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Based on his memory of that night, Dean wrote them off as mere shadows, bursting against the wooden barn wall with every shock of blinding light. He hadn’t paid them much attention, too preoccupied with the potential threat posed by bed-head and trench coat. Unfurling, spreading wide, and rising around the man’s frame; I can do a rabbit with my hands, Dean had thought to himself. Castiel’s wings, as seen on their first meeting, were a neat trick.
Only now could Dean see the flaw in that assumption. It made sense, after all. Shadow puppetry wouldn’t come easy to a guy who could hardly pull off air quotations.
Dean twirled the foot long feather between his index and thumb, watching as the light failed to bounce off its matte black finish. Held against a white wall, it resembled a two dimensional kohl rendition of itself.
“Woah!” Gabriel announced from the kitchen, where he had a suspicious concoction simmering on the stovetop. It smelled sweet, naturally.
“Is that Castiel’s?” Sam asked, setting aside his book to turn his studious frown towards the new subject of intrigue.
“Sure is!” Gabriel grinned. “Where’d you find it, Deano? He give it to you?” If he sounded hopeful for whatever reason, the brothers didn’t notice.
“Dropped out of thin air when he flapped outta here,” Dean replied absentmindedly, too busy examining the feather.
“Ooh,” the angel whistled, “Cassy’s stressed.”
“Stressed?” Dean repeated, the topic of his best friend’s well being tearing his gaze away from the oh so mesmerizing feather.
“Just like you people and your hair, when angels are super stressed their feathers shed.”
“It’s so black...” Sam said, holding out his hand, followed by a “jeez, relax!” when his brother abruptly pulled the feather out of his reach.
“Yep! They’re from soldier’s wings. Wouldn’t expect any less.”
Ignoring both his brother’s bitch face and Gabe’s self-satisfied smirk, Dean brought the feather closer to his face. It was really, very black. Perhaps those hadn’t been shadows, but the actual wings themselves. The thought perturbed him. Could Castiel show him his wings all along? Maybe not the real deal, but some physical manifestation would have been nice...
A sturdy slap on the back separated him from his thoughts.
“You hold on to that, Dean.” Gabriel nodded, dividing one last glance between him and the feather before returning to his “cooking.”
It was no mystery what Cas was stressed about. Dean was ready to make a “I must tend to some business in heaven” sign. You know, save the angel some breath, so he won’t have to say it for the umpteenth time. He was gone often and for undetermined amounts of time. It had gotten hectic –John Winchester hectic –to the point where he asked Gabriel to watch over them, which irked Dean on a whole new kind of level.
“If he’s going to hide, he might as well be a coward in the bunker,” Castiel had said.
Dean did not like the substitute. Sam, on the other hand, was enjoying being the favourite for once.
“Wonder what Gabriel’s are like...” Sam said, eyes still on the feather.
“Probably made of cotton candy.”
***
Dean was unsure about the dynamics of the situation. He was having trouble translating the angelic into its human equivalency. Like, was he safekeeping a friend’s car during his absence, or was he hoarding a lock of his hair in the top drawer of his nightstand. Castiel never even talked about his wings and now Dean had a real-life physical piece of them, a piece that he was told to hold on to.
Reluctantly, he pulled the feather out of its hiding place, avoiding the vane per usual. It just felt too personal, like if he were to run his fingers through some poor unsuspecting strangers hair. Although Cas was far from being a stranger, this was a part of him he had yet to experience. Looking at it alone made him feel like a voyeur, like some privacy was being breached.
Dean got uncomfortable real fast. The more he stared at it, the more it felt like it was staring back. Like Castiel was staring back.
It was ritual. Big blue eyes slowly narrow into an adorable squint. His angel mind, rummaging through its archives of human interaction, fails to come up with a reason as to why Dean won’t stop staring at him. He ends up wiping at his mouth as a precaution, a last resort, knowing full well that he never eats and having food on his mouth is unlikely. Dean loved it, loved watching his angel pour so much energy into understanding Dean, even over the most trivial things.
“I read Mary Douglas’s famous work on dirt and purity and I think I understand why you don’t like your food touching.”
