Archive of Our Own

Dean curses as the door slams in his face.

“The door was closed, Dean. Closed! You had no right to—”

“Oh, please. If you didn’t want me to come in then why didn’t you, oh, I don’t know, lock the damn door! You’re being ridiculous.”

The door opens a crack and a lone, blue eye peeks out from beneath a dishevelled mess of hair to pin him with a death stare. Dean gulps and takes a step back.

“Ridiculous? I’m being ridiculous?”

“I didn’t mean… I just—” Dean flounders, waving his arms about. “You’re being unreasonable.”  

“I don’t recall you being quite so reasonable last week, Dean,” Cas snaps, his expression mutinous. “In fact, I remember your door being very much un locked when I walked in on you—”  

“Okay!” Dean throws his hands up in surrender, cutting Cas off abruptly. “Okay, let’s not relive it, please.” Jesus, a guy walks in on you with your dick in your hand one time and apparently you can never hear the end of it. Cas’ answer is an unamused hmmph, followed by the door slamming again.

Dean sighs, resting his forehead against the cool wood of the—now locked—bathroom door. “Dude, come on. I didn’t even see anything. What’s the big deal, anyway?”

Cas mumbles something back, something that sounds suspiciously like Enochian for ‘fuck off’, and Dean exhales in a way that makes it sound like he’s not bothered, but really, he’s not sure who he thinks he’s kidding.

“Prude,” he mutters, stomping away in the direction of the kitchen. Beer, he thinks. I need beer.

Sam is in the library—what a shock—bent over a stack of books and blessedly remains a figure in his life that at this current moment is not complaining about Dean ‘invading his personal space.’ Who does Cas think he is? Lecturing Dean about personal space. Dean harrumphs, and Sam looks up with a sigh.

“Dean—”

Dean holds up a hand to cut him off. “ Don’t even say it, Sammy.” He continues on in his quest for sustenance, sending a quick prayer to the heavens as he enters the kitchen that there will, in fact, be beer.

“You drank the last one yesterday.”

Dean jumps, cracking his head on the (depressingly empty) fridge. “ Dammit, Cas! Don’t do that.” He turns to find Castiel glaring at him in a way that looks both irritated and embarrassed. “Dude. Are you blushing ?”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Don’t be absurd,” he replies, but Dean watches as his eyes dart away, notices how he’s holding himself, self-consciously keeping his shoulders stiff. It’s just Cas now—no dark wings around him, no blur of midnight feathers that Dean had barely gotten the swiftest glance at before having the door slammed in his face. No shirtless Cas beneath it all, either, Dean’s brain helpfully points out. He bats that away, focusing instead on the contorted look currently on his best friend’s face.

“You want a drink?” Dean asks, because yes, that is his answer to everything. Sue him. “Come on. There’s some whiskey stashed in my room.” Cas looks like he might protest, so Dean brushes past him before he gets the chance. He raises his hand to clap on Cas’ shoulder as he passes, an ingrained habit at this point, but he stops himself just in time, not wanting to make Cas feel more uncomfortable. He acts like he doesn’t see Cas looking at him pointedly in response to the aborted gesture.

Cas lingers in the doorway when they reach Dean’s room. “Dean, I don’t want to intrude,” he says.

And okay, Dean can give him that. The whole didn’t knock just walked in on me jacking off  thing is still fresh in Dean’s memory too, but still. He thought they were past that.

“It’s fine, Cas,” Dean says, pouring a decent measure of whisky into a glass. He holds it out for Cas, at a distance that the angel will have to walk into the room to take it from him. Dean’s body thrums as Cas moves towards him and he exhales carefully, doing his best to maintain the blasé façade he’s been perfecting for when Cas is around.

It’s not that he wants to hide how he feels. It’s hardly even a secret, Dean reasons. Okay, yes, maybe he could’ve been a little less snappy when Cas walked in on him last week, and okay, maybe that might have been a good time to mention the whole ‘oh, by the way, I’m actually in love with you’ thing. After all, it isn’t like Dean is jerking off to pictures of Christy Turlington anymore. But no, Dean thinks, if Cas can hear him praying for there to be beer in the fridge, and then helpfully flap in just to point out that there isn’t, then surely he must be able to hear the embarrassingly extensive list of other things Dean’s been screaming in his mind.

Unless, of course, Cas has heard him but doesn’t want to acknowledge that he’s heard him, and yeah—that’s a whole can of worms Dean’s stubbornly refusing to open.

“Dean, are you feeling okay?”

Dean snaps his attention back to Cas standing before him, one hand wrapped around the glass of whiskey, his fingers warm where they overlap with Dean’s own.

“Peachy,” Dean mutters, reluctantly letting go. He holds the bottle up instead. “Cheers,” he says, clinking it against Cas’ glass before taking a swig. The whiskey burns on the way down, but it seems to settle the butterflies flitting about in his stomach, and Dean’s grateful for that, at least. His own face feels warm now, and he hopes that Cas will put the flush down to the alcohol, and not the fact that they’re both now crowded in front of Dean’s dresser, and Dean’s had all sorts of fantasies about that.

“So, uh, you wanna sit down?” Dean gestures over Cas’ shoulder.

“Oh, yes. Of course.” He backs away from Dean and settles instead on the edge of his bed. Dean’s heart clenches at the sight of him sat there, and he wavers, wanting desperately to sit beside him but deciding it’s safer to sit in the chair that’s tucked in the corner instead. The view’s better from over here, he tells himself, accepting that this is probably the closest he’ll ever get to having Cas in his bed.

