The prompt was: wings, angst, smut. And I tried to make the very best of it.
"You're a fucking idiot," Dean tells him.
Castiel sighs.
"I know. I should have noticed earlier that they were closing in on us."
Dean scoffs and shakes his head, absent-mindedly digging the heel of his boot into the ground.
"Not what I meant, Cas. You went fucking kamikaze back there," he says accusingly. "I didn't exactly see what happened, but one moment there were three of them, and then there were none."
The image of two Leviathans charging on Dean while the third one chokes him to the ground flashes before Cas's eyes, and his throat constricts painfully. It was a really close call. Too close.
"You were in trouble. I helped you out," he says, schooling his expression into something neutral despite the agonizing sensation gnawing at his muscles. He tries to inconspicuously shift his weight, and has to bite down a grunt when the movement sends a spike of pain through him.
Of course, Dean notices immediately.
"They got you, didn't they."
"I… no, I'm good."
Dean stands up so abruptly it makes Cas jump a little, and this time he can't help but wince, fingers curling into a fist at his side.
"Okay, stop bullshitting me. You're clearly in pain. Where did they get you?"
Dean's eyes sweep over Cas, looking for wounds or bruises, but apart from the usual layer of grime and dirt that has become almost like a second skin to both of them, he can't identify any visible injuries.
"I'm fine, Dean. Go to sleep."
"Don't patronize me!" Dean snaps. He ostentatiously moves closer to Cas, the distance between them shrinking to an arm's length. Castiel lets him, and it's his first mistake.
"Level with me," Dean insists. "Come on, you took on three Levis at once and now you're wincing like someone's poking you with a cactus, but I can't see a damn scratch on you. What the hell happened, exactly?"
Castiel can't help but sigh at the fervor in Dean's tone. Almost a year spent in Purgatory, and he still cares too much. Incurable.
"They attacked you from different directions. I wouldn't have been able to fight them off fast enough, so I did the only thing I could think of to immobilize all of them at once."
"Which is?" Dean prompts impatiently.
Cas looks away.
"I knocked them down with my wings."
"You–" Dean cuts himself off, eyebrows shooting up almost to his hairline. Cas still doesn't meet his eyes and inspects his own hands instead. Weird, those hands. They're starting to feel like his own.
"I haven't seen them," Dean manages at last. "Hey," he adds, snapping his fingers in front of Cas's face to make him look up. When Castiel finally does, his expression is stern and closed off.
"That's because your senses can't perceive them. I have already told you that before."
Dean watches him silently for a moment, clearly mulling over something in his head.
"So that's where you're hurt?" he asks at last. When Cas nods reluctantly, Dean moves even closer, close enough for his breath to ghost over Castiel's cheek.
"Show me," he demands.
"Dean, that's not–"
"I know you can make me see them. Show me."
Castiel grits his teeth, but he knows this tone, knows this look on Dean's face, and he's too tired to fight it, so he lets his eyelids flutter shut and concentrates. When he opens his eyes again, the expression on Dean Winchester's face is worth every single feather he lost that day. The green eyes widen in wonder as they flick from left to right, taking in the miserable sight that Castiel's wings must present. Cas doesn't turn to look at them, but he knows they're anything but impressive now, so much thinner and weaker than they used to be.
"Is this it?" Dean asks quietly, pointing at Cas's left wing. There's a tear running down the middle of it, feathers around it sparse and blooming with bloody red.
Not waiting for an answer, Dean takes a step toward the injured wing. He touches it lightly, pulling away instantly at Cas's sharp intake of breath. Sorry, he mouths, but Cas only shakes his head, I know, it's fine.
"Will it heal?" Dean asks, hands hovering over the gush.
"Eventually."
A frown creases Dean's forehead, and he turns back to Cas.
"Is there something I can do?"
"No."
"You sure?"
Cas can't help but roll his eyes at that.
"Pretty sure, Dean. It's not exactly the first time my wings got injured. I know how this goes."
The information doesn't seem to appease Dean; on the contrary, he frowns even deeper as he gently brushes his knuckles next to the mangled spot, where the feathers grow denser and thicker.
A quiet, but unmistakable sigh escapes Cas's lips at the contact. Dean looks at him hesitantly before repeating the movement, the back of his hand pressing softly to the ink-black feathers.
The tenderness of the gesture elicits a tiny smile from Castiel, and it's his second mistake.
Encouraged, Dean runs his fingers more confidently along the curve of the wing. He seems reluctant to stop, slowly moving up until he's standing face to face with Cas and his fingers slide from the wing to Cas's shoulder. Dean grips it and squeezes, forcing Cas to meet his gaze.