“Cas, that was two weeks ago.”
He’d roll his eyes and shake his head to mask the giddiness bubbling in his gut at the thought of Castiel researching anthropological theory to better understand something so irrelevant that calling it a pet peeve was an exaggeration.
Castiel’s sometimes inappropriate curiosity in humanity spoke for itself, but Dean preferred to think that it was because of him and not some bigger picture. He never made a thesis for Sam’s habits, so could it be? Was Dean special? He liked –oh, so pathetically –to think so. The slightly parted lips, the dishevelment, the sporadic strands of hair tugged by frustration into a glorious bed head no stylist named Anton could achieve... Dean did that to him. Was it too much to ask to be the only one who could?
Apparently so, since this Bartholomew guy had Castiel falling apart –literally. And that feather. Castiel was a private person, but when Dean held that very privacy between his fingers, he couldn’t help but blush at the intimacy. But again, this was Bartholomew’s doing.
Huffing and puffing in annoyance and embarrassment with himself, Dean stuck the feather back in the top drawer of his nightstand. Dinner was probably ready by now. He sniffed at the sickly sweet air seeping into his bedroom.
And so was dessert, apparently.
Sam and Gabriel were already seated at the dinner table when he walked in. Ever since he started living with them, Gabriel had shaken up the sibling hierarchy, which gave Sam enough courage to ask for the keys to the Impala more often and sit at the head of the table.
“Gabe made chicken,” Sam explained.
“Doesn’t smell like chicken,” Dean mumbled.
“Those are the maple bacon cupcakes for desert. Chicken’s good.” His brother rolled his eyes before meeting Gabriel’s conspiring gaze with his own. Now, that’s an inside joke Dean would rather not get in on, no matter how much it irked him.
If they were going to act like a couple insistent on staying in love ten years into their marriage, the least Dean could do was pretend to be their disgruntled teenager. He glared and grumbled at their antics throughout dinner.
“Don’t frown like that, Deano. It’s unbecoming.”
“You’ll get wrinkles, dude.”
Dean shut himself up by stuffing nearly half of the chicken breast into his mouth. Castiel wasn’t here. He was outnumbered. Maybe if he chewed loud enough he could drown out their gross conversation.
“Oh Dean!” Gabriel suddenly perked up in his seat having just remembered something. “So how soft is that feather, eh?” He said, waggling his brows in a way that made Sam laugh and Dean throw up a little bit in his mouth.
He sighed. If this weren’t about Castiel’s feather he wouldn’t bother dealing with this shit.
“What?” He asked half-heartedly.
“The feather. You didn’t touch it?” Gabriel sounded unapologetically surprised.
“No. I’m keeping it in my drawer until Cas gets back.”
“Oh.” Gabriel grimaced. “Well, that’s... polite? I guess?”
“I’d like to think so,” Dean said with as much assertion as he could to conclude the conversation and hopefully, the godforsaken dinner too.
“I never thought angel feathers would be soft,” Sam mused. “Not very threatening, if you ask me.”
“Soldiers’ wings, especially. Touching them is almost therapeutic,” Gabriel explained, fork waving about as he did. “Mind you, mine are made of solid gold shards. That threatening enough for you, Samsquatch?”
Did he really have to purr his brother’s name like that? Was that really necessary? And Sam could at least have the decency to not blush when he rolled his eyes.
“You don’t scare me, Gabriel.” The statement was softened by the goddamn bashfulness of its speaker.
“Oh yeah?” Gabriel leered.
“Yea-“
“Well! I’m off to bed!” Dean excused himself. He dumped this plate and utensils into the sink and rushed his way back to his bedroom, avoiding all eye contact.
“Goodnight you two. Thanks for the food, Gabe!”
***
Meanwhile, somewhere in heaven.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here, Castiel.” Bartholomew announced, obnoxiously loud, pushing himself out of his chair with an exaggerated groan.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve crowning yourself king, Bartholomew.”
