wings breaks a soft, deep groan from his chest. Castiel goes to work then, letting his fingers trail along the veins in the fine membrane tissue of Dean’s wings, pulling warm energy through them, from the base to the very tip.
The problem with Dean’s wings is that they’re mostly incorporeal. Sam can occasionally see them and has never been able to get a feel, and while Dean can see them, trying to get a grip on them is like grasping at a thick fog. Frustrating. But something in Cas, something about his angel mojo makes it so he can make solid contact with Dean’s wings, and feeling Cas work warm, soothing heat through his drained wings is near ecstasy for Dean.
Dean wraps his arms around his pillow and buries his face into it to keep himself quiet, body going looser and looser as Castiel works. Cas is slow and methodical. He lets his fingers drag across every inch of Dean’s wings, tracing the veins with the edge of his fingernail, causing goose bumps to crawl up Dean’s arms. He gives Dean small portions of his grace this way, this gentle transfer, and it’s what keeps Dean’s wings from fading out.
The whole process turns Dean syrupy warm, loose limbed and breathing deep. It’s not uncommon for him to fall asleep by the end of their session, as he does this time, drifting off slowly. Castiel’s fingers trace enochian sigils into his wings softly and methodically and Dean falls under.
When Dean wakes later that night, the room is dark. He can hear Sam breathing heavily on the bed to his right, and Dean’s wings feel vibrant, full and sated. He shifts and feels his dick, trapped between his belly and the mattress, hot. His wings twitch slowly, and he can feel the echoes of Castiel’s finger tips over them, and his toes curl against the sheets as he gets a hand underneath him and under the waistband of his sweats.
He takes his time, jerks off with slow, languid pulls. His wings fan slowly to the beat of his fist, and he revels at the way his belly coils hot with it, the way his dick drools precome at the memory of Castiel’s weight against Dean’s hip. Dean grunts and lets his hips rut slow and sure against the creaky mattress. He suckles on the edge of his pillowcase, wetting it with his saliva as he comes easily, slicking up his wrist and the scratchy floral sheets.
It scares Dean how easily this has become habit for him, but he pushes it from his mind as sleep tugs at his conscious again. He falls asleep quickly and dreams of nothing.
Dean doesn’t consider himself to be a patient man, and he hates waiting for Castiel to show for their sessions. He focuses on other things, bites down the trickle of disappointment each night Castiel doesn’t appear, because it feels good, and yeah, Dean likes it. So Dean waits, and waits.
Only this time, Castiel doesn’t show. Not for a long time.
It’s near two months and Castiel hasn’t shown, hasn’t even called, and Dean’s wings are in rough shape. More than rough, even. They’re sad to look at, drooping against Dean’s back, their typical vibrance replaced by a dull sort of apathy, and every day they go without being touched, the deader they turn.
It’s affecting Dean, exhausting him, making him irritable and cranky. Sam notices, and starts to worry, which only makes Dean more annoyed at Cas for forgetting about him. At first he assumes it’s some heaven thing, some assignment upstairs that’s keeping him busy, and Dean gets that. He’s not the only thing in Castiel’s universe, so when he doesn’t show for a couple of weeks, Dean figures that’s pretty par for the course.
His wings don’t grow heavier, like he thought they would. They grow lighter, which, when Dean thinks of the implications of that, scares him more. Every day without Castiel looking after them, they fade a little more, and Dean feels a little more drained. Dean tries everything he can to help himself, spends hours in their cramped motel bathroom trying to reach behind him and get a solid grasp on his wings, but he can’t. His fingers pass right through them, and Dean gets so frustrated sometimes he could cry.
It occurs to him, when Castiel’s absence stretches to two months without a word of correspondence, that something could have happened to Cas. He could be hurt. Or dead.
Dean spends his nights miserable, face shoved into his pillow, waiting for someone he knows isn’t coming.
Every morning he wakes and feels his wings a little bit less.
“Dean.”
