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The first time Dean convinces Castiel to allow his wings to manifest during sex, Dean refuses to touch them at first.

“Don’t wanna – nngh – hurt you,” he groans in explanation against Castiel’s shoulder, his fingertips leaving bruises on Castiel’s hips where he grips him.

Castiel is sweating, seated in his lover’s lap, hands buried in dark blond hair, with Dean buried deep within him. They move together in tandem, as they always have, and Dean’s eyes keep darting over Castiel’s shoulder to land once again on his wings, all white and gray and black silky feathers. They twitch under Dean’s scrutiny, unused to human eyes upon them.

“Touch them,” Castiel urges quietly, throwing his head back on a moan. “Please, Dean. I need you to touch them.”

Hesitantly, Dean’s hands slide up Castiel’s sides, pausing just below his shoulder blades. He keeps his eyes locked on his angel’s face, and Castiel is a shuddering mess of want and anticipation; he can feel his heart hammering so hard he thinks it might explode from his chest, can feel Dean’s fingertips beginning to ghost over the longest feathers of his wings. Castiel knows he is trembling, knows that Dean can see how much the touch is affecting him, but still he can’t stop the noise he makes – something caught between a whine and a growl.

Castiel feels Dean stiffen further inside him, the action causing a pearl of sticky pre-release to bead at the slit of his own erection and slide slick across Dean’s abdomen. Dean, encouraged, finally goes from hesitant to… almost hungry, fisting his hands in the downy feathers at Castiel’s shoulder blades and using them as leverage to thrust deep. Castiel moans and rests his forehead against Dean’s, and Dean is searching out his lips, nipping and suckling at his tongue. Dean growls deep and low into Castiel’s mouth, and his thrusts grow frantic as he clutches at the hollow bones at the tops of his wings.

They release together, Castiel relatively untouched, with very little stimulation to his prostate. But his wings… Castiel never would have imagined them erogenous zones, but the pleasure he feels coursing through him when Dean touches them is insurmountable, like nothing – nothing – Castiel has ever felt before. The bed around them is scattered with feathers that have come loose in their passion, but Castiel can’t be bothered about a handful of lost feathers. Not when he feels like this.

The afterglow of their orgasms is spent in each other’s arms, Castiel still seated in Dean’s lap, forehead against forehead and breathing in one another’s breaths. And Castiel is glad that Dean has moved past his “no chick-flick moments” phase as Dean’s hand comes up to cup his cheek and swipe his thumb across Castiel’s bottom lip.

As far as Castiel is concerned, this is what his own personal Heaven would be like.


The second time Dean talks Cas into “wing sex,” as Dean has dubbed it, is much different.

Cas is on his knees in front of Dean, his chest sliding across the bed as his hands scramble for purchase with his fuckin’ wings spread and twitching on the comforter. Dean’s hands are buried in the wings, and he’s using them to pull Cas back to meet his every thrust. The angel is making these noises, little mewls and whimpers that grow into groans and growls and actual screams of euphoria. Dean has to tear a pillow from his grip to stop him from shredding it.

There are feathers everywhere, and Dean can’t decide if the fact annoys him or turns him on, very much the same way he felt about Cas in the beginning. Dean plans on keeping every single one of those fallen feathers (and not for sentimental value; Cas told him once that angel feathers were sometimes used in magic, so keeping them would obviously be the logical decision, right? Right.).

Dean picks one up; a long, silky black thing that almost feels like it has electricity running through it, and trails it down Cas’ spine. His angel trembles, helpless and aroused under him, and Dean bends down to mouth at the knob of his spine. His hips snap forward and Cas throws his head back to let loose a loud groan and push his ass back to meet Dean. Dean catches Cas’ bottom lip between his teeth, and the angel’s eyes shoot open as he bites down.

“Cas,” Dean half-moans, dropping his head to the juncture of Cas’ neck and shoulder. They fit together perfectly like this, their bodies moving in unison toward the same goal. Cas will get there first, as he always does; and then Dean will follow him quickly, the sounds of his angel’s climax pushing him over the edge.

Dean’s hands find their way back into the plumage, gripping and pulling at the soft, fluffy feathers at his shoulder blades. The wings twitch and shiver, almost as if they’re alive in a sense, and Dean buries his face in them. He can’t help it, breathing in Cas’ unearthly scent as he grows closer and closer to release.

Cas is panting and whining, his fingers curling in the sheets as he pushes back to try and take Dean deeper.

“Dean, please,” Cas whines, as Dean’s thrusts slow to a nearly torturous and excruciating pace.

“What is it, angel? What do you need?”

“More,” Cas says, so quiet that Dean nearly doesn’t hear him, but the clench of his muscles around Dean’s cock drive Cas’ point home.

“Wanna come, baby?” Dean asks, tracing kisses along the angel’s spine. He smooths out the disheveled feathers of Cas’ wings, trails his fingertips over Castiel’s back and ribs and hips and thighs, slows his thrusts even further. “Love you like this, Cas,” Dean continues, his hips moving in little circles the way he knows drives Castiel nuts. “Love watching you come undone for me. Love the way you say my name.”

“Dean,” Cas breathes, as if on cue, but he doesn’t say it to please Dean. It’s a plea.

And God, but Cas’ wings are a bristling, quivering mess, and Dean can’t stay away from them. Before he knows it, Dean is digging his fingers into silky secondaries – the long feathers built for flight, Dean reminds himself – and pulling hard as his hips snap forward to grind his cock head against Cas’ prostate. Cas shouts and clenches around him again, and all thoughts of dragging this whole thing out vanish from Dean’s mind. He sinks deep into Cas, over and over again, and his angel rocks with him.

And just like that, Cas is there, moaning and trembling and spilling onto the mattress beneath him. Dean’s own climax takes him by surprise, shooting through him and out of him like a shotgun blast, blinding him with white bursting behind his eyelids as a guttural cry he doesn’t recognize as his own is ripped from his throat.

The come-down is spent in relative silence, their erratic breathing the only sound in the room, lying face-to-face on the dingy motel bed. Cas’ eyelids are heavy, but his goofy, sated smile speaks volumes. He’s content, for what seems like the first time since they met. And that makes Dean content.

Later, they gather up the fallen feathers and put them in a box in the trunk of the Impala for safe keeping. Cas doesn’t tell him what kind of magic could be performed with angel feathers, saying instead, “You shouldn’t need them while I’m around, but…” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal – a very human gesture that Dean knows the angel picked up from him – but the unspoken I may not be around forever hangs in the air around them like a heavy, heavy weight.

Dean just throws his arm around Cas’ shoulder and pulls him in, plants a kiss on his temple and leads his angel back into the motel room, where he’s hoping for another round in the shower before Sammy comes to find them for dinner. This thing he’s got with Cas is perfect and effortless. Something shitty’s gonna happen soon, with Dean’s luck, but for now he doesn’t want to think about it; for now, Dean is simply going to enjoy the downtime with his angel and his brother, outside obstacles be damned.