"I know you were trying to help, but promise you'll be more careful in the future, alright?" he says seriously. "I'd like to bring you back home in one piece, if you don't mind."
The smile dies on Cas's lips, his chest clenching with guilt. He should tell Dean, tell him right here and now that he's not coming. Castiel is many things, but he's not cruel, and letting Dean believe they can both be saved borders on malice.
"Dean..."
"I didn't spend two months running around monster land and tracking you down just to lose you in the home stretch. We're both gonna make it topside. Understood?"
He should say, "I can't leave, Dean." He should explain, "This is where I deserve to be." He looks up, determined to get the words out this time. His eyes lock with Dean's, and what he finds there crumbles his resolve in no time flat, sending the world crushing down around him.
It's hope. It's tentative and fragile, but definitely there, like a shimmering flame that's just as likely to grow as it is to get snuffed out by the briefest gust of wind. It's a soft light that Castiel has too often craved to see shining through those green eyes. The hope that abandoned Dean when he decided to give himself up to Michael, or when he knelt on the threshold of Lucifer's cage, coming to terms with the fact that he'd never see his brother again.
Dean Winchester suffers from permanent deficiency of hope, but there it is now, reemerged, subtly but visibly brightening his features from within, and Castiel can't bring himself to squash it.
The problem is, he can't lie either. He can't look Dean in the eye and say "I'll look after myself better," because he most definitely will not, and lying to Dean is not a viable option anymore.
Castiel is acutely aware of Dean watching him, and realizes he's expected to answer. And so, between his inability to lie and his need for atonement, he makes his third mistake: he leans in and kisses Dean.
It is merely a distraction, of course, just something to make Dean forget about the promise Castiel was supposed to give him. Except it stops being a distraction fairly quickly, Dean responding in earnest and clasping his hands over Cas's bearded jaw. Mouths part, teeth catch on lips, tongues meet and just like that, they're both coming undone, the conversation forgotten.
While Dean seems to have lost himself completely, nothing holding him back as he feverishly moves his hands across Cas's cheekbones and neck, down his arms and around his waist, Castiel still struggles to keep a clear head, because this was not the plan. The plan was to deliver Dean safe and sound to the portal, causing him as little disappointment as possible along the way. The lips nibbling on Cas's neck were definitely not factored in, nor were the fingers sliding under his shirt and tugging at his hips. Castiel simply wanted to distract Dean from forcing him to make a promise that couldn't be kept, but now he is the one being distracted, and this was not the plan, but–
But it is now, because Dean fists his hands into Cas's trench coat and tugs at it so hard that they both topple backwards. The impact is too light, not as painful as the laws of gravity demand it to be, and Dean glances up at Cas in confusion. His eyes widen when he realizes what has softened their fall. The wings beat a few times, steadying them on the ground. The maimed one sends a zing of pain through Castiel, but he ignores it. It's the least important of all the sensations crowding in on him at the moment.
"Handy," Dean murmurs, his tone balancing somewhere between amused and impressed. He laughs breathlessly, expression nothing short of awed as he looks up at the silhouette looming over him. Entranced by the dark shapes of wings imposing against the sky, Dean goes lax and pliant, unfolding before Castiel. His mouth moves around a single word, not spoken but breathed soundlessly: wow.
Castiel loses the fight. This is not a choice anymore.
Impatiently, he pulls off Dean's jacket and button-up, letting them pool under Dean's back to protect it from the hard forest floor. He presses their chests together, ribs crushing almost painfully, and buries his face in the crook of Dean's neck, sucking at the soft skin and scraping his teeth against it. Dean's body shudders in response, a delightful vibration that's like an earthquake fracturing Castiel's bones. Dean's hands drag along Cas's back, starting with his shoulder blades and catching on the base of his wings. The sensation makes Castiel groan into the curve of Dean's collarbone and grind helplessly against him.
"Dean–"
"I know."
Gentle fingers start to roam around the expanse of Cas's feathers, stroking and rubbing tentatively, as if Dean wasn't sure how far he's actually allowed to go. He gets bolder, though, perhaps encouraged by the low sounds pressed directly into his ear, and his gestures become less cautious. The trembling, clumsy touch was already enough to send bolts of lightning down Castiel's wings, but now – now Dean's movements are purposeful and uninhibited. Careful to evade the injured spot, he sinks his fingers deep into the feathers, dragging his nails through them and pulling not-so-lightly until Castiel is writhing and shaking on top of him. Through the haze of new sensations he's currently drowning in, Castiel vaguely registers he's murmuring something to Dean, but whatever that might be, he has no idea. He barely even notices when one of Dean's hands travels down, and only catches on when his zipper is opened and his slacks are halfway down his thighs.
