“Wishful thinking, but maybe it’s just the wind,” Dean said, looking at the rippling wooden planks of the roof while the noise pounded at his ears.
The air was flooded with static electricity, and there was a buzz against skin he’d felt before at the Phillip’s joint and the motel room.
Even as he gripped the salt-loaded shotgun tighter, one of the overhead lights exploded, and then another and another. The front doors of the barn cracked the beam holding them in place, swinging wide to reveal a man—dark haired, stone faced—who tread without care over the painted sigils and traps. His face was first hidden and then illuminated by showers of sparks from the lights, and when Dean and Bobby emptied shot rounds into his nondescript trench coat over a dark suit, the cheap-looking material was damaged while the man’s eyes barely blinked.
Dean watched the man, who was slumped just a bit in his posture yet exuded tremendous power, come closer while Bobby fired again.
Dean reach back for Ruby’s knife.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
The man looked oddly concerned, and his deep, somewhat gravely voice was almost gentle. “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”
Feeling more furious at that than intimidated, if only just, Dean sneered, “Yeah. Thanks for that,” and then shoved the knife into the guy’s chest as hard as he could. The guy in turn looked at it, pulled it out, and dropped it to the floor.
Bobby tried to swing a crowbar at his head, but the man grabbed the bar, put two fingers on Bobby’s head, and watched an unconscious Bobby slump to the floor.
He turned back around, and all Dean could see was a pair of concerned blue eyes.
“We need to talk, Dean. Alone.”
And, oh God, he was leaking—leaking, right there in that crappy barn with Bobby maybe lying dead not two feet away.
Equal parts worried about Bobby and desperate for something to do besides stand there and leak like a teenager with his first porn mag, Dean went to his friend and knelt, only then thinking about how much he really shouldn’t be on his knees right now.
Bobby was breathing and deeply asleep, and the man was looking through one of their books like he was in some public library.
“Who are you?”
“Yeah, I figured that much. I mean, what are you?”
The guy looked up from his book. “I’m an angel of the lord and your alpha.”
Dean stood up. “Get the hell out of here. There’s no such thing.”
“Angel or someone who’s your alpha?”
“This is your problem, Dean, you have no faith.”
“Omegas find a compatible alpha before they’re out of their teens, or they’re incompatible.”
Castiel gave him the slightest smile, then thunder boomed, the light got weird, and the shadow of two great wings rose up on the wall behind him.
Dean locked his knees. Slick was literally running down the inside of his right leg, and he realized he hadn’t taken a single suppressant since he’d returned from the grave. And it didn’t get better when the light went back to normal and the wings were gone.
“I could not come to you until the time was right. We angels do as we’re told.”
Dean could only hope—pray—hope—that the ozone from the busted lights and general mustiness of the barn was keeping Castiel from smelling him and that the bad lighting was hiding the reshaping of his pants. God, this was worse than the hell he had just escaped.
“Some angel you are. You burned out that poor woman’s eyes.”
Castiel actually looked regretful. “I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be overwhelming for humans. So can my voice, but you already knew that.”
Dean frowned. “The gas station and the motel, that was you talking?”
“Buddy, next time, lower the volume.”
“It was my mistake. Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. Considering that you’re my omega, I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong.”
Dean realized what that meant. “And what visage are you in now? Holy tax accountant?”
“This?” Castiel looked down at himself. “While most angels need a human vessel to visit the earth, this is a creation by God, a physical manifestation of my true form fashioned to be pleasing to you.” That little smile was back. “It seems to be effective.”
Damn it. So much for keeping his little problem hidden.
“I’m not buying what you’re selling; so, who are you really?” Dean stepped back a little, but it didn’t help.
Castiel tilted his head in a way Dean positively did not find endearing. “I told you.”
“Right. And why would an angel either rescue me from hell or just so happen to be my long-lost alpha?”
“Good things do happen, Dean.” Castiel stepped closer, which really did not help.
“Not in my experience.”
