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Revealed

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He’d had an inkling of what to expect from Dean and Sam’s panicked prayers, but Castiel is still unprepared for the sight of his human charge… no longer looking human.

Dean is sitting in the middle of a motel bed, sheets and blankets piled around him so that only his face is visible, but the bedding does nothing to hide the changes to his form from Castiel’s angelic perception.

He can see them, curled around Dean’s body where he sits hugging his knees like a frightened fledgling. Wings. Castiel flutters his own for a moment, let’s himself drift outside of time briefly, and stares. They are a deep bronze and gleam with the golden radiance Dean’s human soul. A soul Castiel knows from first-hand experience is near blinding in its purity and strength. After all, it was not for nothing that Dean Winchester was called the Righteous Man.

Castiel drinks his full, taking in the unexpected beauty that is Dean given an angelic form, and then flares his wings, slipping into focus in the motel room. It has a musty unpleasant odor and like most of the accommodations the Winchester’s obtain - is marred with the lingering residue of decades of fitful rest, fornication, violence and sin. Castiel shuts out the taint of the previous guests and settles his full attention upon his charge.

“Oh thank god Cas!” Sam Winchester exclaims in relief, pausing mid-stride in his pacing. “You have to help!”

Dean remains silent, staring at Cas owlishly from under his nest of motel blankets. His wings shift restlessly though, and Castiel wonders how they would present themselves if Dean were not using them to shield himself in his fear and unease.

“What did you do?” he asks with a sigh, glancing from Dean and Sam. It is a wonder that the Winchesters can still surprise him with the trouble they can get into.

Sam pushes at his hair in a manner Castiel has learned to interpret as embarrassment or unease and Dean scowls fiercely, bottom lip protruding slightly. The blankets shift as his wings twitch again. “It was Sam’s genius idea,” he mutters defensively, glaring at his brother.

“You were eager enough half an hour ago!” Sam snaps back, crossing his arms.

Castiel huffs. “I do not have time for this.” Already Rachael is calling to him. Time flows differently in Heaven and his absence from the Eighth Sphere has already been noted. His Lieutenant tells him that Raphael is amassing his malakhim for an attack. If Castiel does not return to their stronghold swiftly, they will not have the strength to maintain the barricades between the Seventh and Ninth Spheres. They have already lost too much ground to Raphael, to fall back further would mean defeat.

Rounding on Dean he impatiently demands “What did you do?”

Dean glowers and pouts some more, shooting daggers at his brother.

“It was a ritual,” Sam says. “A powerful summoning one. It was meant to draw off Dean’s soul…” the human waves a long arm towards his brother’s huddled form. “But instead there was this really bright light and now Dean has wings.”

Cas stares at Sam in shock and irritation. Now that he knows to look for it, he can sense the power of deep magic in the room. He glances at the small table near the window and notes the bowl stained with Dean’s blood and certain potent herbs.  “You attempted to use soul magick?” Sam looks sheepish, but it does nothing to calm Castiel’s ire. “I thought you more intelligent than that.”

Dean grunts in agreement but Castiel turns his glare upon him. “And you,” he says. “You of all people should have known better. You have only just managed to return your brother’s soul to his body and now you risk your own!”

Dean’s wings vibrate and twist beneath the blankets, barely kept under control. “It was important!” he snaps. “And it was only a little bit. Less than what you took from Bobby.”

“You could have died!” Castiel hisses. “Or exploded! A soul like yours –“ he makes a sweeping gesture, “-that much power. You might have taken out half the state!”

“Well I didn’t!” Dean snaps, shoving away the blankets and rising up to his knees so his wings can stretch out across the room. His chest is bare and the contrast between his wings and smooth skin is… compelling. “It didn’t work and now I’m part fucking pigeon!” He gestures wildly at the bronze appendages erupting from his bare shoulders. “So are you gonna help or not!?”

Castiel is not aware that he has manifested his own wings until they are flared high above his shoulders, arched out to display his anger at his infuriating charge, to demand his obedience. Since the human cannot usually perceive them, Castiel has rarely manifested his wings around Dean and as such he is entirely unprepared for the hunter’s instinctual response to his display now that he apparently can.

Dean’s eyes widen and he stares in awe, but otherwise his expression does not change and his body remains motionless, stubbornly maintaining the illusion of his defiance. His wings though, his wings snap down and curl forward immediately in a gesture of abject submission, displaying the vulnerable areas underneath to Castiel, the pale gold feathers there that contrast sharply to the dark bronze of the rest of his wings

A shocking thrill crackles through Castiel’s grace. His wings arch higher, demanding, and Dean’s instantly flatten even more in response, golden feathers spreading out across the messed blankets of the bed. Dean is still frowning, but he might as well be begging Castiel’s forgiveness, offering his neck. In the way that matters, he is.

“Uh guys?” Sam asks

As Dean turns to face his brother, his wings stretch back and settle into a neutral position at his back. Sam watches, enraptured, but Dean flushes bright red at the scrutiny. The wings wrap around him in a protective cocoon once more and he begins tugging at his blankets, trying to cover them.

Rachael sends a cry of alarm – Raphael is moving his forces against them – and Castiel makes what is undoubtedly a hasty decision. “I must take you to heaven,” he tells Dean.

“What? You’ve gotta kill me?” Dean asks, sounding far less alarmed at the prospect than he should.

“If you delay me further I may,” Castiel growls.

“Wait, wait wait!” Sam interrupts, “What’s going on?” He looks at Castiel. “Why do you need to take Dean to heaven?”

Castiel does not have time to explain. Ignoring Sam he settles his full attention upon Dean and snaps his wings aggressively. Dean flinches, his eyes going wide again as he stares at them. “Dean,” Cas calls, demanding his attention. Green eyes snap to his own obediently. “Come here.”

The bedding goes flying, the lights burst, the windows crack and the television explodes as Dean’s wings beat the air with sudden explosive energy and he flies for the first time at Castiel’s command, vanishing from the bed to reappear at his side. Sam lets out a shocked yelp and nearly falls over himself.

The look Dean gives him as he straightens himself is part shock part horror, but his wings remain folded lowly, trustingly, meekly, and Castiel does not have time to explain things slowly and politely. “I will fix this and return him,” he reassures Sam. “Do not do anything in the meantime.”

Sam looks confused and annoyed, but he nods anyway.

Castiel raises a hand, intending to press his fingers to Dean’s brow and guide his flight in that manner, but Dean’s wings shiver at the movement, the right curling out towards him a little in a gesture that is as inescapably intimate as it is submissive and Castiel finds himself settling his grip firmly across the back of Dean’s neck instead. Dean’s pupils dilate a fraction and his breath catches. Quite pointlessly, Castiel tugs him closer, so his charge is pressed against him, before he spreads his wings. “Follow,” he orders, and flies.