Cas fumbles to return the favour, undoing Dean's jeans and tugging them down together with the underwear, because why wait, why is this taking so long, why did it take so long for them to get there, why are all those layers of clothing obstructing the inevitable?
He presses his palm against Dean's crotch and marvels at the delicious sound it elicits. The fingers buried in his wings still and twitch as Dean's body arches into Castiel.
"Cas, shit–"
He presses more firmly, more urgently before his hand naturally wraps itself around Dean's length and starts slowly moving up and down.
Castiel is absolutely mesmerized by the way Dean reacts to his touch, moving into it, circling his hips up and biting his lips in a futile attempt to silence himself. Why does he try to stay quiet, anyway?
"Don't hold it back," Castiel pleads, leaning down to brush his lips against Dean's jaw. He squeezes his fist harder, just to make a point, and Dean's whole frame trembles. A hand comes up to grab at Cas's bicep, squeezing back frantically.
"Fuck, we need to– I need you to–"
A flash of doubt crosses Dean's face even as he stifles a moan.
"We can't... shit, we can't do it. We'd need– fuck– we–"
Castiel leans back, steadying himself so that he's now confidently straddling Dean's hips. He knows where this is going, knows the mechanics of it, the theory, but he can't believe it's something Dean is willing to do. With him. Now.
His hand stills, and he fixes Dean with a heated stare.
"We can do it, if you want to."
Dean gapes at him, mouth open and cheeks flushed pink.
"Are we talking about the same–"
"I managed to adjust my wings to your human perception. Procuring some lubricant will hardly be challenging."
Dean groans, shifting under Cas and mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like fucking hell.
"You cheating little shit with your stupid angelic mojo," he grumbles, and then, without any warning, he grabs Cas's neck and drags him down into a deep kiss.
"Then do it," he whispers when they break apart for air, accentuating the request with a slow roll of his hips.
Cas growls at the friction and doesn't waste any more time, letting his right hand – now slick and slippery – skim down Dean's body and settle between his legs.
Dean tenses at the first contact, his hips bucking involuntarily. He looks a bit embarrassed at his own reaction, but determined nonetheless. Castiel instinctively reaches out to him and lays his left hand on Dean's lower abdomen, starting to trace small, comforting circles, all the while gently teasing and pressing the first finger in.
It takes some time, and perhaps the necessary slowing-down should have been enough for Cas to come to his senses. Perhaps this should have been his cue, his opportunity to snap out of it and realize the implications of what they were about to do. But Castiel can't be bothered to think clearly, not when Dean is unraveling before him, when Cas can watch him turn into a writhing mess and know that he, the poor excuse for an angel, is the reason.
He works Dean open as if he was solving the universe's biggest mystery, carefully adding the second finger, pausing, withdrawing, then slipping back and scissoring until Dean unwinds completely. Castiel has never really understood what humans meant when they said things like "Getting there is half the fun"; he's only ever been interested in absolutes, giving himself over to the cause or fighting against it with everything he had, but never stopping in-between, never really considering the process – just the outcome. Now, though, Castiel thinks he might be beginning to understand why making a few pauses on the way, no matter how important the final destination may seem, is not such a bad idea after all.
He moves excruciatingly slow, hypnotized by the view of his own fingers disappearing easily into Dean, and he wonders if he can delay it for just a bit longer, just a few more minutes, just so that he can sit here and watch the man sprawled before him until the image is etched permanently into his mind.
"Cas," Dean chokes out at last, blindly grabbing Cas's free wrist and wrapping his fingers around it as if he needed an anchor, or a lifeline, or possibly both.
"Yes," Castiel replies simply, planting a brief kiss over Dean's anti-possession tattoo. The skin that hits his lips is sweaty and smelly, and Cas takes it all in, lingering on it a bit longer than necessary before looking up at Dean. "Yes?" he repeats.
"Need you," Dean rasps out brokenly, in a way that almost makes Castiel believe it's true.
You don't, really. You'll be just fine. I promise you, you'll be fine.
Castiel catches Dean staring at him, expression unusually open and vulnerable, mouth opening and closing around a soundless plea. He relents.
You have me. All of me.
Cas swiftly withdraws his fingers and sinks into Dean before either of them can fully feel the loss.