Cas, for his part, seems perfectly content where he’s perched, looking around Dean’s room in interest. A small smile forms on Dean’s face. Cas looks so innocent sometimes, it’s hard to piece him together with the fierce warrior of God they’d first met. Dean happily watches him, watches the way he runs his hand across Dean’s comforter like he’s never felt one before, the way his eyes caress every inch of the room. It’s only after a few minutes have passed that Dean realizes what’s wrong with this picture.

“Hey,” he snaps his fingers in Cas’ face, frowning. “What’s with the peering? You’ve been in here at least a dozen times before. Why are you acting like you don’t know what my room looks like?”

Cas freezes, glass of whisky halfway to his lips. Dean can practically hear the cogs in Cas’ mind whirring and his heart skips, because please, no, this can’t be happening. Cas can’t be hiding things from him, not again.

“Cas,” Dean warns, reaching over to snatch the glass out of his hand. “Talk.”

“It’s not what you think, Dean,” Cas blurts out, and Dean taps his foot impatiently. He tries not to feel angry, betrayed, but goddamnit something isn’t right here and he’s so tired of Cas lying to him, he thought—

“Dean! Are you even listening to me?”

Dean jerks his head up to find Cas leaning in towards him, both of his hands wrapped around Dean’s wrists. Dean doesn’t know when he’d curled his hands into fists, but his fingernails are  biting into his palms and somehow he missed Cas getting off the bed and kneeling in front of him. He relaxes his hands, soaking in the way Cas is gripping onto him. His eyes roam from their joined arms up across Cas’ torso, lingering on the pulse point on Cas’ neck. God, he’s pictured Cas on his knees so many times but actually having him so close is maddening. All of his anger evaporates as his eyes travel further, pausing on the plush bow of Cas’ upper lip, gauging the distance between them. It’s not far, he could easily just—

“I said, I’d been struggling to picture your room after what happened the other day.” Cas definitely blushes this time, staring at some distant point on the wall behind Dean’s head. Dean feels a slow grin working its way onto his face as Cas continues. “I, ah...” Cas clears his throat, his cheeks growing redder by the second, and it’s this , Dean realizes. This is far more maddening than anything Dean’s fantasized about before. Cas is fierce and badass and sexy as hell, but damn if it isn’t this adorable side of him that Dean rarely gets to see that really does him in. “I couldn’t focus on what your room looked like without seeing… Well, you, ah. You know what I saw, of course.”

Dean huffs. As if he could ever forget. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for how I reacted. I should have—” I should have invited you in, he thinks. But then he remembers that that isn’t what Cas wants, or else he would have just come in, right? Not jumped back from the door like it had just caught fire. “Anyway,” he smiles ruefully at Cas. Cas smirks back, and all at once it’s like nothing weird had just happened, and Cas is clambering back to sit on the bed, holding his hand out for his drink.

Dean passes it over, taking another swig from the bottle—he only has the one glass in his room, it’s not like he has guests, not since this whole ‘Cas thing’ started, anyway—before readying himself for the next awkward conversation.  

“So, about earlier—”

As it turns out, that’s a conversation Cas wants to have even less. So rather than getting an eyeful of Cas’ wings, instead all Dean gets is the sound of them spiriting Cas away and he’s left with  the remnants of a minor hurricane in his room.

Sam’s migrated from the library to the war table by the time Dean resurfaces. He’s shrugging into his jacket, keys jangling in the pocket.

“Supply run,” Sam says simply, and Dean nods his head in answer.

They’ve been holed up in the bunker for a few days now, looking for a case while actively not looking for a case at the same time. It’s an unspoken agreement, but every couple of months they just stop for a few days. They stay in the bunker and recharge and just have a break from it all.

“Where’s Cas?” Sam asks, because he knows. It’s another conversation that they’ve never had to have out loud—to Dean’s undying thanks—but it didn’t take Sam long to piece together the fact that every time Dean’s started hinting at wanting to take some time off from hunting, it’s been while Cas was around.    

“I dunno,” Dean replies. “Hogging the bathroom again, no doubt.”

Sam snorts, his hair moving in front of his face. “What’s been up with him lately? He seem kinda strange to you?”

“It’s Cas, Sam. Dude’s always a little weird.” Dean turns away at that, not wanting to venture further into this conversation. He hears Sam heading up the stairs, and Dean’s got one foot in the kitchen door before he remembers to yell over his shoulder, “Don’t forget the pie! Or the beer!”

“Yeah, yeah, I won’t,” Sam calls back, the heavy bunker door clanging shut behind him. Satisfied, Dean continues into the kitchen, determined that there must be something in there that he can rustle up.

It’s almost an hour later that he hears the muffled footsteps of Cas walking up behind him, and every muscle in Dean’s spine tenses when he feels Cas come to a stop near enough that Dean can feel the warmth emanating from him through the back of his shirt.

“Hey, sunshine,” Dean murmurs, mentally kicking himself the second the words are out of his mouth. Sunshine? Really?

“Hello… Dean.” Dean grunts, grateful that Cas hadn’t settled on some asinine nickname in response. “I’m hungry.”

Dean spins, flattening himself against the counter when he almost collides into Cas. “Dude, back up a bit.” Cas looks down at his feet before shuffling back a few steps—he’s not wearing shoes, Dean notices, he’s wearing socks with bees on them and Dean wants nothing more than to find out where in hell he got those, but first— “What do you mean you’re hungry?”  

He does look a little pale, now that Dean thinks about it.

Cas shrugs, and Dean blinks in surprise when he realizes it’s not just the socks. He’s wearing a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms and... “Are you wearing my shirt?”