Dean responds instinctively, wings beating in time with Castiel’s, chasing after him, clinging. They soar towards heaven entwined with one another as closely as a mated pair in flight. Warm golden light, Dean’s soul, rubs up against Castiel’s grace and he very nearly crashes into one of the Pillars of Creation at the jolt of ecstasy the contact inspires in him. He barely gets them through the wards barring the Eighth Sphere, so utterly distracting is the feel of flying with Dean.

They do not land as they left Earth.

Castiel still has Dean gripped by his neck, but instead of standing beside him and glaring, his charge stands directly in front of him, hands upon his shoulders, pressed against Castiel from chest to hip. Close enough that his breath is a warm breeze against Castiel’s face as he gasps. When he realizes how entwined they are, Dean jerks in shock, eyes widening, and tries to push himself away, but Castiel buffets him with his wings, cocooning him black feathers, and Dean stills, his own wings tucking themselves beneath Castiel’s.

He has never held anyone like this, has never wanted to. His wings, his grace, wrap around Dean in a barrier that is both restraining and protective.

Possessive.

And Dean, bright, golden, stubborn, unyielding Dean - the man who’d defied Heaven and Hell alike - has bent before him like sapling to the wind. He could dislodge Castiel if he so desired, could spread his wings and deny him, but instead they lay acquiescent, pinned by Castiel’s. Something hot twists deep in Castiel’s grace and he tightens his hold upon Dean, digging his fingers into the warm flesh of the nape of his neck and crowding him further with his wings. The human’s mouth opens slightly and he lets out a low whimper. His bottom lip is red and wet and Castiel is staring at it. An ache of want arrows through him. He wants to know what Dean tastes like.

“Castiel!” Rachael lands beside him and again Castiel finds himself responding on instinct. He pushes Dean to his knees and hides him from his Lieutenant’s sight with his wings. In Heaven he has six instead of two and concealing his human behind them is a simple thing despite the way Dean splutters indignantly.

Rachael’s wings flare in surprise at Castiel’s actions. She looks down at where Dean is hidden curiously. “That is Dean Winchester?” she asks, her vessel’s head twisting to one side.

“Yes,” Castiel returns shortly.

Rachael waits for a moment, but when her Captain offers no further explanation, she simply nods and settles her wings into the subservient acceptance expected of an angel in the presence of her superior. “Inais and Nuriel lead the garrisons barring the Spheres,” she says. “I will return to Inais and lend my strength there. Nuriel will require your aid.”

“Very well,” Castiel tells her, simultaneously reaching to Nuriel to inform her of his return and to Inais to offer encouragement.

“Shall I have someone watch over your…” Rachael trails off, wings twitching in uncertainty as she struggles for an appropriate term for Dean, who is struggling futilely to free himself from Castiel’s hold, arms pushing but wings clinging.

Castiel reaches out and summons Samandiriel, biding him come guard his charge. The younger angel appears in an instant. Of Castiel’s followers he is one of the more curious and interested in humans and when Castiel draws back his wings and reveals Dean, he peers at him with delighted interest. Samandiriel will not only guard Dean with his life, but will not treat him with disdain.

Dean glares up at Castiel, his expression thunderous, but his wings remain flattened to his back. “Dean,” Castiel says, “Samandiriel will see to you for now. I will return.”

Dean opens his mouth, no doubt to complain or demand explanations, but there is a booming crack as Raphael’s forces attempt breach one of the Sphere’s wards. Dean shuts his mouth with an audible snap and nods, holding his tongue for the moment. Castiel can see how much effort it takes for him to restrain his curiosity and unthinkingly, he sweeps one of his wings across the span of Dean’s smaller ones in a gesture of affection.

Dean’s head jerks up in surprise, his face set into an expression that suggests Castiel’s touch is not welcome, but his wings broadcast his real feelings obviously. They twitch and flutter in coy delight, golden feathers rubbing back against black affectionately. Castiel cannot help the smile that pulls at his vessels lips. Dean blushes and huffs, crossing his arms. “Well off you go then,” he mutters dismissively.

When Castiel draws his wings back in preparation for flight however, Dean’s curve over his head, reaching towards him, begging him to stay. Castiel cannot of course, but the gesture makes him want to. 

Chapter Text

Nuriel reaches out with her grace the moment Castiel appears beside her. She is stretched thin across the barrier between the Eighth and Ninth Spheres, her vessel tucked away as she focuses her entire being upon maintaining the wards against Raphael’s forces. Her garrison are woven in amongst her, wings and grace enmeshed as they lend their strength to the barrier.


Castiel slips from his own human shape and unfolds his much larger seraph’s form alongside Nuriel and her angels, feeding his grace and strength into the barrier. There are several areas where the wards have been worn thin, and for an endless time he turns attention to those places, renewing the magics there. The angels work seamlessly, perfectly in-sync as they hold and strengthen the line against Raphael’s forces.

Joined to one another in such a manner, his brothers and sisters talk. 

First the exchanges are brief and to the point. Requests for aid holding certain wards, warnings of increasing force from their adversaries in specific areas and requests for healing. As the attack tapers off after Raphael realizes Castiel has returned, the quiet exchanges of his siblings turn more conversational.

Dean. They speak of Dean. Quiet little snatches, curious exchanges. Dean Winchester has been much spoken of in heaven and the fact that Castiel has brought him here, and that his soul is manifested in a manner that is angelic, has much speculation passing between them.

Listening to them fills Castiel with a restless feeling he does not have a name for. He is… pleased they speak of his charge - Dean is nothing if not worthy of their interest - but at the same time he does not like it. They speak of his wings, of the beauty of his soul and of his intriguing mortality. Heat twists somewhere inside Castiel and he reaches for Samandiriel.

The angel responds happily, reporting back with a detailed burst of information on Dean’s well-being. Castiel sees his charge through the other angel’s perceptions for a moment. Samandiriel has taken Dean to the safety of the garden at the center of the Eighth Sphere, the domain of the virtues Avivael and Mayaniel. He is sitting on soft grass beside a lush spring and Mayaniel and Avivael are seated nearby, both focused upon him with unwavering intent. Dean looks slightly uncomfortable, his back is held straight and his shoulders are tight, but his wings are spread wide in guileless display behind him. 

He is sunning himself. 

Castiel senses Samandiriel’s warm approval and appreciation for his charge’s soul as represented by those soft bronze wings. They are bright in the sunlight, the lighter golden tone of the coverts and scapulars he is exposing in his unwitting display of innocence glinting and catching the light pleasingly.

The two virtues seem to agree with Samandiriel’s assessment, Avivael especially, since they are both staring and Avivael has his own wings stretched out, albeit in a more dominant configuration than Dean… almost as if he were trying to court him. Castiel shoves the thought away as absurd, but that strange hot feeling returns, surging through his grace, and he immediately flings himself across heaven and manifests himself in his vessel in front of Dean, blocking him from Avivael’s view.