He wished his brother would just leave him alone to rule heaven in peace, but it was not like the resistance was a surprise. They had warned him when he claimed the throne for himself. The angel of Thursday liked to interfere, driven by the sexually transmitted righteousness he contracted from some monster hunter on Earth. Castiel was no threat, not to the powers amassed by Bartholomew in sheer numbers alone. Nevertheless, he was prepared, just in case. This was no cheesy baseball movie; he was not a fan of last minute underdog plot twist.
“I’m here to negotiate. We either come to an agreement, or you die,” he said, eliciting a tired sigh from Bartholomew.
With a snap of his fingers, Castiel was surrounded by his guards in mere seconds after his not so grand entrance. Armed with angel blades, two of them stood on either side of him, so close that their elbows brushed with the smallest of movements. Despite the proximity of eternal death, the angel kept a straight face, which eternally pissed Bartholomew off. The guy could’ve at least run a comb through his hair or bothered to straighten his tie or something.
“I have half a mind to slit your throat and take your grace,” he smiled, instead.
“Bartholomew.” He narrowed his eyes. “My grace is of no use to you, you –“ A guttural growl interrupted the sentiment and had Castiel awkwardly shuffling his feet against the carpeted floor.
The intruder paused, gaping wide-eyes at the ground. Bartholomew blinked impatiently at him, inviting an explanation, but Castiel paid him no attention. The angel, Bartholomew thought, blood boiling in his chest, seemed to be otherwise preoccupied.
Suddenly, panic slapped Castiel across the face, from which he recovered rapidly, but not entirely. He squared his shoulders in face of Bartholomew, but his demeanor remained tense, a perfect display of discomfort. He looked like he was fighting off a possession.
“My grace is of no use to you,” he refrained.
“True...” Bartholomew frowned suspiciously, bracing himself for another one of his episodes. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t have fun ripping it out of you, making you watch as I tear you apart one molecule of pure light at a time. Then, once your being is destroyed, I’ll scatter your heavenly entrails into the fires of the universe, never to be found, I’ll –hey, are you okay?”
They told him he’d come, but they also told him he was a ruthless, stone-cold killer with the unshakeable faith that he was doing the “right” thing. This angel looked like he was denied a trip to the bathroom.
“What?” Castiel squeaked, followed by an all too audible gulp.
Beads of sweat formed at his brow and what was simply a light blush colouring his cheeks a few seconds ago spread all across his face in a bright red flash of skin and disappeared under his collar.
“I asked if you were okay... do you need some water or something?”
“I’m –“ he cleared his throat, “I’m fine.”
He didn’t sound fine. Bartholomew was no expert on humanity, but Castiel’s croaking vessel looked very ill. His breathing was raspy and left his mouth in shallow puffs of air.
“What the –Guys uh... give him some room?”
His guards backed away, just as confused as he was. This could all be a trick, of course, but vessels couldn’t get sick when possessed by an angel, which could only mean one thing. It wasn’t the vessel that was sick, but Castiel himself.
Things were not going as planned.
“D-don’t underestimate me Bartholomew. I –ugh. I will kill you i-if I need to.” His speech slurred and of all the things that had walked through his office doors to kill him, this was the weirdest.
“Look, maybe you should lay down first...” He was beginning to worry. What if this was some kind of angel virus? What if it was contagious?
“Are you th-that –fuck.” Castiel’s eyes rolled back into his head. “Are you that s-scared o-oh! Of me?” He whimpered through grating teeth.
“Not really, no.” Bartholomew replied, rolling his eyes and pulling the collar of his shirt over his mouth and nose. “Castiel, maybe you should go.”
“Not before I –“ Castiel pulled out his angel blade from inside his coat, but stumbled on his first step forward. Knees shaking, Castiel whined like a wounded animal.
“Oh good Lord,” he breathed. “How did he –why is he...” The blade fell from his grasp and his shaking body slouched to stay on its feet.
“How did he what? Who are you talking about?” Bartholomew shouted, the sound muffled from underneath his shirt.
Castiel regained his composure, straightened his posture for a second time, and would have looked halfway decent if it weren’t for the treachery of his eyes. They were huge, his pupils were huge, and both were wavering worriedly.
“Sorry. Be right back.”
Bartholomew grimaced at the empty space in the middle of his office where the angel promising his doom had stood moments ago.