Dean grunts, buries his face more. He’s dreaming, because the voice he hears belongs to Castiel. He dreams of Castiel often these days, and he inhales deeply, settling in for another night of misery.
A hand roughs at the back of his neck, jerks Dean awake with a harsh snap, and he hears, “Dean,” in an urgent, low voice.
Dean’s heart explodes against his ribs, sleepy fog clearing like a struck match, and he spins to his back and fumbles on the night stand for the light. He slams his fist on the switch and Castiel is there, really there, face inches from Dean’s, blinking in the harsh light. A quick glance to the left confirms that Sam is gone-probably out getting late coffee.
“Cas?” Dean asks, voice hoarse, rubbing his own face with his palm.
“Are you alright, Dean?” Castiel asks. His face is twisted, brow drawn tight, mouth a grim line. Worried. There’s blood on his face, smeared over his temple and coated thick in his left eyebrow.
Dean blinks, can’t stop the frown that settles on his face. His heart is beating hard and he can feel his wings begin to tremor on his back. They haven’t moved in days, but Dean can feel them feel Castiel, feel them respond to him. He reaches up, touches at Castiel’s forehead. Smears the blood. “This yours, Cas?” Dean asks softly.
Castiel takes Dean’s wrist in his hand carefully, like Dean’s fragile, and drops it from his face to the bedspread. His eyes go to over Dean’s shoulders to look at Dean’s wings and he exhales sharply. “That’s…they don’t look good, Dean.”
Dean swallows heavily, his heart pounding away. He wants to shake Castiel, yell at him for letting it get this bad. But Castiel is alive, which is more than he’d been letting himself assume in recent weeks, and he feels more relief than anything. His wings are trembling against his back. No energy left in them.
Castiel gets his hands on the backs of Dean’s elbows and pulls him up to a sitting position. “How do they feel?” Castiel asks, leaning into Dean’s space, his neck rubbing against Dean’s ear, to peer at them. He smells like dirt and sweat and smoke.
Dean turns his head to look too and his nose bumps Castiel, the soft skin behind his ear, and he mutters, “Don’t really feel much of ‘em anymore.”
That was the wrong answer because Castiel jerks back, looks him in the eye. Castiel’s eyes are that same dark, blue. He looks apologetic to the point of pain.
“Cas-“
Castiel rocks back onto his feet and shucks his trench coat quickly, leaving it inside out in a pile on the floor. “Go,” he says, and Dean doesn’t know what he means until Castiel grabs Dean’s shoulders and twists him, manhandles him so he’s lying on his stomach, face pressed into the pillow.
It’s too much, all too fast for Dean’s sleep foggy brain to decipher properly, and heat flares sharp in his belly, arousal pooling fast when he feels the bed dip under Castiel’s weight. He’s missed it so badly; his wings are twitching now, almost frantically. Wanting to reach out and find Castiel but not having the strength.
Dean knows when Castiel gets a good look at them, can hear the way Castiel exhales sharply, a harsh sound of disapproval.
“Cas,” Dean says, “Please, just-“
Castiel mounts him. Climbs up gracefully and settles himself on Dean’s ass, knees on either side of Dean’s hips, and feel of it knocks the air from Dean’s lungs. Dean’s mouth opens to say something, but Castiel’s hands are there, shoving against the base of Dean’s wings, where they meet the skin of Dean’s back, and the immediate and immense pleasure that rushes through Dean makes him shake.
“Hnnng,” is all Dean grit out into the pillow, and Castiel is massaging the root of his wings, working warm, warm grace into the brittle, empty membrane, and Dean can feel the heat all the way to his toes.
Castiel works fast, fingers urgent and insistent where they press harshly to Dean’s wings. Pulling life through them, working open the channels of the wings long-empty veins and flooding Dean with pulsing energy. He gets a hand on either side of Dean’s right wing and drags his hands from base to tip, sending racking shudders down Dean’s spine.