Dean starts, his body tensing and wings snapping back in surprise as his head jerks up. The moment he sees it is Castiel however, he relaxes and smiles. 

“Hey Cas,” he says, the soft familiarity soothing Castiel immensely. “Everything good?” His tone is as light and casual as ever, but behind him, his wings flair and flutter in tense anxiety. Castiel stares and the last of that hot feeling is smothered by the revelation that Dean is worried, concerned on his behalf. For a moment he is silent, not sure what to respond to – Dean’s verbal communication or his unspoken one.

In the end he settles for responding like to like. “Yes,” he tells Dean. “Raphael has withdrawn for the time being. Our position is secure.” As he speaks he lets his wings stretch in a display to demonstrate that he is unharmed. Dean’s eyes track the movement in nothing more than curious ignorance, but his own wings respond, calming and settling back down. 

“Cool,” Dean says. He turns from Castiel, looking out over the garden. “This place is pretty awesome, wouldn’t want Raphael screwing it up.”

“It is quite lovely,” Castiel agrees, moving to sit beside Dean on the grass. Samandiriel, Aviveal and Mayaniel array themselves in a semi-circle before them, quiet and curious. “Aviveal and Mayaniel,” Castiel tells him, gesturing at his brother and sister, “-- are virtues of spring and spring water respectively. This part of the Sphere reflects their nature.”

Dean’s eyes widen and he looks at the two angels curiously. “Spring and spring water?” he asks. “Like you’re the angel of Thursday?”

“Something like that.” Castiel replies, having difficulty focusing because Dean’s wings are curling towards him, beckoning him silently in a way he knows the human would find humiliating if he understood.

Mayaniel smiles and leans towards Dean a little, her pale wings spreading invitingly. “Not quite,” she tells him. “We are virtues, not seraphs. We do not answer the prayers of humans or fight our father’s wars.”

Castiel restrains the urge to roll his eyes. He has heard the same line from all of his brothers and sisters of Mayaniel’s rank and is sick of hearing it. 

“We preside over nature,” Aviveal says. “We are above such things.”


Dean’s wings draw up slightly in anger. Castiel watches, intrigued. It is the first time his wings have shown any sign of aggression. “If you’re ‘above such things’ why’re you on Cas’s side?” he asks warily.

Avivael tilts his vessel’s head to one side, surprised at being questioned by a mortal. “Our father created us to rule over the forces of nature upon Earth. If Raphael succeeds in bringing about its destruction, we will no longer have purpose.”

Dean’s wings flick back in a gesture that is… quite disrespectful. 

Aviveal frowns. Samandiriel and Mayaniel just edge closer, fascinated by Dean’s emotional reaction.

“So what?” Dean demands. “You just sit around and let Cas and his guys do the fighting for you?”

Aviveal stiffens and his wings flare up aggressively. Dean’s, surprisingly, do not back down in response to the display. For some reason Castiel finds himself pleased by the fact. Dean is being rude, questioning a being he does not understand at all, but the thought of him flattening his wings in submission for Aviveal is… repellent.

Mayaniel, whose grace is gentler than her brother’s, interrupts to soothe over the confrontation between virtue and human. “We aid our brothers and sisters in their war as much as we are able,” she tells Dean. “We provide safe haven, strength and healing to them.” She twists the dark fingers of her vessel in the long grass at her side, letting the light of her grace sink into the soil. “An angel can recover swiftly from all but the most severe of injuries in a garden of the virtues.”

Dean watches as Mayaniel’s grace glitters across the grass and makes its way to Castiel, twining up his arm and spreading across his wings. Castiel smiles at his sister. Her grace is as refreshing as the cool water of the springs Father gave her dominion of and helps soothe the strain of repelling the earlier attack.

Dean’s wings lower respectfully as he grasps Mayaniel’s meaning. “Oh,” he says, all confrontation gone from the tone of his voice. “So you’re like, healers? Celestial field medics?”

It’s not very accurate, but Mayaniel nods in acceptance. 

Aviveal however, huffs in offence. “We are much more than healers.” 

At his words, Dean clenches his jaw and Castiel can see him restraining himself. His wings render that restraint moot however, snapping up defiantly and telling all the angels present exactly what Dean thinks of Aviveal. And Castiel can sense them, a great flock of his siblings hovering around the oasis and observing Dean curiously.

Abruptly Aviveal is on his feet, wings stretched out in confrontation, demanding Dean’s submission.

Dean’s wings quiver. His face is a fierce scowl, but Dean knows that he is no match for an angel and the hesitant curl of his wings reflects that fact. That hot feeling returns with a vengeance, surging through Castiel and his own wings unfurl, twitching with an unsettling need to interfere. 

Ignoring Castiel, Aviveal flares his wings so they snap threateningly and -- and Castiel knows he is not mistaken in it this time -- suggestively. 

Aviveal is propositioning Dean, demanding he submit to him completely. 

Dean’s wings flatten in instinctive capitulation, even as he sneers, completely unaware of Aviveal’s intentions, what the smug look on the angel’s face means. Castiel’s grace burns in fury. The sight of Dean submitting to his brother, no matter how grudgingly, the thought of Aviveal touching Dean’s body and his soul, taking him, mating him, spurs Castiel into action.

He beats his wings and positions himself between Dean and Aviveal again, letting his trueform twist his vessel so that all three sets of his wings manifest themselves. They are nothing like the soft wings of the virtue in front of him. He is a solider and they are a weapon, black and sharp, that Castiel has used to shred the grace of angels far more powerful than the one he currently faces. There is a booming crack of thunder as he unfurls them, threatening his brother with the deadly strength of a seraph, second in might only to that of an Archangel.

Around them his brothers and sisters buzz in excitement.

Aviveal sinks to his vessel’s knees, tucking his wings away entirely, instantly cowed. Castiel stares him down for a long moment, wroth that he would dare try and claim Dean, covet what is Castiel’s, but the murmuring of his brothers and sisters around them eventually jars him from his anger. 

He sends Aviveal away with a thought. 

Mayaniel and Samandiriel are both on their feet a respectful distance away, their wings politely tucked behind their shoulders. Samandiriel smiles and reaches out with his grace offering warm congratulations before taking his leave. Mayaniel has more judgment in her gaze, but deigns to speak aloud out of deference to Dean’s presence. “You cannot blame him for seeking to lay claim to what you have not,” she says and Castiel glares at her chiding tone.

She looks pointedly at Dean - who is sprawled on the ground, staring at Castiel with eyes wide in shock and wings spread in shameless invitation – and raises an eyebrow archly before beating her wings and vanishing.

Dean blinks, eyes darting around the now vacant clearing before settling back on Castiel. “Wha…?” he asks breathlessly. “What just happened?” To either side of him, his wings twist in the grass, exposing the vulnerable undersides to Castiel in an invitation to mate.