“What the fuck.”
***
Soft was an understatement. This was a surreal sensory experience, one beyond anyone has ever felt. Dean could count the nerves on the tips of his fingers, he could feel them, he was aware of them, they were there. They were there with every brush of the vane, as the blackness danced and molded itself to the curve of every phalange. Every barb, every barbule, every damn hooklet lit up his skin, goose bumps rose and fell, and every bone in his body shook out one quaking shudder after another in response to this foreign level of touch.
There exist colours human’s cannot see; a concept that Dean has trouble wrapping his head around until now because humans were never meant to feel this, he was sure. His brain’s capacities threatened to shut down in computing the properties of the feather, like wobbling knees giving away. It knew. His body knew. Every cell constituting his very being knew that they had just come in contact with the divine and were doing all they could to contain it.
He was in overdrive. He felt light headed and the vane hadn’t travelled further than the crease at the meeting of his fingers and palm.
It felt amazing and terrifying all at the same time. He was an addict on the verge of an overdose, but decided to ignore his body’s warnings. Desperately, he ran the feather over as many parts of him as he could.
He wanted more. He wanted to be draped in feathers, covered in a blanket made of Castiel’s wings. Hell, covered in Castiel’s wings, period!
The tip of the feather froze against the tendon of his neck.
Huh.
Hesitant, like a child about to do something he knew he’d get into trouble for, Dean placed the feather next to him on the bed. The idea dangerously blossoming in his head subdued the shallow dive from the high into the low from the loss of pleasure. The idea, though, promised more pleasure. Mind-blowing pleasure. The thought alone constrained the space in Dean’s jeans. The question of ethics did not.
Feather-play isn’t unheard of, Dean’s past boredoms made sure he was aware of that, but this feather belonged to someone. It belonged to Castiel and good God Dean was going to pass out because didn’t that just make this all a hundred times hotter.
His shaking hands split up, one undoing his pants, the other reaching for the feather.
Castiel won’t know, he told himself. Gabriel said the feather was from soldier’s wings. There was no way of knowing whose feather it was if they were all the same. It could be from any angel soldier!
Dean was just about to cringe at the thought of Balthazar’s wings running over his body, but was interrupted by the feather his hand thought to hold against his freed erection.
“Fuck. Yes.” Dean groaned, running the tip of the feather along the shaft of his cock.
There was hardly any friction, the touch resembling a tickle more than any sort of contact, but his sense of touch abandoned ship and poured out of the rest of his body to gather at his dick. Dean lost feeling everywhere, except for where the feather ran and his fledgling orgasm.
He dipped the tip of the feather into his slit, watching the precum accumulate and drip over the barbs and along the rachis. The sight made his arousal surge inside him tenfold and conjured an image of a soaked wing, running over his cock in its entirety, an angel running his body over his in its entirety.
“Cas...” Dean breathed. He curved the feather around himself, making sure not to strain it too much so it wouldn’t snap. He began to stroke, the feather playing a sensual intermediate between his hand and his length.
He thought of Cas’ wings cocooning them as he rode him, the both of them trapped against each other behind a curtain of jet black feathers that took him on a trip every time they brushed his skin.
“Cas,” he moaned again. The feather was damp with precum and sweat, its barbs clung to Dean’s fingers and palm. He ran it over his abdomen, leaving behind a wet trail, and shuddered as the tip flicked against a nipple.
His energy was draining. Responding to the feather’s touch alone, the fidgeting, the twitching, the shivering, the squirming... it was enough to bring him halfway to exhaustion. He did not know how much more his body could take.
Dean brought the feather to his lips, ghosting their outline and teasing the rachis with the tip of his tongue. He groaned, closing his eyes, and jerked himself off with his free hand.
“Caaaas,” he whined against the feather.
“Dean.”
“Cas, yes.”
“Dean?”
“Ca –”
Dean froze mid-stroke, eyes snapping wide open and gluing themselves to the ceiling in fear of facing the figure standing by the side of the bed. It would also be a good idea to remove the feather from his gaping mouth.