Cas has the decency to look mildly ashamed, but not ashamed enough that he has no problem leaning into Dean’s space and reaching around him to grab a piece of bacon out of the pan.

“Sorry?” Cas says, at least that’s what Dean think he says, half his mind trying to parse together whatever it was that Cas thought Dean would be able to understand through a mouthful of food, and the other half focused on the spot of oil now lingering on Cas’ lip. Cas licks it off, and really, enough is enough now.

“Alright, Butch Cassidy, why don’t you take a seat and I’ll plate you up some food. Just ‘cause you’ve decided you want food now doesn’t mean you gotta be an animal about it.”

Dean barely gets three bites in before he gets distracted by Cas practically inhaling his food, and he gets up to grab him a glass of water. “What’s going on with you?” Dean asks as he sits back down. “What’s with the food? And the”— he gestures at Cas, a little lost for words—“outfit.”

Cas holds up his hand and Dean rolls his eyes, digging back into his own meal while he waits for Cas to finish. By the time Dean’s done, Cas is leaning back in his chair, and it takes every ounce of self control Dean has to not stare at the way his shirt is stretched across Cas’ chest.

“I’m low on grace,” Cas says, like he’s talking about the weather. “That is, I’ve been feeling somewhat human.”

“What? What do you mean human? You didn’t think to mention this before now?”

“Dean, please. It’s not… I know why it’s happening. Nothing is ‘wrong’.” He does the finger quotes thing like he knows Dean’s about to ask, and Dean huffs, caught out.

“You wanna share with the class, then? Why are you low on grace?”

Cas mumbles something, twisting Dean’s shirt between his fingertips.

“I didn’t catch that.”

“I said, it’s private. ” Cas glares at him and Dean’s stomach flips, because damn, despite the comfy clothes and the even-more-messy-than-usual bed hair he’s sporting, Cas is hot when he gets that look on his face.

Still, Dean’s not about to just let it go.

“You realize who you’re talking to, right?” Dean asks. “Why won’t you tell me? You know how I feel about secrets.”

“It’s not a secret. I just don’t want to talk about it.” Cas stands, and Dean jumps out of his chair after him with his hands raised as though he’d be able to do anything about it if Cas decided to wing out of there again. “You can relax, Dean. I don’t have enough grace to fly at the moment.”

“Oh.” Dean drops his hands, looking at his friend in concern. “Just tell me what’s going on, Cas. Maybe I can help.”

Cas smiles at that, but weariness shows on his face. He does look tired. Human.

“I wish you could, Dean,” is all Cas says, before sighing and heading for the door. “I think I need to sleep. I will see you in the morning.”

Dean wants to stop him, wants to ask where it is that he’s been sleeping and if maybe he’d be comfier… Dean stops that train of thought before it can get too far. He does his usual rounds—checking locks and shutting the lights off—and then grabs his phone as he collapses onto his bed. The screen flashes with a notification.

(3) New Messages

Sam 9.13pm

Garth called, thinks he’s found a case. Back in a few days.

Sam 9.15pm

You’ll have to go without the beer.

Sam, 9:19pm

Let me know if you figure out what’s got Cas acting all weird.

Dean groans. Trust Sam to find a goddamn case while they’re meant to be on a hunting break. And to leave him high and dry with no booze. And to take the Impala. The thought of having to take another ride in the Continental with Cas is enough to have Dean reconsidering his need for beer. Or food—they’ve got enough for a few days. Although, with the way Cas was putting it away earlier, Dean may have to reconsider that statement.

He rolls to his side with a sigh, the light from his phone casting shadows around the room when he tosses it onto the nightstand. He’s been trying not to think about it, but he really is concerned about Cas. He hates the thought of the angel keeping secrets from him again, but seeing Cas like this… he looks so innocent, soft almost. And Dean knows deep down that whatever this is, it’s not something bad, not like before.

He scrubs his hands down his face and his eyes fall to the photograph of his mom on the nightstand. He wonders sometimes, what she would have made of Cas. If she’d have thought him a suitable partner for Dean. He’d made peace with how he felt years ago, the battles they fought against monsters every day not leaving him enough time left to waste it fighting with himself. And he likes to think she wouldn’t have cared who he loved.

If only he had the guts to actually tell Cas.

“Cas, come on,” Dean groans, banging his fist against the door. “I gotta pee!”

Dean’s eyes are barely open, his head is pounding, and it’s too damn early to be having to wait in line for his own fucking bathroom. “You’ve been in there for like a half hour!”

Cas’ answer consists of a clatter followed by a bang, before the door is violently swung open and Dean has to catch himself against the frame.

“Oh, hello Dean,” Cas says, his face flushed and his eyes wide. “I didn’t realize you were waiting.”

Dean gapes at him, and then closes his mouth when it dawns on him how that must look. Because Cas isn’t wearing a shirt again, and Dean’s not awake enough for this.    

“Yeah, okay,” Dean grunts. He muscles past Cas—who’s still standing in the doorway like some kind of immovable rock—and doesn’t bother to close the door behind him. He groans loudly as he relieves himself, rolling his eyes when the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “What’s the matter, Cas,” he says to the tiles in front of him, because of course Cas is now watching him. “Didn’t get a good enough look the other day?”

Cas splutters something unintelligible, and Dean grins, pleased with himself. He tilts his head back, revelling in the relief he now feels. By the time he tucks himself away again and looks up, Cas has already flounced off, and the smile instantly drops from Dean’s face when he takes in the state of the bathroom. There’s feathers in his sink. There’s a few poking out the shower curtain rail, and there’s more than a few littering the floor.