He’s never given Dean this much grace before, not all at once. It’s making Dean’s head fuzzy and overfull, and his hips rock against the mattress, dipping under Castiel’s solid weight. Castiel’s fingernails scrape, and it’s like a jolt of electricity through Dean’s system. He’s so hard against the creaky mattress. He can feel his cock dripping in his sweatpants, stifled.
His wings flutter, stronger already, and Dean can feel them start to thrum like they used to, though just barely.
The room is silent, and over his own labored exhales, Dean can hear Castiel. Hear the way his breath is near ragged, strained. Exerted and echoing in the empty room.
His fingers clutch at Dean’s left wing, and he murmurs, voice gravel deep and rough, “I’m sorry, Dean,” and that’s it.
Dean groans, too loud, and pushes himself up enough to get his hand underneath him. He grips himself tight, groaning again, and his hips stutter down, push against the mattress, and the motion causes Castiel to lose balance. He tips forward, catches himself with a careful hand between Dean’s shoulder blades.
Castiel’s hips roll just slightly forward, and Dean can feel him, all hard and tented up in his slacks. It knocks a shocked breath from Dean, and he fucks into his hand desperately, when a harsh whoosh slices the air, and the weight of Castiel on his back is gone.
Dean’s panting in the empty motel room, gripping his dick tight in his fist, sweat breaking out on his temples.
There’s that loud rustle again, and Dean knows that Cas is back. He knows because his wings beatbeatbeat and thrum loud enough to hear. They reach out from Dean’s back, to where Dean knows Castiel is standing.
“Cas,” he says. “Please, just…I can’t-“
Castiel moves closer because Dean’s wings beat again and strain out to reach him. Dean fucks into his fist again, eyes squeezed tight shut against the pillow. A hand lights on Dean’s back, feather light in it’s touch, and it rips another deep groan from Dean, hips jacking into the mattress.
“Please, Cas,” Dean breathes, sounding so desperate. “Please, just-pin me-pin me down, please-“
Castiel is on him before Dean can breath, mounting him, his groin fitting hard against Dean’s ass, his weight bearing over Dean’s back, and he’s so, so hard against Dean. His hands fly to Dean’s hips and he wrenches them up, up off the mattress so Dean’s ass is in the air like a whore.
“Ohgodohgodohgod,” Dean pants and then Castiel grips Dean’s hips and fucks against him, hips snapping sharp. The bed frame slams against the wall and Castiel grips Dean tight and ruts against him, rabbit quick and breathless.
Dean gets the pillowcase in his teeth and sucks in it, saliva everywhere, body quaking with Castiel’s powerful thrusts, jacking himself with a tight fist, feeling Castiel’s trousered dick rutting against his ass, rubbing up against Dean’s balls.
Dean’s wings are beating like they’re trying to take flight, and Dean can feel them sizzle every time they contact Castiel. The heat is overwhelming and Dean’s sweating all over body rocking down and down again and again as Castiel shoves at him with his hips.
Castiel grunts, voice strained, and he gets an arm around Dean. His hand clasps over Dean’s in Dean’s dick and squeezes, and Dean cries out, hips punching back into Castiel’s in response.
Castiel gasps then, and the room shakes with a deafening thunder clap, and Dean knows, knows that Castiel’s wings are out, spreading from his back and charging the air in the room with palpable electricity. Dean’s wings spasm, and beat frantically, enough that Dean’s torso lifts off the bed an inch or two, and then Castiel’s wings clamp around them, shuttering them in darkness.
Dean’s orgasm is ripped from him, and his whole body locks up with it, muscles going rigid against Cas. Dean loses track of time, of where he is, then, just feels the weight of Castiel pressed to his back and lets himself go.
He ends up on his back, gasping for breath. Head propped up against the headboard.
Castiel is kneeling on the bed a foot away, eyes wild. The blood on his face is glowing in the bright light, and his wings are hovering around him like a dark, feathered shield, crackling with energy.
It’s the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen, and he exhales shakily, wings burning hotly at his back.