“Where did you –”
“It’s Balthazar’s!” Dean shouted, bouncing a foot off the bed and chucking the feather at Castiel’s chest.
It didn’t make the distance, being a feather and all, but Dean watched in awe as the angel caught it mid air and made it disappear in his palm like some cheap magic trick.
“Don’t you dare,” Castiel snapped, pinning Dean in place with one stone cold look and, much to his amazement, began to shuck of his trench coat.
Coat on the ground, Castiel began to unbutton his shirt and Dean didn’t know where to look.
“What...”
“Don’t you tease me, Dean.” He growled, bunching up the shirt and chucking it hard to the floor.
“I’m not –“
“Oh, no?” Castiel stepped closer, dipping a knee into the edge of the mattress.
Dean mustered all the courage in the world to let his gaze leave those furious blue eyes and wander downward on the trail that was Castiel’s tie hanging loosely on bare skin.
“So you weren’t touching yourself with a feather from my wings while I was off facing death?”
“I – How did you know?” Dean stammered.
With one swift motion, Castiel swung his other leg around Dean’s form, straddling him and leaning back against his bent knees. A guttural chuckle escaped his lips as he loosened his tie even more and slid it off his neck. He leaned forward, pressing his body to Dean’s inch by inch, tugging his T-shirt up as he moved. Once their faces were but an inch apart, sharing exhale and inhale, and Castiel’s bulge pressed against Dean’s bare cock, the angel spoke sharply through his shaking breaths.
“One usually takes notice when a hot, wet tongue runs through their grace.”
The idea of closing the distance between them was hardly conceived in Dean’s mind when Castiel crushed their lips together. It was a bruising kiss. Dean would be lying if he said it didn’t hurt, but that was how Castiel seemed to be taking things: very aggressively.
The angel tore into him, licking and biting, and tugging at his lower lip with his teeth until it was drawn out between them before letting it go with a wet smack. They kissed mouths open, teeth sharp, and lips soaking wet. There was nothing sweet about it.
Castiel’s mouth travelled to Dean’s jaw, where his tongue licked a firm, clean stripe all along the bone. He shifted downwards, grinding down on Dean’s cock. Dean bared his throat, granting the angel access to what he was looking for.
“You think you can just –” Castiel sucked hard at the flesh at the base of Dean’s neck, “ –mark me and get away with it.” Suck. “Get yourself wet –” Bite. “ –all over my feather.” Lick. “And expect me not to retaliate?”
“Oh God, Cas. Retaliate. Please baby, by all means, retaliate.” Dean moaned, his entire body arching against Cas.
Castiel pulled back and Dean realised how bad his neck was stinging. There were going to be some nasty marks in the morning, ones he had no intention of hiding.
The danger in the angel’s eyes retreated for a moment in the name of his famous head tilt. Castiel narrowed his quizzical gaze and muttered a quiet ‘very well.’
Their mouths collided once more, softer this time, slower too. Dean let his tongue wander in Cas’ mouth and his hand bury itself in his hair, while the other ventured between their chests to tweak at a nipple.
“Mmm,” Castiel hummed and Dean opened his eyes to see his face, to see if he liked being touched by him, but was met only by blackness and itchy fabric.
“Did you blindfold me with your tie?”
“Yes. I’m afraid it’s necessary.”
“Necessary for what?” Dean felt like an idiot, moving his head left and right, as if it would grant him his sight back. But then, he heard them.
The sound of flapping wings was followed by the feeling of a new presence in the room and it took every fiber of control Dean possessed not to rip the stupid tie off his face that instant.
This urge did not last. Every nerve in Dean’s body lit up and reached out under his skin as Castiel’s wings pressed all along him. Not one feather, but countless feathers, spreading against the skin of his arms, his shoulders, his legs, and even his face. Castiel had him completely surrounded, barricaded underneath his wings. Dean squirmed against the overload of sensuality. This was it. This is what he had wanted, to be entirely covered, draped in all that was Castiel and it still wasn’t enough.
Blindly, Dean shifted under Castiel’s weight and reached over his head, into the drawer of the nightstand where the feather used to be.
“Dean, are you –” Castiel was met midsentence by a small bottle branded with two letters being handed to him. He need not wait long for an explanation.