"Jesus, Cas, Cas–"
Castiel is careful at first, going shallow and slow, but it doesn't take long before the guttural sounds escaping from Dean's throat encourage him to drive deeper. Everything around them stills and blanks out as they focus on each other, trying to find the right rhythm, the way with the other's body. Dean digs his heels into Cas's back and throws his arms around Cas's neck, holding on so tightly it borders on painful. Castiel basks in the feel of Dean's fingers boring into his flesh as he relentlessly rocks them against the ground.
He's lost. He forgets everything. He struggles to remind himself why being this close to Dean should be a bad thing, and his mind draws a blank. The wrecked sounds coming from beneath him don't help either, making it extremely hard to focus. Castiel is too wrapped up in feeling every inch of Dean moving under him, too fixated on the way Dean's chest trembles under his lips, too enraptured by the way Dean's legs tighten around his waist, desperately pulling Cas into himself. He can't take his eyes off the man splayed beneath him, and he drinks him in with almost maniacal deliberation, driven by the need to know exactly what it is that he'll be leaving.
When Dean starts mumbling his name, Cas lowers himself as much as he can to hear him better over the slapping of skin-on-skin and the moans that escape them both. He hovers a mere inch away from Dean's mouth, letting the litany of CasCasCas pour directly onto his own lips. He cannot revel enough in the way his name rumbles in Dean's throat, too dirty to be a prayer but too needy to be anything else.
This is what he's letting go of, and this is what he has to remember. This is what counts.
As Dean writhes and gasps, bucking his hips to meet each thrust, Castiel catalogues.
With the same absolute attention he gives to everything, he mentally itemizes every little sound Dean makes, every time their skin touches, every brush of Dean's fingers over Castiel's arms and chest and wings. He memorizes the feel of blood pulsing under Dean's skin when he presses open-mouthed kisses to his neck, the fingernails digging into his scalp, and the hot puffs of breath occasionally tousling his hair.
It's not until they've both come, and Dean has draped his arms over Cas to tug him closer, mindless of smearing his come all over their stomachs, that Castiel sobers up and realizes what he's done.
He's just made everything worse. Unimaginably worse. If Dean was unwilling to let him go before, now there is no chance he will agree to just walk away. If the way Dean clings to him, humming against his neck and threading fingers through Cas's hair, is any indication, he won't listen. He'll physically drag Castiel out of Purgatory if he has to.
The fireworks exploded everywhere in a display that seemed to be worth absolutely anything, but now that it's over and Castiel is looking down at the burnt-out remains, he thinks he's just done the most selfish thing in his millennia-long existence.
How lucky that he can fix this. That this is perhaps the one and only thing he still can fix.
He leans back to take Dean's face in his hands and traces his thumbs over his cheeks. Their bodies are still pressed closely together, neither of them willing to break the contact even though the come starts drying off and the stickiness becomes uncomfortable.
Castiel's fingertips slide down to brush against Dean's lips, feeling their soft texture, filing it away for later. For the After when Dean Winchester will be saved and no longer here.
Right then, Dean looks up at him and smiles against Cas's fingers, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and happiness that makes Castiel's stomach sink to his knees.
"I can't believe it took us being sent to freaking Purgatory for this to happen," Dean says dazedly, slowly raking his hand through Cas's messy mop of hair. "You okay?" he adds when there's no reply. "Cas? Was it… did you–"
Dean's panic is almost palpable as he scrambles to prop himself on his elbows, cheeks stained a new shade of crimson that spreads down his neck.
"You regret it," he rather states than asks. His face shatters into pieces.
Castiel finally catches up with what's going on, and has to fight the bile rising in his throat. Even after what they just did, Dean can still believe Cas doesn't want him. How do you respond to such a ridiculous statement?
"I love you," he says sadly. "I truly do, with all I have."
Dean's breath hitches, and his mouth opens slowly, but Cas lifts his hand to stop him.
"Don't say anything. It wouldn't be fair for me to know and for you not to."
"What are you talking about?" Dean whispers anxiously, eyes round with worry. He's aware now that something's wrong, and Castiel hates himself for being the one to wipe that gorgeous, blissed-out look from Dean's face.
"I have to stay here, Dean. You must let me go."
In a matter of milliseconds, Dean's features mold into something fierce and furious, almost visibly hardening the line of his jaw.
"Like fuck am I leaving you here, Cas, you have gotta be fucking kidding me. You're going home with me, that's final, if you think even for a second I'll–"
Numbly, Castiel thinks it's actually better for Dean to shout at him than to plead with him. He can stand Dean's outrage, he can stand his fury and insults and ranting. What he wouldn't be able to handle – and he knows this with complete certainty – is Dean entreating him. Dean taking his hands in his own, looking at him soft and imploring before asking not to be left alone. Castiel wouldn't be able to do the right thing if Dean simply said, as direct and honest as it gets, "Don't leave me." "I need you" is just an expression of human sentiment, a declaration with no objective evidence to back it up. People don't know what they need, and Dean doesn't know either. But "Don't leave me", that's different. It's a request, and it could prove Castiel's undoing.