Castiel’s grace buzzes and the blood in his vessel’s veins feels hot and strange. Dean desires him. Dean wishes to lay with him. Dean’s very soul is baring itself, offering itself to him.

The sight pulls at Castiel. It is not the first time such an offer has been made to him, but it is the first time he has wanted to accept. Dean is unaware of what he is doing, but that doesn’t make his display any less appealing. Castiel wants to press him down into the fragrant grass of Mayaniel’s oasis and take all he is unwittingly promising. 

Here, with Dean’s soul manifested like angelic grace, he could. Could claim Dean as his mate in ways beyond the physical, could join his grace to his soul and burn himself into him, make Dean his.

Unable to resist, he lets his wings slip from their threatening formation and into one expressing his desire to accept Dean’s offer. 

His charge eyes his wings as they shift and swallows nervously. Behind him, Dean’s own wings arch even further and he glances at his shoulder at them, frowning. When he looks back at Castiel, there is something veiled in his eyes. “Cas,” he says quietly. “What’s… What’re my wings doing?”

Chapter Text

Anxiety is pouring off him and Cas knows that Dean wants to be reassured with lies. For a moment Castiel entertains the idea of denying him that, of making Dean face truths that he has apparently been hiding from, but for all the desire reflected by Dean’s soul, his face is panicked and scared.

Like always, Cas ends up doing what Dean wants. “You are telling me that you trust me,” he says, a half-truth.

Dean nods, a blush spreading over his cheeks, even that tiny sliver of truth enough to embarrass him. Sighing, Castiel tucks his wings away, leaving only his central pair visible for comfort. He sits beside him, ignoring Dean’s rules of ‘personal space’ since he thinks he deserves this one indulgence given his restraint. For once Dean doesn’t complain or shift away. In fact, one of his wings stretches towards Castiel. Castiel lifts his wings so that Dean’s can tuck itself underneath against his back.

Dean clears his throat, blushing even more. He jerks his head towards his wing, which is now curled around Castiel. “Um, sorry,” he mutters. “They um, don’t do what I tell em.”

Castiel keeps his voice carefully neutral. “There is nothing offensive in their behavior,” he tells Dean. “They are a manifestation of your soul and your soul is righteous.”

“My soul?” Dean asks, craning his neck to look back at them. “That can’t be right.”

Castiel frowns in confusion. “What?”

Dean turns back to face him and shrugs. “Just you know, I’ve done stuff Cas.” He lowers his head and sets his attention upon the grass beside him, tugging restlessly at the blades as he speaks. “Bad stuff… lots of it. Been to Hell for godsakes. If they're my soul… no way they should look like that.”

It has been years, but Castiel still finds himself shocked at how little Dean thinks of himself. He has tried, countless times, to explain to his charge that he is not worthless or tainted, but it never seems to sink in. It occurs to him however, that in this place he might be able to simply show him. He reaches out and presses a hand to Dean’s chest, where his soul is nestled within his body.

Dean jerks away at the touch, batting at Castiel’s arm even as his wings flutter and try and draw him closer. “Whoa! What’re you doing?”

Castiel ignores the question. “Be still,” he orders, and grudgingly Dean complies, frowning suspiciously, tense, but still.

He does not attempt to touch Dean’s soul, instead he unfurls a tendril of his grace and calls to it along the connection forged between them long ago in Hell. Dean inhales sharply and his heart rate increases. “What? What… is that?” he asks breathlessly, eyes wide and very green in the golden light of the garden.

“My grace,” Castiel tells him simply, focusing on drawing Dean’s soul closer.

“Oh.” Dean blinks repeatedly and stares down at his chest, where Castiel’s hand rests gently against his sternum. The connection between them thickens as Dean responds to Castiel, and the sharp gasp he lets out indicates when he begins to see what Castiel wishes to share with him.

“That… that light,” he says, still staring down at himself. “What is it?” He gingerly lifts a hand and presses fingers to his skin below his collarbone. He traces the glow up across his shoulder and then tilts his head back and lets out a strange, shocked little noise as he truly sees his wings, his soul for the first time. Castiel knows exactly what he is seeing, lines of golden light weaving in intricate patterns across the feathers. Beautiful. Hopefully now Dean will finally understand.

That,” he says, “Is your soul Dean Winchester.”

Dean’s head snaps back to face him, face slack with shock and disbelief. “What?!” he asks before his eyes widen even further and his jaw drops as he stares at Castiel with an utterly dumbstruck expression on his face.

“Oh,” Castiel says as he realizes what’s happening. Rather stupidly, he had not given any thought to the fact that communing with Dean’s soul in this manner would not only mean Dean would see the truth of himself, but also that of Castiel. He feels exposed and uncomfortable. For the first time, Dean is seeing his grace, seeing Castiel, not his vessel.

He tenses for a long moment under his charge’s scrutiny, half expecting him to be horrified or disgusted by how inhuman he is. Instead Dean’s wings curl forward and brush against Castiel’s. The sensation, soul against grace, makes Castiel gasp and Dean groan. He can feel Dean’s wonder and awe. It zips along his grace like an electric shock. It makes him giddy.

“Jesus… holy fuck Cas,” Dean says with the sort of casual blasphemy only he would dare within Heaven itself. “Is that? Is that you?”

Castiel finds himself nodding, struck dumb by the sensation of Dean’s wings rubbing against his, the echo of longing he feels from his charge. Even his vessel is responding, heart beating erratically, lungs seemingly starved for oxygen they don’t require, blood thrumming in arousal.

He wants. Wants terribly to touch Dean, his soul, his body. Everything. Wants to claim his body and delve so deeply into his soul that it will be marked indelibly with his grace. He wants to press Dean down into the grass and mount him, take him for his mate.

That desire is being telegraphed obviously by the whorls of grace across his wings, and joined like this he knows Dean understands, but he can’t control himself, can’t stamp down on the unexpected strength of his feelings. They are being fed by Dean’s in a feedback loop of thwarted want and long-denied attraction. A dam has burst and they are both downing.

Dean swallows and the way his lips part slightly and then press together again wetly, the movement of his throat, the accompanying flutter of his wings, is hypnotizing. He meets Castiel’s gaze, eyes wide in a mix of fear and desire and says “Castiel,” and for some reason hearing his full name on Dean's lips moves him.

He made no conscious decision to shift his position, but he has. Dean lays pinned beneath him in the lush grass, wings churning behind him, glinting gold and bronze and begging for Castiel’s touch. Long buried instinct, angelic and those of his vessel both, rise up within him and make demands. His vessel aches, so he lowers himself against Dean, wedging his hips between his thighs and… presses.

Dean makes a noise that is almost pained and shudders, his legs parting and hips rolling. Castiel can feel him, swollen and hard, pushing against him through denim and cotton. Sensation unlike any Castiel has allowed himself to feel overtakes his vessel. Heat and pleasure and a dark hunger.