Castiel’s blue eyes flooded with compassion. “It has been so very difficult for you, Dean. As much as I have struggled with waiting thousands of years to finally meet you, I know for you it has been worse. Watching your father scorn you when you presented and then preen over Sam when he proved himself an alpha. Taking your suppressants before you even had a heat. Waiting for someone who didn’t come, someone who seemed was never going to come to claim you.”
“I don’t need claiming.”
“Limiting yourself to meaningless affairs with beta women even as you longed to be held, to be bitten, to belong, to find the other half of yourself.” He took another step forward, and Dean could smell him: sweet olive and the air after a storm, an oddly gentle fragrance for an alpha.
“What’s the matter?” Castiel pressed, head tilting again. “You don’t think you deserve to be saved or claimed.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you. Because you belong to me.”
“What? I’m some sort of reward for you?”
The alpha moved just a bit more forward, and Dean could feel the heat from him now, a warmth that reached through his skin down to his muscles and then bones.
“I belong to you as well. In the fight ahead, we will be each other’s.”
Dean’s stomach dropped down to his knees—both of them dripping with slick now. His heart was pounding, he was sweating, and he couldn’t breathe right.
For one thing, Castiel was gorgeous in his face, his body, his smell, and his warmth.
“You’re beautiful,” the angel, if he were really an angel, growled. “I couldn’t get this close before. The scent of you.”
“What do I smell like?”
Castiel smiled, as though he knew Dean hadn’t meant to ask. “Like salvation and honeycomb.”
Dean didn’t whimper. He made a noise, sure, but it wasn’t a whimper—more like maybe a clearing of his throat or something.
“Dean,” Castiel said next. “The fight we have ahead of us, the tasks we face, they are more important than we are.” Then a warm, soft, strong, gentle hand was resting against Dean’s chest, almost singeing him, and Dean thought of the handprint burned onto his shoulder. “But we have a short time to ourselves, a few days, perhaps a few weeks, no more, and I have been waiting for you for so very long.”
Those blue eyes loomed closer, and Castiel’s breath was warm and male and oddly human-like. For the first time in a very long time, Dean let himself think of being filled, and now it was with the thought of those eyes watching him as he—oh, God—as he spread his legs and let his alpha take pleasure from him. Would he pound him into the mattress? Thrust in gently, slowly, kissing him all the while? Jump him? Savor him?
“I will give you whatever you wish,” Castiel breathed, and even the whisper of it was husky and deep. “I will touch every part of you, learn everything that brings you joy, while we take each other, over and over again.”
OK, Dean couldn’t deny he whimpered that time.
Another warm hard was sliding around his hip now, pulling him in an inch, then half an inch. Their bodies touched, and every point of contact burned so sweetly.
“Kiss me, Dean,” Castiel said now, sounding almost drunk on the idea. “I’ve waited an eon for you to kiss me.”
“This can’t be real,” Dean muttered, closing his eyes. “This cannot be real.”
“I can’t kiss you with your eyes closed, Dean.”
“Look at me, please.”
Later, Dean would tell himself it was the “please” that did it, not the way his clothes were too tight, his skin was on fire, and his damn ass was clenching around the emptiness.
He opened his eyes, and then Castiel was right there. Their lips didn’t just fit together, heat and contour perfectly matched. There was now this seamless quality of alignment, of union.
“Let me have you, Dean,” the angel said, and the hunter almost came all over himself right there. “I’ve been waiting to be inside you since the Carboniferous Period.”
Laughing at nothing, tired of his own passivity, Dean reached around the angel’s waist, grabbing two handfuls of firm ass. He opened his mouth to the kiss, and their tongues twined around each other. Castiel tasted like he smelled, but better, a source of refreshment that emboldened him to drink his fill.
“That sounds good,” he managed to say. There was a soft flutter, as though of wings, and they were in a motel room, though not one he recognized. It was clean, soft, and as comfortingly familiar as it was anonymous.
Castiel kept kissing while he stripped them both. Dean had to make an effort to see this body God had evidently custom-made with him in mind, which meant that he promptly had to concede God was a great tailor.