But Dean doesn't say it. It's not what Dean Winchester does. Thankfully.
"–you stupid motherfucker!" Dean finishes loudly, bringing Cas back to the here and now.
Castiel feels his vessel is going to be sick – which is weird and extremely unpleasant – but he doesn't change his mind. Body trembling, he leans forward and plants a kiss on Dean's forehead.
"Goodbye, Dean. I'll remember this for the both of us."
The skin beneath his lips crinkles into a confused frown, but he doesn't give Dean the time to formulate a question. He takes a short, painful breath and lets his grace do the deed.
When Dean's body goes heavy and limp in his arms, he deposits him on the ground and allows himself a few seconds to mourn. He counts down in his head, slowly, deliberately.
Three. I have ravished him.
Two. I have robbed him.
One. I am saving him.
He folds his wings back and hides them away, since there's no one to keep them visible for anymore. He cleans them both up, puts back and straightens rumpled clothes, gets rid of the marks his teeth left on Dean's skin – restores the illusion. With all traces of what has happened methodically erased, he begins to plant false evidence. Dean's handmade machete with an artistic sputter of blood on it. Heavy footprints on the ground. Broken twigs. Bodies of two vamps sprawled across the leaves, one of them with his head cut off and the other burnt out from his body by angelic grace.
Castiel calculates the appropriate distance, counts the steps, positions the head where it'd have fallen naturally. Dean's smart, he'd notice if something was amiss.
Cas kicks up the leaves some more, takes up one of the monsters' axes and sinks it into the ground, making a visible split before casting the weapon away. Just where the momentum of the vampire falling back would throw it.
Everything accounted for.
He walks back to Dean and squats by his side, brushing the pad of his right thumb over a freckled cheek. His skin crawls with disgust at his own mystification, at depriving Dean of what belongs to both of them, but there's no other way to fix it now. It's the right thing to do.
He presses two fingers to Dean's forehead and lets the false memories pour, put their roots down, settle between others. He's confident enough in his skill to know that when Dean wakes up, the freshly-embedded images will feel just a real to him as his own, perfectly filling the void left by the ones Castiel has extracted. What is that human saying? Out of sight, out of mind. Cas amends it now: out of mind, out of heart.
When Dean comes to with a gasp, Cas immediately drops his hand to his side.
"Are you alright?" he asks hoarsely.
It takes Dean a few seconds to find his bearings, eyes darting wildly around before settling back on Cas. He sits up a bit too fast and groans when his body protests against the movement.
"Ah, crap. My back's killing me."
"You hit the ground really hard," Cas says, offering Dean a hand. He hauls him up and lets go of him as soon as he's sure Dean can stand steadily on his own. Wordlessly, he watches as Dean looks around, taking in the carefully staged scene and putting the pieces together. The planted memories are evidently playing out in Dean's mind, causing his brow to furrow deeply.
Castiel has kissed that brow. And Dean doesn't know. How bizarre.
Out of some strange sense of duty, Cas once again goes over the story he's created. A story where he guarded himself better and didn't allow Dean to notice he'd been injured; a story where they were ambushed by vamps and where no one was kissing anybody.
"I can't believe I let a vamp knock me out like that," Dean says at last, wincing. "Christ, I feel like I've been fucked into next week."
The terrified expression on Cas's face makes him laugh as he reaches down to pick up his discarded machete.
"Don't look so scared, it's just an expression. Come on, let's go find Benny."
With that, Dean turns around and starts making his way through the wood as if nothing happened.
Which in his mind it didn't, of course.
They walk in silence for a while, Cas trailing a few steps behind Dean as he usually does. Not more than five minutes later he realizes that his eyes keep flicking down to Dean's waist and… below. He quickly looks away, embarrassment and shame prickling at his skin, but the urge soon proves to be uncontrollable. Every time, his gaze annoyingly drifts back to Dean's curves while his mind supplies him with vivid reminders of how it felt and tasted to have Dean Winchester give in to him. The stolen memory burns at the edges of his mind, replayed over and over and over.
Cheeks flushed red and hands itching with the need to reach out and touch, Castiel finally understands that in making the situation easier for Dean, he made it a million times worse for himself, and that this – this is where his penance really starts.