“What the hell?” Dean mutters under his breath, scooping a few up from the counter. They’re ink black, a deep, rich color despite the flat tone of it, and they’re heavier than he was expecting. They’re enormous, and there’s not a shadow of doubt in Dean’s mind about where these came from. He frowns down at them. The few in his hand feel strong, but he can see the way they’re splintered. They look damaged, and Dean’s concern instantly flares.

“Cas!” He calls, making his way out of bathroom and down the hall in search of his angel. “Cas! Dammit, where are you?”

“Dean?”

Dean starts, his head beating rapidly. He spins and finds Cas standing behind him, thankfully now fully clothed. He points an accusatory finger in Cas’ face. “Okay seriously, we need to get you a bell or something.”

Cas tilts his head at him. “Is there something on my face?”

“What? No. Forget it.” Dean drops his hand, exchanging it for the other which is still clutching several feathers. “You wanna explain these?”

Cas gets that constipated look on his face again. “Those are feathers, Dean. Most birds have them, I’m sure you’ve seen—”

“I know that they’re feathers, Cas! I want to know why the hell they’re all over the floor. And don’t try and tell me that you left a window open and a freaking crow flew in and dropped its feathers everywhere, because I’m calling bullshit. These are yours, aren’t they?”

Cas’ gaze drifts to a spot on the wall behind Dean’s head and he sighs, resigned. “Yes, those are mine.”

“They’re beautiful,” Dean says abruptly, and then sucks in a sharp breath because he sure as hell hadn’t intended for that to come out of his mouth.

“Oh,” Cas’ eyes fall on Dean then, pinning him in place. “Thank you.”

Dean licks his lips, swallows, tries to work some moisture back into his dry mouth. “You’re welcome. Are they… Why are they all over the place?”

Cas’ shoulders collapse inward, and he lets out a breath. He scrubs a hand over his face, and Dean just doesn’t get it. Cas seems embarrassed, ashamed, and Dean’s too stunned by the fact that he’s actually standing here holding a bunch of Cas’ feathers—feathers from his wings, no less—to be able to fathom why.

“I seem to be molting,” Cas says eventually. “It’s never happened before, not while I’ve been in a vessel. I wasn’t aware that it could. I apologize, Dean. I didn’t intend to make such a mess.”

Dean takes a step forward, leaning down so he can catch Cas’ eye. “I don’t care about the mess,” Dean says softly. “I care about…” He trails off, swallows with difficulty. “Is there anything I can do to help?” Cas lifts his head, a glint of interest shining on his face. “Maybe I could… I mean… Do you want to borrow a comb or something?”

Once again Dean mentally slaps himself. A comb? Seriously?

Fortunately Cas doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks amused. He’s grinning by the time Dean’s recovered enough to look him in the face again, and a rush of warmth floods through Dean at the sight of Cas’ smile.

“That won’t be necessary,” Cas says. He sighs again, smile drooping. “They are uncomfortable, though,” he admits. “There are a few feathers towards the back that I can’t get to and if you wanted you could—”

“Yes,” Dean interrupts. “Sure, anything.” He had hoped he wouldn’t be so obvious about how desperate he was to see Cas’ wings when he finally got the chance, but hey, he can’t win every battle.

“O-okay,” Cas replies. He looks surprised, eyebrows climbing his forehead as if Dean was going to turn down the chance to help him groom his freaking angel wings. “Umm. It might be easier for you if I sit down.”

“Makes sense,” Dean says. “Library?”  

Cas cringes. “Can we go somewhere less…” He shakes himself, and Dean can already picture his wings rustling behind him. “The library will be fine.”

He moves to walk past Dean but Dean stops him with a hand on his arm. “You want to go somewhere less… open?” Dean phrases it like a question, but he already knows the answer.

Cas sags under his arm, tension bleeding out of him. “Please.”

They walk quietly together in the direction of Dean’s bedroom, neither of them voicing where they’re headed but something in Dean tells him that whatever this is to Cas, it’s intimate in some way. Private , as Cas had said. And it’s a big deal to Dean, as well—as much as he’s dying to just get a look at Cas’ wings, it isn’t just some inane desire to sate his curiosity. Cas’ wings are a part of himself that Dean knows he doesn’t share freely, and Dean’s spine tingles at the thought that Cas trusts him enough to share this with him. Maybe it’s a part of their bond, he muses, this thing between them that has always been there and that for him, at least, has manifested into feelings he’s still struggling to put into words. Either way, it’s a step in the direction that Dean has been dreaming of heading, and he’s prepared to do whatever it takes to make sure Cas is as happy about it as he is.

“Here we go,” Dean breathes, pushing open his bedroom door and leading Cas inside. It was only yesterday that they were last here, and as Dean had pointed out then, Cas has definitely been in his room more than once. But it still feels like a monumental moment, deliberately inviting Cas in and wanting him to feel at home here. Safe, and comforted. “Why don’t you sit on the bed,” Dean says, nudging Cas forward.

Cas takes a couple of steps before hesitating. “I should probably, um…” He gestures to his shirt, and as much as Dean adores the sight of him wearing it, the thought of him not wearing it has his heart racing.

“Oh, of course. Do you want me to—” Dean waves a hand towards the door, but Cas stops him with a chuckle.

“It’s fine, Dean.”