“Cas, I want you to fuck me.”
That was it. That was what he was missing. Cas, inside him and his wings all over the rest of his body.
“Beg.”
“What?!”
“Beg for it.” Dean heard the bottle cap open. “Beg like you were begging with the feather.”
Castiel leaned back and tugged Dean’s pants halfway down his legs. Dean took over from there.
One slicked finger pressed firmly at his entrance and was quickly joined by a second one, scissoring and stretching him out.
“Ngh, Cas. So good.” Dean threw his head back and moaned.
“Yeah? You like that, Dean?”
He nodded.
“I’m glad you do, ‘cause it’s all your getting unless –”
“No! Baby, please. Give me more. I need more,” Dean whined, bucking against Cas’ fingers as they worked him open.
A third digit was added almost immediately, as Castiel began to thrust his fingers deeper and deeper into Dean. His wings, on the other hand, were drawn back, and only hardly touched Dean with the occasional thrust.
“Cas... mm-wings.”
“Soon,” he assured, hot breath gliding over his holy shit was he actually going to –
Castiel’s lips swallowed his cock without precedent, his tongue swirling around the tip and dipping into the slit, as his fingers continued to rhythmically fuck him. The hot wetness of his mouth enveloped him as the angel took him all the way in. Dean laced his fingers into Cas’ hair as he bobbed his head up and down the shaft. His other hand gripped the sheets, fending off an early orgasm and the urge to tear the blindfold to shreds.
“Fuck, how are you so good at that?” Dean hissed. “Wish I could see that pretty little mouth right now.”
“Spent a lot of time thinking about it, I suppose,” he moved his lips against his dick as he spoke and Dean wanted both to fuck his mouth and pull him up for a heated kiss all at the same time.
Dean writhed beneath him, losing himself with every curl of Castiel’s fingers inside him and the increasing suction of his mouth.
“Oh my God, Cas. I’m ready,” he bucked into his mouth and against his fingers. “Just fuck me Cas, please. I’ll do anything. I’ll let you do anything, please just...”
And with that, it was all gone. Fingers and mouth were replaced with the promising sound of the cap being opened again and Castiel slicking himself up.
When Castiel hooked one of Dean's legs over his shoulder, alulae feathers tickled the sole of his foot, sending him squirming and whining for more contact.
"Sshh," Castiel silenced him, placing a calming open palm at the center of his abdomen. "Relax."
Dean felt Cas' tip prodding at his entrance and just the idea of feeling the angel's dick for the first time was enough to send Dean spiraling. He bit back a groan and spread his thighs further apart. He was going to fall to pieces if Cas didn't fill him at that very second. His cock would be the only thing holding him together, because the promise of feather-on-skin was not helping.
"Dean!" Castiel cried in surprise as he pushed the head in, excruciatingly slow, flesh stretching against flesh. "Dean, I can't…"
It was his turn to calm his angel down. Dean reached out with both his hands for Cas' and, once slender fingers were pressed against his calluses, Dean placed them on the underside of his thighs.
"It's okay, baby. Yes, you can," he whispered. "C'mere."
Hands on top of his, Dean guided Castiel as they pushed his legs up to his knees.
"It'll be easier for you like -this!" Dean gasped, because apparently, Cas had picked up on the idea rather quickly. The angel thrust the rest of himself into Dean with one sudden movement. The rough entry stung, no matter how much Dean shifted his hips to adjust to the feeling. The stretch was straining, as he tentatively clenched his walls around Cas.
"Fucking Christ," the angel hissed, pulling out halfway. "Dean…"
Castiel pushed back into him, even rougher this time. "Do that again," he growled.
Dean wished he could see Cas, losing his composure, finally giving in to the drives of his physical form. He tightened his walls around the angel's cock again, the fullness more pleasing this time.
"Dean, you feel so good. So tight," Castiel moaned and began to move with a rhythm, pulling out of Dean almost entirely and pummelling right back in, all the way to the hilt. The angel varied the angle of his hips with every thrust, until Dean was a whimpering, arching mess beneath him.