More.

Dean whimpers and twists beneath him.

The noise draws Castiel’s attention to his charge’s face. Dean’s cheeks are flushed, his breathing unsteady and his lips are parted. As Castiel watches his tongue darts out, pink and wet, and leaves them slick. Because he has to know, Castiel leans down and lathes that plump swell with his own tongue and tastes him. Tastes Dean. 

Dean freezes up, body tensing against him, but his wings, his wings writhe in the grass in wanton display, the light of his soul near blinding in its radiance. Castiel ignores Dean’s hesitation and lets himself be guided by his soul instead. He blankets Dean’s wings with his own, making sharp pleasure shock through both of them, and when Dean gasps and rears up, he catches his mouth with his own again, and this time Dean opens for him.

The taste of his surrender is sweet ambrosia.

Dean groans and the sound of it vibrates through Castiel’s lips. Delving into the warm cavern of Dean’s mouth, he chases it, coaxes more delicious sounds out of his human. Dean’s tongue strokes languidly against his own and one of his hands twists in Castiel’s hair, tugging him closer, adjusting the angle at which their mouths meet. The hot slide and curl of their tongues and lips is wonderful but does absolutely nothing to soothe the burning ache of both flesh and grace slowly threatening to consume Castiel.

He thinks to pull away, to try and calm himself before he does something that cannot be undone, but Dean chooses that moment to catch his bottom lip between his teeth and bite down upon it sharply. The tiny sting and the metallic taste that flares between them does something to him, flicks some switch inside, and before he quite understands what he is doing, he has flipped Dean onto his stomach and his rutting up against the swell of his backside as his hands bury themselves in his wings, pinning him down firmly. His mouth closes over the back of Dean’s neck, blunt human teeth scraping over the bony knob of his spine and he resists the urge to bite only very, very narrowly.

Dean cries out, flattening himself to the ground, wings out-stretched submissively and hips lifted slightly as if to give Castiel something to grind against. But the coarse material of Dean’s jeans and the stiff cotton of Castiel’s trousers rub at him in a dry friction that is infuriating. It takes only the barest twist of grace to banish them along with the rest of their clothing, leaving them both as bare as their Father created them.

Dean flinches though, shocked at his abrupt nudity and Castiel feels the sudden spike of anxiety where moments ago there had been nothing but sweet need and desire. He drapes himself over his charge, aligning their bodies in the manner they have apparently both long desired, and makes his hands soothe over his wings instead of grip and pull.

“Cas?”

Dean’s voice is low and tremulous, so unlike his usual brash tones that Castiel stills, even though his vessel’s swollen flesh lies flush against Dean’s backside and the temptation to grind himself there, where Dean is warm and soft and yielding, is near maddening.

But Dean is afraid. He requires reassurance.

Castiel curls fingers around the line of Dean’s jaw and turns his face to the side so he can meet his eyes. His pupils are blow with lust, but there is fear there too and that will not do. “Hush Dean,” Castiel says, and presses his mouth to his, soft and warm and so so sweet. “I have you,” he murmurs as his vessel’s lips catch and cling to Dean’s.

“Cas…” Dean says again, and although there is still uncertainty and question there, it is far outweighed by longing.

Castiel cannot help it, his hips roll, toes sinking into the soft soil beneath the grass as he ruts up against Dean, the leaking tip of his erection smearing against hot skin and making Dean tense and gasp in confused shock and want. He reaches back and grabs at Castiel’s hair, anchoring him close. “Wait,” he whispers. “I’ve never…” he trails off awkwardly, eyes lowering, but Castiel does not need to hear the rest to know what his charge is referring to.

He is well aware of Dean’s sexual preferences and that he is inexperienced in the particular act Castiel wishes to share with him. He is also aware of how embarrassing Dean would find discussing such matters so he silences him with another kiss, using lips and tongue to distract him from his fears.

When they separate Dean is panting softly and his wings are twisting restlessly in the grass, reaching towards Castiel’s. Castiel buries his face against the warm skin of Dean’s neck and murmurs reassurance into his ear. “You trust me,” he reminds him. After a moment Dean nods his agreement. Castiel finally lets his wings settle over Dean’s smaller span once more, dark feathers rucking into bronze and gold.

Dean whimpers and his back arches as his own wings respond, soul and grace sparking off one another in warm shocks that bank the heat twisting in Castiel’s grace and have his vessel’s hips rocking in little instinctive movements again. Dean tilts his head back and Castiel capitulates to the silent request, sealing their mouths together again. Distracted by the sweetness of Dean’s mouth, he fails to notice how their wings twist and enmesh in symbolic mating until Dean’s soul and his Grace are so entwined they are almost Bound to one another, and they have done nothing more than kiss.

It’s only the rising scent of Dean’s arousal that is able to pull him from the addictive lure of his kisses. Dean’s lips are pink and swollen when Castiel releases them, and it takes considerable will power not to lean forwards and simply capture them again. But Dean’s desire, the heady scent of it, calls to him, demanding he act upon it and mate him fully.

Bracing himself above Dean, he trails fingers along the sensitive scapulars lining Dean’s wings where they erupt from his back. Dean shivers and twists, wings tensing and flexing at the touch. Dean is not an angel, so his wings are not really the same as one of Castiel’s kind, but the general shape and form seems to be analogous, at least Dean’s sensitivity seems to imply as much.

Since Dean is human, it’s pointless, but Castiel can’t help himself - he cards his fingers through the most sensitive areas of Dean’s wings, the soft feathers under them and closest to his back, where if were a true malakh his oil glands would be weeping mating oils in response to Castiel’s ministrations.

Dean cries out, entire body twisting in Castiel’s hold at the unexpectedly intense sensation of the touch.

Castiel freezes.

It should not be possible, but the scent is unmistakable. It’s not just the tempting salt-musk of human arousal cloying the air around them. It’s mixed with the sweet scent of an angel aroused and ready to be mated. Castiel’s hands tremble as he cards his fingers again through Dean’s most delicate feathers, more carefully this time, and yes, there. Dean keens high and needy and his wings thrash as Castiel’s fingers encounter the slick warm oil seeping from the little glands hidden amidst the feathers. Unable to resist Castiel lifts his hand and presses glistening fingers to his lips.

The taste of Dean explodes over his tastebuds and he groans. In all his endless years of existence, nothing has come close to approaching the perfection currently coating his fingers.

Chapter Text

Castiel licks at his fingers until every trace of Dean’s oil is gone. All the while his hips roll in languid rhythm, grinding the leaking length of his erection between the firm globes of Dean’s backside. Beneath him his charge is panting and moaning, his wings arching back and shuddering as soul and grace mix and tease at one another.