Dean keeps his eyes trained on Cas’ face as Cas reaches down to pull his t-shirt off, but he can’t help but glance down once or twice, mesmerized by the way the muscles in Cas’ abdomen ripple with the movement. He bites back a groan when his eyes land on Cas’ hip-bones, sharp edges poking out that Dean is dying to…

Okay, eyes up top, Winchester, Dean scolds himself. Cas is looking at him again with that amused smile tugging at his lips, and Dean turns away before Cas can see him blush.

“Alright, so how do you want to—” The rest of that sentence dies on Dean’s lips when he looks back up to find Cas perched on the corner of his bed, wings—huge, entrancing, gorgeous wings—spread out either side of him.

“Cas,” he breathes.

“I know they’re a bit of a mess right now. And they’re not as colorful as they once were, there’s a lot missing at the moment and—”

“Dude. Shut the fuck up.” Dean moves towards him as if in a trance, eyes raking over every inch of glorious ink black plumage. “They’re…” Honestly, he doesn’t even have words for what they are. “They’re awesome,” he says finally, because that’s his go-to, and frankly, Dean’s never really said the word with the true meaning before. And he is awestruck, stunned at the sight in front of him. He circles around the bed, careful not to step on the longer flight feathers that are trailing across the floor. When he gets behind Cas, after taking a moment to soak in not only the wings but also the lean muscles of Cas’ shoulders—which, by the way, Dean has been completely robbed of the sight of by Cas’ tendency to wear that awfully unflattering suit—he can see what Cas meant when he said there were some he just couldn’t reach.   

Towards the base of each wing, the feathers are, admittedly, a mess. They’re sticking up all over the place: longer, frayed looking ones poking up in every direction and softer, fluffy ones starting to peek out below. Dean winces, contemplating how irritating that must feel for Cas—an itch he just can’t scratch. He clambers onto the bed, kneeling behind Cas, with his fingers hovering over the left wing. He wants to touch them, more than anything, but now that he’s closer he notices the shaky breaths Cas seems to be taking, notices how tight his shoulders look.

“You good?” Dean asks, his fingers trembling.

“I’m fine, Dean,” Cas replies, even though he sounds anything but.

Dean sighs, and moves one of his hands away from Cas’ wing to rest on his shoulder. Cas flinches, clearly not expecting the touch, but he relaxes minutely when Dean squeezes, rubbing his thumb in small circles on to the back of his neck. Dean presses harder, sliding his hand down to work on some of the knots in Cas’ spine.

“Just relax,” Dean breathes, and then his other hand moves, ever so slowly, sinking into the feathers of Cas’ wing.

Cas’ groans, the sound of it swallowing the strangled sound that forces its way out of Dean’s throat. Dean’s hands are shaking, the hand he’d been using to ground Cas now gripping his shoulder tightly. He lets out a deep breath, easing off the pressure, and is surprised when Cas’ own hand lands on his, pressing it back down.

“Don’t,” Cas says, and Dean nods even though he knows Cas can’t see him. He lets out a trembling breath, pausing the movement of his other hand to just sit and breathe for a moment. The air in the room seems to pulse, electrified, and every cell in Dean’s body feels zoned into this moment—the warmth of Cas’ palm pressing into the back of his hand, the firm weight of him beneath it; the soft rustling of Cas’ feathers across his sheets as his wing twitches; the entrancing scent of him that has Dean wanting to do nothing more than lean forward and bury his face in the back of his neck.

“Keep going, Dean,” Cas says eventually, a low murmur that pierces the fog that’s fallen down around Dean’s mind. Dean shakes himself, forces himself to focus on the task at hand.

There’s no way to describe how it feels. The feathers are silky smooth, like liquid gold pouring over his fingertips. When he reaches the base of them, deep in the soft, downy feathers, Cas groans again, his wings snapping out to each side. Dean massages the roots, revelling in how it feels, in how he feels, not even noticing until that moment that all of his blood appears to have rushed south, and his body is throbbing with a kind of need he’s never quite felt before.

The feathers that had been haphazardly sticking out start to fall around him, brushed away by the firm movement of his hand, and Cas sighs as the newer growth gets brushed into place, no longer obstructed by the molting feathers. Dean works diligently, silently focused on his task, combing through the feathers faster once he gets the hang of it.

He doesn’t want it to be over, doesn’t want to moment to end, and yet he’s desperate to finish, to be able to turn Cas in his arms and hold him. He’s sitting behind him—Cas is right there , living and breathing beneath his hands—and yet Dean misses him, his heart aching with how badly he wishes he could see Cas’ face.

Cas has fully relaxed by the time Dean finishes the left wing, and he moves on to the right one swiftly, using both hands this time. He has to pluck out a few of the more stubborn feathers, and he winces, worried he’s hurt Cas. But Cas just moans, moans in a way that is far more pleasure than it is pain, and Dean has to press a hand to his crotch to stop himself from coming on the spot.

By the time he’s finished, Dean’s covered in a light sheen of sweat, shaking slightly from how aroused he feels. It’s not just arousal, though, it’s a thrumming want , a heady feeling that throbs through him.

“Dean?” Cas pants, and he is panting, Dean realizes, his back heaving with every breath.

Dean climbs off the bed, stumbling around until he can kneel in front of Cas. His hands reach up to grasp Cas’ face, terrified he’s done something to hurt him. But Cas’ gaze is nothing but a reflection of what Dean imagines his own must look like—flushed, questioning, slightly terrified, and yet desperate, eyes pools of desire.

They stare at each other, Dean’s hands cupping Cas’ face probably hard enough to hurt, both of them breathing the same air.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asks, the words swallowed by the tension in the room.