"There, Cas…" Dean breathed, words barely audible.
"Here?" He teased, ramming into dean with all fervor and hitting that same spot as hard as he could.
"Fuck, yes... Cas… Right there." Dean groaned through gritting teeth, clutching at the sheets to keep himself from flying off the edge.
Buried entirely inside Dean, Castiel leaned forward, pushing Dean's knees further up, almost to his shoulders. The sound of wings unfurling with sinister slowness sent millions of minuscule shivers running all over Dean's body. When they fell all around him, it was like a curtain had been dropped, and Dean was surrounded by a new kind of darkness.
"I'm going to fuck you like this," Castiel whispered against the shell of his ear. His voice was somehow deeper from under the thick canopy of feathers. "So no one except me can see your face when I make you come."
Castiel pounded into him with abandon, rhythmically snapping his hips hard against Dean and pushing deep inside him every time. Dean was almost on the verge of screaming. He loved having Cas inside him, he loved his feathers running over his frame with every thrust. He felt heat pooling in his gut and he knew he wasn't going to last long. Castiel was fucking him into the mattress and bracing himself against the headboard was tempting, but Dean had a better idea.
Reaching out into the pitch black, Dean's fingers buried themselves into a tuff of soft, inky feathers and clutched them hard.
For a moment, everything stopped.
"Oh, Dean." Castiel let out a guttural growl that must have belonged to animal once upon a time and collapsed against Dean's chest.
And then, everything started up again.
Castiel pressed himself against Dean, from his forehead to his cock in his ass. He continued to rut against him, sliding up and down his body as Dean continued to run his fingers through layers and layers of black feathers.
"Dean…" the angel almost sobbed as Dean tugged exceptionally hard on a handful. Castiel's movements took a sporadic turn with every touch of his wings. Dean would give anything to watch his angel loose himself the way he was, mumbling crazy Enochian under his breath.
"You're so sensitive, angel. You're gonna kill me with those noises."
Castiel picked up his pace, furiously thrusting into Dean as they panted against each other's mouths.
"Touch yourself," he commanded. "Touch yourself while you touch me."
Dean reached between them and fisted his cock, while his other hand dipper lower to run through the larger feathers closer to the bottom. He pumped himself in line with Castiel's movements, which were growing faster and faster as their orgasms built between them.
Through the sweet sound of slapping skin, clinking belt buckles, wet thrusts, and ruffling feathers, Castiel whimpered against the nook of Dean's neck.
"Dean I- I'm gonna -"
"Fuck Cas, keep going. Don’t you pull out, angel," Dean panted.
With low grunt, Dean arched his back against the smooth skin and feathers and let Castiel fuck him through his orgasm. He came on their stomachs, the stickiness spreading as Castiel gave Dean's ass one last pounding before emptying himself inside him.
The flutter of wings almost went unheard beneath the sound of their heaving breaths. Dean's blindfold was abruptly pulled down his face, but the room's dim lighting spared him any blinding. His blinked his eyes back into work and smirked at the sight focusing before him. Castiel, head on his chest, his hair sticking out in every indecent direction possible, softening cock still inside him, smiled up at him sheepishly.
“Fuck, you look hot like that,” Dean growled, pulling Cas closer to him to press a kiss at the top of his head. “Not wearing a blindfold next time.”
“You must. The sight of my wings will burn your eyes out,” Castiel stated the fact, like Dean was some kind of idiot.
“Who said anything about wings?”
“But the feather –“
“Is a small part of greater whole. A sexier whole.”
“My wings?”
“No... you.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Plus, I wanna actually see that filthy mouth of yours at work.”
“I’m sure you will,” Castiel chuckled and stirred against Dean. “But Dean... how did you even get a hold of the feather?”
“You left it behind last time you left.”
“I thought so. You should’ve given it to Gabriel for safekeeping.”
Dean frowned. “Funny, Gabe’s the one who told me to hold on to it.”
One second he had an armful of angel and none the next. He would have complained if it weren’t just so goddamn funny.
“GABRIEL, YOU RAT!” Castiel shouted into the hallway, fly and belt hanging open. “I WILL SMITE YOU.”