Castiel mouths at the salt of the sun-warmed skin of Dean’s neck for a moment before leaning back on his haunches so he can work his way down between Dean’s wings with lips, tongue and teeth, making them shudder as he teases at the sensitive places where feathers join soft skin. He pauses when he reaches the small of Dean’s back, his hands taking hold of his hips as he bites at the softer skin there, just above the swell of his rump.

His scent is stronger here, the oil from his wings slowly working its way down his feathers to smear against his sides in a fragrant patina. Castiel laps at it greedily. It tastes even better licked directly from Dean’s skin. His fingers slide through it as he etches patterns into Dean’s flesh. Down his back, over his spine, gisg-van-don-pa-fam his fingers trace (beauty). gon-drux he etches lower where Dean’s skin is soft (mine), and follows the claim up with a bite that has Dean gasping.

But when he shifts his attention even lower, slick fingers spreading his human to his hungry gaze, Dean twists in his grip, muscles flexing. “Cas,” he says, looking back over his shoulder, voice low and eyes wide and fearful. A protestation or warning perhaps.

Castiel chooses to heed it for the time being and slides his hands up along Dean’s sides and buries his fingers in the sensitive feathers there again. Dean cries out, wings thrashing, held down only by the heavy weight of Castiel’s, and his hips twist and lift, simultaneously pulling away from Castiel’s touch and into it. His wings shake minutely, light flaring as his soul vibrates in want. Castiel’s grace surges in response and he lets it unspool through his vessel’s fingers, biting back a moan at the way Dean’s soul unfurls before it, soft and eager.

They are so close now, so close to a full mating that Castiel can see a reflection of himself, an imprint of his grace, in Dean’s soul. He knows the lines of his own grace, if he were to inspect them, would be similarly marked. His brothers and sisters watching from above can probably see the change in wings. Were he not so enthralled by Dean, he might call out to them and ask what they saw. As it is he is content to push his curiosity aside. He will wear any mark Dean leaves upon him with nothing but pride.

Dean of course, is completely oblivious, both to their rapt audience high above and to what exactly is passing between them. Castiel feels what he feels – lust, desire and love – but above it all, smothering everything, is a sense of worthless desperation. Dean feels guilt and shame and it is these things Castiel can see, that are the reason Dean’s words say one thing and wings, his soul says quite another.

He aches for Castiel. For the completion of their mating. For a complete union of flesh and soul and grace. His feathers are soaked, ruffled and damped down with the amount of oil seeping into them, his body lays prone beneath Castiel’s, there for him to take, but still he pulls away, tries to hide.

In any other circumstance, Castiel would respect Dean’s wishes. Would draw away and leave their mating incomplete, but he is touching Dean’s soul and for the first time since Hell, nothing of Dean is hidden from him. He can see Dean’s pain plainly in the spread of his wings, can feel it resonating thought the grace at his fingertips.

Dean soul aches for him. To pull away now, to deny that longing, would be agony. Dean seems to know that, to accept it, and finally Castiel understands.

It is so obvious, so very human. So very Dean. Castiel is surprised it has taken him so long to realize.

He draws Dean up so he kneels before Castiel, bodies tightly pressed together, back to chest, Dean’s skin slick and fragrant with oil, his wings stretched out in graceful curves to either side. “Cas?” he asks, voice cracked and strained.

Castiel kisses him, softly. “Dean,” he replies, letting all he feels for his charge resonate in his grace and through his voice. “Dearest one.”

It swells as he speaks, the thick dark stain of worthlessness and guilt that rises up to taint Dean’s soul.

Castiel keeps talking, drawing it to the surface. “Beloved.”

Dean lets out a pained, animal noise, harsh and desperate and his wings flare, trying to shake off Castiel’s. Castiel tightens his arms around him and folds his wings forward, bronze caught up in sable, until they are cocooned. Dean freezes his arms, muscles tensing and wings locking in place, as if at any moment he could erupt into violence.  “You must let this go Dean,” Castiel tells him. “You are not unworthy. You are one of my father’s most magnificent creations.”

Dean is silent but his wings shift in restless denial.

“You are exactly as He made you, as He intended. There is no fault in you.”

Dean swallows and his words when they come are strangled and seem to catch in his throat. “I’m not… Cas, I can’t…”

Seeing that the reasonable approach, is, as always, failing to sink in, Castiel resorts to other, baser methods. Things his charge will understand. He lets his wings catch against Dean’s in a suggestive rub offering pleasure instead of comfort, and slides an oil-slick hand down over Dean’s ribs, his stomach and the soft skin of his navel to wrap around him where he is hard and aching. Dean jerks at the touch, but his wings slump in pleasure and as Castiel draws his fist along his flesh in a firm stroke, he moans and goes pliant in his arms, head lolling back against Castiel’s shoulder.

“You are good Dean Winchester,” Cas tells him, hand slick where he strokes him, making Dean huff and twist. “You are strong and good. This is the truth of you. I know because I know all of you.” As he speaks he sinks the fingers of his free hand into Dean’s sodden feathers and lets his grace reach out through his fingertips. Dean pants and moans, pleasure distracting him from guilt and shame, his hips rolling and his hands reaching back blindly for Castiel. One anchors itself in his vessel’s hair and the other locks around his hip.

Simple touches, but to Castiel they are a revelation. No one has ever touched him in such a manner, ever clutched at him and held him close, ever wanted and desired him as Dean does. He feels the slow trickle of oil leaving warm trails down his back, the undersides of his wings heavy with it. The smell of it is unfamiliar to him, even though it is his own, and he inhales deeply, cataloguing every note of it and the way it blends and layers with Dean’s scent.

It is too faint.

Dean is slick with his own oil and damp with sweat, and that will not do at all. Castiel releases his mate’s erection, ignoring his needy whine, and reaches back, burying his fingers in feathers sodden with oil and puffed with arousal. The sensation makes him gasp softly and he wishes fervently that it was Dean touching him in such a manner.

Some hint of his thoughts must make their way to Dean through his grace, because suddenly Dean’s hand leaves his hip, slides through the oil on his back and gently strokes at what parts of his wing he can reach. It is awkward - Dean’s touch is uncertain and his mobility limited by the positioning of his arm, but it is electrifying just the same. Without his permission Castiel’s wings snap out and butt against Dean’s touch eagerly.

“Like that do ya Cas?” Dean asks in an amused drawl, and the familiar humor in his voice, absent for some time, is reassuring.

Still.

“Yes,” Castiel returns shortly, and then takes Dean back in hand, making the human gasp and effectively silencing further teasing. He peers over Dean’s shoulder, looking down the lines of flexing muscle and tanned, lightly freckled skin, to where he grips Dean, coating him in his scent intimately. The skin there is flushed red with blood, firm and hot under Castiel’s fingers. He feels the ritual of mating thicken, their connection growing deeper, as Dean is so intimately marked with his oil.