Cas answers by tilting forward and slamming their mouths together, and if Dean thought he couldn’t breathe before, it’s got nothing on how he feels now. He moans, surging into the kiss, his hands combing backwards until he can bury them in Cas’ hair. He holds him close, feeling like he can’t get enough as he licks across Cas’ lips, deepening the kiss. Cas’ hands find their way to Dean’s shirt and tug him, pulling Dean forward until he is climbing on top of Cas. Dean pushes Cas backwards, pressing him down into the mattress and moaning into his mouth. The only thought that is able to parse it’s way into Dean’s mind is a brief notion that air is overrated, and it’s quickly brushed away by Cas biting gently into his lip.

Dean’s mouth feels swollen by the time he pulls away to take a much-needed breath. Through half-lidded eyes he soaks in the sight of Cas below him: his chest heaving, his lips parted, spit-soaked and inviting. Dean kisses him again, slower this time, wanting to see what kind of sounds he can draw out of him, and Cas gasps when Dean grinds his hips down.

He’d been so caught up in kissing Cas that it was like Dean had forgotten how the rest of his body functioned, but with that one press of his hips it’s as if every nerve in his body comes to life. He pulls away from Cas to start kissing his neck, his hands moving of their own accord—one staying up near Cas’ head to hold himself up, the other burying itself back into a wing. Cas’ answering groan has sparks flaring through Dean’s body, Cas’ chest pressing into Dean’s own as he arches beneath him.

Dean’s suddenly vividly aware of the fact that he’s still fully dressed, and he reluctantly pushes himself away, ignoring Cas’ protests in favor of pulling his own layers off, flannel followed by cotton that is carelessly tossed aside.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean breathes. Cas smirks wolfishly up at him, and Dean gasps as he’s suddenly flattened back down on top of him. Cas laughs, and Dean glares when he realizes that Cas just used his wing to pin him back down. “That’s cheating,” he says, but he knows he’s grinning, too; he can feel it splitting his face as he leans down to kiss the smirk off Cas’.

It’s almost harder to kiss with both of them smiling so hard, and they break apart every so often to softly chuckle into each other’s mouths. All the desperate want of before seems to bleed out of Dean, settling into something softer. Their kisses become slower, deeper; their hands roaming across naked skin as they soak each other in.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Cas whispers, and Dean pauses in his endeavor to mark up Cas’ neck. Something about Cas’ voice sounds wistful,  and Dean levels him with a frown.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean asks. Cas shakes his head, avoiding eye contact. Dean grabs his chin and gently pulls his face forward. “Hey, it’s just—It’s just me, Cas.” Cas looks at him despairingly, and Dean huffs. Okay, he can give him that. Dean knows he’s hardly a shining example of romantic stability. And yet. “I thought you knew how I felt,” Dean admits with a grimace. “I figured you knew but just didn’t want to acknowledge it because you didn’t feel the same.”

The air gets knocked from Dean’s lungs with the force in which he finds himself flipped onto his back, his vision filled with nothing but wavering blue eyes, wide with concern.

“Why on earth would you think that?” Cas asks, aghast. “Of course I didn’t know! Dean,” Cas groans, exasperated. “You know, sometimes I think I give you way too much credit.”

“Hey! What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, Dean Winchester,” Cas punctures that statement by leaning down and kissing Dean senseless for a moment, “that sometimes, you can be really quite stupid.”

Dean frowns, offended. “Cas, I’ve spent almost every goddamn waking moment these last few months calling out to you in my mind, and you’re seriously telling me that not once did you hear me? And yet, when I start thinking about how I hope there’s beer in the kitchen, magically you can hear me and pop up to just helpfully point out that there isn’t?”

Cas tilts his head, and he looks so honestly confused that Dean instantly feels guilty for snapping at him. “What?”

Dean sighs. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Are you talking about what happened yesterday? Dean. I was already standing behind you when you opened the fridge! I wasn’t, I didn’t—”

A cold chill sweeps through Dean’s body, and he thinks he’s never felt more mortified in his life.

“You mean, you didn’t read my mind, then?” he asks, and he flinches when Cas’ wings flap in annoyance.

“Of course I didn’t!” Cas yells, and despite his embarrassment Dean is wildly turned on. He can barely see past the shadow of Cas’ wings looming above them, and his angel looks so majestic like this. And sure, it would be nice if Cas’ frustrations were directed somewhere other than at Dean himself, but he can still appreciate the view. “I thought… We agreed that I wouldn’t do that anymore. That I wouldn’t listen to your’s and Sam’s thoughts.”

“But, what about your whole ‘I always come when you call’ thing? You’ve always heard me then.”

“That’s different. If you’re actively directing your thoughts at me, with the intent behind it for me to hear you, then of course I hear you. But I would never just listen in on your thoughts for my own benefit.” Cas sighs, and Dean feels a pit forming in his stomach, wondering how he’s  managed to fuck this up already.

Dean opens his mouth to apologise, but then Cas’ expression changes entirely, the put-out frown he’d been wearing suddenly replaced with a salacious smirk that he’s aiming right at Dean. “Does this mean that when I walked in on you the other day, you were thinking about me?” Dean gulps, feeling his face redden, and decides, okay, that’s enough talking for now.

Cas falls back on top of him with an ooft when Dean grabs hold of his wings and tugs him down, threading his fingers through the feathers and latching his lips back on to Cas’ neck. Cas laughs as he falls and then moans. Dean feels it rumbling against his chest, and all conversation gets lost after that.

Dean’s hands drift down to grab at Cas’ hips, and he moans in satisfaction when Cas presses down into him, the hard line of his cock brushing against Dean’s own. Their lips meet again and Dean pants into Cas’ mouth when Cas rocks his hips back and forth, sending pleasure zinging through Dean’s body.