While he had spent his life, as Cass had said, pacifying himself with a faceless line of beta women, it was strong thighs and broad shoulders he pictured when he got himself off, stripping his cock and shoving a couple fingers up his semi-slick ass. Castiel had a perfect body: tight, fit, pert, and so damn smooth. He didn’t have a single scar or blemish or mole or anything, just miles of lightly tanned skin.
And then Dean let himself look down further: straight, thick, long, pink, and lovely, with tender-looking balls and a soft dusting of hair.
Dean knew his own equipment was fine, especially for an omega in hiding, But it wasn’t—
“Gorgeous,” Castiel said with awe, kissing his way down Dean’s torso. “When I reassembled you, I was worried I wouldn’t match the original, but this is every freckle, every shade, every shape of you before those hell hounds got to you. The only new mark is my own handprint.” The angel sounded smug.
“From where you gripped me tight?” Dean asked, beginning to float on the uplift of Cass’ every touch.
“Stay with me, Dean.” He looked down into now mischievous eyes. “I want you to watch me suck your gorgeous body.”
“Say ‘cock,’ Cass. Say you’re going to suck my cock.”
The angel winked at him, repeated the words dutifully, and then pulled the length of him past his full lips, down through his hot mouth, and deeper into his tight, rippling throat.
“Son of a bitch!” Dean couldn’t keep his hips from thrusting forward, but Cass just rode it out. Dean would have come then, but strong fingers circled his base and held the impulse back.
More strength came then from those perfect hands as they pushed his legs up and over Cass’ shoulders before pulling his cheeks apart to bare his slick hole to the cool air of the room. A rough, spongy tongue followed, and Cass groaned in pleasure as he started to lick and suck.
“Dean,” the angel moaned. “Dean.”
He put his fingers into the angel’s dark hair, and it was smooth and sleek and soft. He thought about rubbing that head of hair over his nipples, around his balls, along the tip of his cock, and then Castiel was gripping the base of his dick once more.
Yeah, he just flat-our whimpered then, and he didn’t care.
“You taste like everything good,” Castiel whispered.
“Worth the wait?”
Lips dripping with his own slick pressed against his, hot and fierce like butter, and then down his body again. “Better.”
There was a pause, and Dean knew to open his eyes again. Castiel was beyond beautiful, and his eyes were glowing with a bright blue light inside. Beyond the angel’s shoulders, Dean could see the dark shadows of his wings rising up once more.
“I would wait forever for you, Dean Winchester,” he said, and a thick finger breached him, unnaturally warm, as though filling his whole body with light. “But instead I get to do this.”
Dean felt the hard velvet of Cass’ tip press against his slick hole, then the pressure and heat of him went on as he continued, just like he’d sucked Dean in before, deeper and deeper.
Dean’s head slammed back against the flat pillow, feeling he was being torn in two even as the bliss of it all filled him. He knew honestly that Cass could just fuck him to death now and he wouldn’t stop it.
But instead of the violence he expected, the next moments gradually, firmly heated up the core of him, pressing against nerves that sang and begged for more. He could feel Cass’ dick slam into him all the ways down to his damn toes, and his toes had never been happier.
And then started the blessed rhythm, call it ancient or classic, he didn’t care. His hands again on Castiel’s ass, he felt as his alpha’s muscles contract and then release for each thrust and return.
“Fuck me, Cass,” he whispered. “God, fuck me.”
“Yes!” the angel shouted. “You’re mine, Dean. Mine to fuck!” Then blue eyes were staring into his inner self—his soul, he guessed, as battered and secondhand as it was. “Claim me, Dean.”
“Yes,” he said, aware he was coming this time come hell or high water. “You’re mine to claim.”
Castiel clenched up, coming, and Dean followed him.
And everything for a time was just soft and lovely and warm.
For the rest of the night they lay there, entwined, being united, while the angel told the human what he could, which wasn’t much, of the war ahead of them. They would face it together, but the outcome was uncertain. Dean just nodded, and he worried about Sam.
Outside the motel, traffic went west and east, the town’s few traffic lights stopped it all for a while, then turned green, as though nodding weary travelers on their way for all the battles before them.