“Uh, fuck Cas…” Dean mumbles, hips snapping back and forth as he ruts into Castiel’s hand. He is close to climax, and the feel of him, distracted and wanton, needy in Castiel’s arms, tests his resolve. He grinds against him, desperate to relieve the pressure of his own thwarted arousal. Dean doesn’t flinch away this time, he presses back, anxieties forgotten in the fog of lust, hips rolling sinuously from the press of Castiel behind to the tight grip of his fist. His mate’s skin is slick with oil and sweat and rubbing himself against him, rocking into him in synchronized rhythm so close to where Castiel aches to bury himself, is a torturous pleasure.

“Dean,” he whispers, and if he were more in control of himself the need and weakness in his voice would embarrass him. “Please. Let me…” He pauses, carefully searching for words Dean will respond appropriately too. “Let me fuck you.”

Dean moans loud and low and shudders in response, pre-ejaculate smearing warm and wet over Castiel’s fingers as his wings twitch in near-violent submission. Castiel feels a distant smug sense of satisfaction.

Yes. That was just the response he was looking for.

“Yeah,” Dean says, breathless and hoarse. “Yeah Cas, want you to.” His voice hitches and he grabs at Castiel’s buttocks, pulling him closer, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, head lolling back against Castiel’s shoulder. “Fuck me.”

Castiel has been the picture of restraint, gently coaxing his mate through their communion, but Dean’s acceptance, his consent, strips the artifice of human control from him and leaves him something far more primitive.

He pushes Dean down onto the grass again, on his back this time because his face, Castiel needs to see his face, see him glassy-eyed and slack-jawed in pleasure as he takes him, finally claims what is his. Dean’s skin is warm, his heart thundering against his ribs as Castiel touches without restraint, greedy to re-learn every part of him, flesh and bone he shaped and remade with his own hands. Dean allows him his exploration, lays prone beneath him, fingers digging into the soft loam even as his wings flex and flutter, curling up to press and rub against Castiel’s in tempting invitation, begging to be mated.

When Castiel mouths at his collarbone, teeth scraping bluntly, Dean groans. When he licks at a pink nipple, traces his tongue around the pebbled shape of it, Dean gasps. And when he closes his lips over the crown of Dean’s penis, tasting a mix of his own oil and the human tang of semen, his charge writhes and calls his name in a way that is almost blasphemous. Fingers twist in Castiel’s hair, firm grip tugging and guiding, encouraging his ministrations, and he delights in how Dean forgets his fears and hesitation. His touch did that. It is him, Castiel, pulling those decadent noises from low in Dean’s throat.

Pride is a sin, but that is what Castiel feels as he swallows his mate down, teasing and tempting him with the heat of his mouth. Dean stares down at him, panting, hips lifting up and down in little jerking movements, still trying to restrain himself, but failing. Dean is hard and salty at the back of Castiel’s throat and there is a strange pleasure in touching him in such a manner, taking a part of him within his vessel.

Salvia pools in his mouth, wetting Dean further, dripping down to mix with the oil and sweat that coats him. Seeing further physical evidence of Castiel upon Dean’s skin pleases him, but it’s not enough. Castiel snaps his wings forwards and reaches back to coat his fingers in more of his mating oils. His hands slip, painting greasy marks over Dean’s hips and thighs as he pulls his mouth off him and lifts, arranging him so his knees are bent over Castiel’s shoulders and he is entirely exposed to him.  

Dean is shaking, his skin shivering in nervous anxiety, but he parts his legs for Castiel, lets him see him at his most vulnerable. Castiel curls his wings, hiding Dean’s form from the prying eyes of his brothers and sisters above beneath a canopy of dark feathers. Distantly, he hears them whispering.

At the first curious pass of Castiel’s tongue Dean jerks, a strangled noise that might be Cas’s name coming out of his throat. He wriggles, but Castiel’s grip on him is firm if slippery, and it only takes a few more tentative licks for Dean to still. He tastes human, skin salty with sweat and sweet with pheromones that tingle on Castiel’s tongue. What he finds most appealing is how soft Dean is here, smooth flesh perfect and as unmarred as the day Castiel breathed life back into his lungs after pulling him from Hell.

He traces the shape of him with the tip of his tongue – an intriguing tight knot of muscle – and feels Dean twitch and quiver as he does so. But it is not until Castiel stiffens his tongue and presses into the tight opening of his mate’s body that Dean’s control finally slips and he lets out a broken noise and pants “Cas,” low and pleading.

Castiel isn’t entirely sure what Dean is asking, and from what he can feel from his mate, neither is he. It isn’t a denial though, so he continues his exploration, dipping his tongue into the clenching heat of Dean’s body, cataloging the noises he makes, the way he shifts and twitches in unconscious movement. It’s tight though and Castiel has to work his way in gradually, teasing and caressing, dipping in and out, licking and mouthing at him, getting him slick with salvia, as Dean relaxes for him bit by bit. By the time he’s worked his tongue in as deeply as possible, Dean is panting harshly and there’s no doubt that the sounds he’s making are ones of encouragement.

Adjusting his grip, Castiel takes Dean’s leaking erection back in hand and uses his oil as intended, to anoint and prepare his mate. Dean’s hips jerk into the sensation and he moans. Castiel pumps his fist up along the length of him, spreading his scent there, and then smooths fingers over the shape of Dean’s testes and the soft stretch of skin below, trailing oil in his wake. When his slippery fingers meet his tongue where he is carefully probing Dean’s body, his mate shudders and the muscles in his thighs jump and clench where his legs drape over Castiel’s shoulders.

Castiel traces the tight ring of muscle, lightly pressing and just barely catching on the rim. Dean's wings thrash and he moans low in his throat. Curling his tongue, Castiel lets his slick fingers trace along where Dean is spread around him. Dean’s breathing is rough and uneven and when Castiel looks down along his body, his head is twisted back, throat working as he swallows compulsively. Eyes trained on his mate, Castiel slides the tip of his middle finger into him. Dean makes a noise, something like ‘Ngghh’ - long and drawn out - as his wings beat at the grass violently and his back bends in a long tense line ending in the heel of his right foot which he digs into Castiel’s shoulder, pulling him closer, silently demanding more.

Castiel presses his finger in, past the thick band of muscle guarding Dean’s opening and into the heat beyond, until he cannot get any further. Dean shudders and gasps as Castiel works both his tongue and his finger to learn the shape and feel of him. He cannot get his tongue deep enough, cannot feel enough of him however, so he draws away. Dean watches with hooded eyes as Castiel reaches back and collects more of his oil on his fingers, and Castiel finds he cannot break away from his gaze as he touches Dean again. He lifts Dean's legs from his shoulders, guiding them down to wrap around his waist so he can settle him more comfortably in his lap and then slides two fingers into him deep and smooth. Dean arches and rolls into the movement, breath hissing from his throat is a low groan.