Dean eventually starts pushing upwards, trying to get Cas to roll back over. He wants Cas beneath him, wants every inch of him splayed out for Dean to appreciate, but Cas doesn’t seem to be getting with the program. With a grunt, Dean manages to tip him sideways, and a cacophony of noise follows as Cas shouts in surprise and his wings flap wildly. Dean doesn’t spare a thought for the possessions that go flying about the room, his only care being to get Cas naked, and get him naked now.

He hauls himself up from the bed and starts tugging at Cas’ pants, and Cas helpfully arches his back, his hands scrabbling with Dean’s to get them off. He’s not wearing underwear—of course he’s not, Dean is clearly dreaming right now and there’s no way Cas is wearing underwear in any of Dean’s fantasies—and Dean stumbles back a few steps, chest heaving.

Dean’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth and he’s at a loss for words as he stares down at Cas, at the miles of tanned skin spread out before him. Cas’ wings look glossier than they had before, as if they’re shining with exertion, and Dean groans, subconsciously palming at the front of his own jeans.

Cas frowns, tilting his head, and suddenly Dean is also naked.

“Are you going to tell me that’s cheating, too?” Cas taunts, cocking his eyebrow at Dean, and Dean tries to scoff but it comes out as a squeak that has Cas twitching with laughter. “Come here, Dean.”

“What, you don’t want to enjoy the view a little longer?” Dean wiggles his hips, his dick slapping against his stomach, and Cas laughs harder. Dean grins.

“Well, at least this time you aren’t yelling at me and slamming the door in my face,” Cas says, and Dean chuckles wryly. He steps closer to Cas, close enough that he can wrap his hands around Cas’ ankles. He strokes his hands up along Cas’ calves, over his knees, up the inside of his thighs.  

“Fair point,” Dean murmurs, his fingertips brushing over Cas’ cock.

“After I walked in on you the other day…” Cas trails off when Dean drops to his knees in front of him. Dean’s hands grasp Cas’ hips, and he drags Cas down the bed until his cock is level with Dean’s face. Dean blows softly on the head it, transfixed by the way it twitches, and Cas moans when Dean lifts his head up to fix Cas with a stare.

“Go on,” Dean nudges him, smirking wickedly when one of Cas’ wings come to rest against his back, trying to push him back down towards Cas’ leaking cock. “No, no, Cas. What were you going to say?”

“ Dean, ” Cas whines, and the pressure against Dean’s back increases. Dean grunts with the effort of pressing back into the wing, shivering at the silky feel of the feathers against his overheated skin, but it’s worth it for the way Cas arches on the bed.  

“What happened after you walked in on me the other day, Cas?” Dean asks. “Tell me.”

“I—I went back to my room—” Cas gasps when Dean leans down suddenly and licks a slow stripe up his cock. “Hng, Dean, I—”

“You went back to your room…”

“Yes. Yes, I—I was in my room and I—”

Dean interrupts him by lapping at the precome that’s gathering at the tip of his cock, amused by the way Cas’ wings flap involuntarily in response.

“Dean!” Cas groans, his hips bucking. Dean takes pity on him and leans down to suck the head of his cock into his mouth, his arm pressing down across Cas’ stomach to stop him from wriggling. He slides his mouth lower, licking around the head, reveling in the taste of him as Cas pants and moans above him. One of Cas’ hands lands in Dean’s hair, and Dean groans when Cas starts pulling at the short strands. He pulls off with a pop, making sure to catch Cas’ eye when he licks his lips.

“You want more, Cas?” Dean asks, his own cock throbbing as he watches the way Cas’ chest heaves, skin flushed and gleaming, his lips parted as he pants.

“Please, Dean,” Cas says, his hand clenching in Dean’s hair.

Dean closes his eyes as he groans, overwhelmed with the sensation of Cas all around him. His wings are no longer trying to push him into place, instead they’re wrapped around them both, and Dean groans as the feathers caress him—sweeping down his shoulders, across his ass, down his thighs. He wonders idly if this is what heaven feels like and grunts when Cas tugs his hair a bit too hard.

“Okay, I heard that. ” Dean can hear the pout in Cas’ voice and he chuckles.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he replies, leaning down and biting gently into Cas’ hipbone. Cas shudders beneath him, and Dean feels Cas’ cock twitch against his cheek. “Tell me what you did in your room, Cas. I want to hear.”

“I touched myself,” Cas breathes, and Dean groans, reaching down to grip his own cock.

“Did you think about me?” He asks, pumping his hand slowly, gasping as precome spills down his hand. He tilts his head so he can suck Cas’ cock back into his mouth, drunk on the heady taste of him.

“Yes. I thought about what it would feel like to touch you. I wanted to so badly, Dean.” Cas whimpers when Dean groans around his dick again, and then his hands are grabbing at Dean’s shoulders, pulling him up towards him. When their faces are level again, and Dean’s busy losing himself in the vibrant want painted across Cas’ face, Cas bats his hand away from where he’s still stroking himself and replaces it with his own. “I still want to.” He says it emphatically, punctuating the statement by firmly jerking Dean’s cock in his hand.

Dean groans, resting his forehead against Cas’ so he can watch as Cas lines their cocks up and grips his hand around the both of them. Cas’ wings press down on Dean’s back and he’s sweltering hot but he wouldn’t change it for anything. He catches Cas’ lips again in a desperate kiss as he feels himself hurtling towards the precipice, the build up to this moment too great for him to try and stop it now. Cas mewls beneath him, his hand jerking them faster.