The air between them, beneath the cocoon of Castiel’s wings, is warm and heavy with the combined scent of their arousal. Angel and human. Oil and sweat. Sunlight filters through his feathers, painting golden lines across Dean’s skin. Where Castiel is touching him, deep inside, he is all clinging softness and molten heat. He stretches his fingers, spreads them against Dean’s slick walls just to feel the soft wet give of him. He never imagined any part of Dean, his brash righteous man, could feel so warm and welcoming. The straining flesh of his vessel throbs in renewed desire. Ridiculously, he finds himself jealous of his own fingers. He should be in there, should be buried inside Dean feeling that soft, tight heat wrapped around him…

Unconsciously the gentle exploratory motion of his hand becomes more violent. He rocks his fingers in and out of Dean, then slides in a third. Dean moans and whimpers as the slick fingers stretch him, but then Castiel brushes against something, a small bump, and he abruptly swears “Fuck! Cas!”.

Castiel belatedly remembers the existence of the prostate gland and zeroes in his attention upon it. He presses and rubs until Dean is wailing, begging without words, his legs wrapping tightly around Castiel, pulling him in closer and his wings flailing wide and wanton.

They flash bronze and gold in the filtered sunlight and Castiel’s eye is drawn. When he realizes that the undersides are completely soaked with Dean’s oil, feathers darkened from pale gold to deep caramel with how sodden they are, he finds himself pitching forward with something like snarl catching in his throat. Dean’s legs tangle awkwardly around him as Castiel shoves his head against Dean’s side, where his skin is slippery with oil, and then he is biting and licking at the concentrated tastescentmatesmell there.

The angle is off and he can’t keep his fingers inside Dean anymore, so instead he grasps at his erection and slides his fist in a jerking, unsteady rhythm as he kisses and licks up Dean’s torso. By the time he works his way up, presses fevered kisses into Dean’s mouth, their bodies have aligned and he is rutting against him, grinding where he’s slick and open.

The cap of his weeping erection catches there, sinking in a tiny bit before slipping free and Castiel’s hips jerk desperately even as Dean moans into his mouth and grinds back against him. He needs to get inside, needs to be in Dean, but Dean is kissing him and the taste and smell of him is thick and cloying and he cannot think, cannot get his vessel under control. But then Dean grabs at him, buries strong fingers in soft feathers dripping with Castiel’s oil and the combined sensation of Dean touching him there and the sudden bloom of his own scent as Dean’s fingers squeeze oil from his feathers to patter against his bare chest, jars the connection.

Castiel grabs at Dean’s hip, slippery fingers digging into the soft flesh of his backside, holding him steady and pulling him closer and then he is there.

The instinct to push, to get inside is impossible to ignore and Castiel doesn’t even try. Dean is achingly tight, the give of him thick and slow around the slippery head of Castiel’s erection, but then the band of resistance is breached and he is suddenly inside.

The noise Dean makes as Castiel finally mounts him makes his grace sing in exaltation. His mate stretches, wings flaring out in the grass and back arching, all lean muscle and gleaming bronze feathers and all his as Castiel buries himself in a deep slow slide until he can go no further. Castiel keens at the sensation, of being inside Dean, the noise high and unfamiliar.

His mate is cursing, blaspheming, “fuck fuck god cas” and Castiel can only agree with the sentiment.

Following age old instinct, he draws back, the drag of Dean tight and hot and perfect, and then snaps his hips forward. Dean wails and pulls at Castiel, fingers twisting his feathers and digging into his hip. The feel of him, the sound of his pleasure and surrender before Castiel, the way his soul is vibrating in needy want of him as they mate and approach full union has Castiel’s grace in rapture.

Dean’s wings churn in the grass, stretching out and flexing, the glowing light of his soul twisting in dizzying arrays of pleasure, and even if he wasn’t rocking against Castiel, wasn’t gasping his name and moaning for him, his ecstasy would be unmistakable.

Dean’s love - his fierce, violent, human love - washes through every atom of Castiel’s being and leaves him burned clean and holy. For the first time in eons, Castiel feels, for an endless moment, the touch of his Father, the love of God, for there is no other explanation for this dizzying rapture.

Dean Winchester - flawed, mortal, unflinchingly human Dean - fitting together with Castiel - ageless Seraph and Son of God - in perfect union.

It should not be possible.

Distantly, Castiel is aware of the murmur of his brothers and sisters, their excited commentary as they observe his mating, but he cares nothing for them, for Heaven or Raphael or war or anything else. The bliss of communion with Dean, of his shining righteous soul joining with Castiel’s grace to form one whole is the most profound moment of his entire existence. 

His mate burns in his arms, screaming and clutching at him body and soul, his fierce pleasure lit across his wings for all to see even as it shoots through their bond of union and sinks into Castiel’s grace. On every harsh thrust Dean lights up from within, ecstasy stoked ever higher, and Castiel feels it like a sparking ache deep in his vessel.

They are covered in oil, slick animal shapes twisting in the grass, mindless in their pleasure. Castiel does not know how long they remain that way, hands greedy on slippery skin, wings entwined and mouths feeding upon each other, but eventually he feels the pinnacle approaching, the final irrevocable climax to their mating.

His grace hums and his knot swells, but he somehow finds the strength to pull out enough so it doesn’t catch, aware that it is not a part of human sexuality and not wishing to harm or scare Dean. But Dean lets out a frustrated whine and pulls at him, digs his heels in and slams his hips up into him until he’s buried as deeply as possible.

Castiel is hardly displeased.

He twists his hips and looks down at where they are joined. The sight of Dean’s body stretched pink and wide around him, the ruddy flush of his cheek where he lays with his head to one side in the grass and the wanton stretch of his sodden wings is too much for Castiel to resist. “You want all of me Dean?” he gasps, voice hoarse and unrecognizable, wings shuddering as he tries to hold himself back.

Dean just moans and his eyelids flutter as he continues to press up against Castiel, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, even as Castiel grips his hips and grinds into him, letting his knot swell and catch.

It is not until Dean opens his eyes and looks up at him wide-eyed and reverent that Castiel climaxes. The sharp waves of pleasure wrack over him, from the tips of his wings down to his curled toes, pouring out of him and into his mate’s shuddering body. They exchange deep frantic kisses as Castiel reaches between their heaving bodies to pull at Dean’s erection. His mate is dripping wet, shaking with want, and it only takes a few graceless tugs before he spills in Castiel’s fist, his body spasming and clenching around Castiel’s knot in a way that has echoing pleasure rocking through him.

Dean slumps back into the grass in sated exhaustion, his wings flared out lazily to frame him. Castiel stares at him. He is the very picture of debauched perfection and he does not want to look away. Eventually however, green eyes open to peer up at him curiously. Dean cocks an eyebrow and his mouth lifts to one side in a small teasing smile.

“Cas,” he drawls, voice husky and slow - sleepy sounding. “s’not polite to stare.”