Cas’ wings beat once, twice, and the room spins in disarray around them but Dean only has eyes for the magnificent creature beneath him, his body locking up as he spills over Cas’ fist. Dean moans as he feels Cas coming, too, their come mingling between their stomachs. Cas is panting beneath him, eyes blown wide and head tilted back in rapture. Dean smiles as contentment diffuses through every inch of his body, all the way down to his soul.

“Fuck,” he says, collapsing onto Cas’ chest. He presses his face into the space beneath Cas’ jaw—he’s not nuzzling him, he’s not—and just breathes him in for a moment. A laugh bubbles out of his chest, and he giggles, so happy he suddenly feels high. He tips his head back, leaning his chin on Cas’ sternum so he can stare up at his angel.

“Hey Cas,” he says, grinning.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas smiles back, and Dean leans up to kiss him soundly again. He can’t get enough, and he’s suddenly overwhelmingly and intensely grateful that Sam is not here for the weekend. “We should get cleaned up,” Cas says, and Dean hums in agreement, too busy sucking another bruise into Cas’ neck to answer. “Dean,” Cas huffs, but Dean can hear him holding back a laugh. “Dean!”

“Okay, okay. Fine!” Dean flops off of Cas and onto his back beside him in a dramatic fashion.

Cas chuckles. “Dean, you’re on my wing.”

“What? Oh! Oh, jeez, sorry,” Dean springs from the bed, fussing over the wing he’d apparently just crushed.

Cas stands, and Dean stumbles back a few steps, still awestruck by the sight of Cas’ wings. “It’s fine, Dean. Come take a shower with me?”

Cas holds his hand out between them, and despite everything that’s just happened, this somehow feels more intimate. It feels like somehow, outside of the physical nature of what they just did, it’ll mean more for Dean to take Cas’ hand, to take whatever this is between them outside of the safety of his bedroom.

And so, for once in his life, Dean ignores every instinct that’s telling him to take a moment and over-analyse the crap out of what just happened, and grasps onto Cas’ hand. He holds it tight—probably a little too tight, to be honest—but then Cas’ squeezes his hand in his own and Dean’s heart throbs with just how much he loves him.

“Lead the way, Cas.”

Cas starts heading out of the bedroom, dragging both his wings and Dean’s still-stunned face along behind him, when he pauses to smirk over his shoulder.

“You know, I think I liked it better when you called me ‘sweetheart’.”

Dean rolls his eyes fondly, shoving at Cas’ shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, keep it moving, angel.”

The sound of Cas’ answering laughs echoes throughout the bunker, and Dean grins, because the place all of a sudden feels a lot more like home.

They head out into the kitchen when they’re done showering, which in and of itself was no small effort. It turns out that trying to squeeze two large men and two even larger wings under one shower head is no mean feat, especially when there are wandering hands at play.

But finally clean and re-dressed, Cas’ wings dripping puddles behind them, they wander back out into the bunker, collapsing onto a couch that Dean had dragged home with him one day. Cas’ stomach growls, and Dean shoots him a knowing look.

“Hungry?”

“Starving,” Cas complains, fixing Dean with a pair of puppy-dog eyes that would rival Sam’s any day. “Positively wasting away,” he declares, swooning dramatically across Dean’s lap.

Dean snorts, shoving him back onto the cushions. “Alright drama queen, let me go see what I can rustle up.” He claps a hand on Cas’ thigh as he stands, revelling in the fact that he can , groaning when he stretches and his spine pops. “This would be a whole lot easier if Sam had actually made it to the store before he vamoosed off with Garth.”

Cas straightens on the couch. “Is there no food?” He looks deeply alarmed, the feathers along his wings bristling, and Dean chuckles. Not three days ago Cas was lecturing him about how he didn’t understand why Dean found ‘mashed together molecules’ so enticing.

“Naa, it’s okay Cas, we got—”

But Cas has already vanished, a thick fwump fwump sound resonating around the room.

“Or not,” Dean mutters, brightening again when a thought pings in his mind.

Hey Cas, Dean focuses in his mind, pushing his thoughts—because, yes, now that he’s doing it, he recognizes the glaringly obvious difference—towards Cas with intent. Don’t forget the beer. Or the pie!

Cas reappears less than a minute later, his face flushed, his wings—

“Aw, Cas. Come on! I just groomed those.”

Cas looks affronted, and a dark look crosses his face. “What do you want from me, Dean! It’s windy outside.”

He looks so exasperated, standing there with his feathers askew, one hand clutching a six pack, the other holding a pie aloft with a bag of groceries dangling from his wrist, that Dean can’t help but laugh.

“You’re such a dork,” Dean chuckles. “I love you, you know that?” Cas blinks at him, and Dean sobers instantly. “I, uh. I mean—”

“You love me?” Cas asks, a look of wonder spreading across his face. His wings fluff up behind him, every feather perking up, and Dean can’t help but beam at how adorable it is.

“Yeah,” he mutters gruffly. “I do.”

He looks up at Cas from beneath his eyelashes as if daring him to try and dispute it, but the next thing he knows he’s being flattened against the nearest wall, his hands suddenly full of feathers, Cas smiling like the freaking sun right in front of his face.

“I love you, too, Dean Winchester,” Cas says. “Infuriating human that you are.”

“Gee, thanks,” Dean grunts.

“You’re welcome.” Cas kisses him once, soundly, leaving Dean melting against the wall. “Now, go make me a burger before I starve to death.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but he heads into the kitchen with a smile on his face, and really, he can’t ask for more than that.