Genre: Wing!Fic, Humor, Crack
Rating: R
Word Count: 940
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Vague Season 5
Summary: Dean could deal with wings. But this was goddamn ridiculous.
Author Notes: Short and silly. Good old fashioned wing!fic. Humor? Well, I tried :)
Dean could deal with wings. Hell, he could even deal with white, fluffy feathers that sparkled and leaked glitter, if he had to.
But this - this was goddamn ridiculous.
He'd always suspected an angel's wings would reflect their mood. A bit like a cat's ears or tail. It would make sense.
He'd just never expected them to be so… dangerous.
The first time Cas had shown them, they'd been pretty much as expected: large, black, and… well, feathery.
He was relieved at least they weren't white. White wings wouldn't really suit his bad-ass holy tax accountant and his tight, pert little…
Anyway.
It might have been helpful to pay more attention to just how bad-ass Cas was. He could have been a little more prepared.
In hindsight, he also should have listened when Cas warned him.
Once he saw the wings, he could never unsee them. They'd always be visible to him, and Dean would always be able to physically feel them. No going back. And, according to one gravel-voiced, blue-eyed seraph, it would change everything.
A little ominous, he'd thought at the time. Cas had a tendency to be over-dramatic. He was Dean Winchester, seasoned hunter and (until recently) ladies man extraordinaire. He could deal with pretty much anything. That was simply a fact.
Ask anyone.
(Except Sam or Bobby).
In hindsight, Dean should have listened to a lot of things, of course. Story of his life.
As he'd expected, the wings changed dramatically according to Cas' mood.
Normally, they settled behind him, soft and relaxed. The tips hovered an inch or so above the ground. The rounded joints curving slightly over his shoulders to rest either side of his head.
Every single feather fluffed out when Cas was aroused, as though the angel was charged with static electricity. They'd flap erratically (Dean only once referred to them as pigeon-like – and lived to regret it) and when Cas was close to the edge, they'd tremble before tensing up and freezing entirely.
After coming, Cas' wings would relax instantly, like a marionette with it's strings cut, draping heavily over whatever happened to be beneath him: the bed, the floor, the table, Dean.
It certainly gave Dean incentive to climax first, even if it was against his number one bedroom ethic. He learned quickly, though, how hard it was to finish with a mouthful of black feathers.
Amused - the black appendages would twitch once or twice. Cas sometimes disappeared, as though he was ashamed of getting the joke.
In the past, Dean would earn a glare, maybe an exasperated sigh. But it was difficult when the angel's wings gave him away.
Sad - they'd droop, of course, as you'd expect. Sometimes hanging so low as to drag a little behind him. It was a tripping hazard minus the 'wet-floor' sign, but dealt with easily enough.
Being hyper aware of your environment was a habit never broken for a Hunter. So avoiding an occasional droopy wing was nothing. That being said, there may have been one outburst of "For god's sake, cheer up or move your feathery ass" followed by two weeks of sleeping on the couch – figuratively speaking.
It was all mostly uneventful, though, if a little odd. Occasionally it was handy – so when he whispered something dirty in Cas' ear, he could prepare himself for either a huffy disappearance or a sudden angel-express trip to the nearest available hotel room.
But an angry angel was another matter entirely.
Cas couldn't control them a great deal, which usually wasn't a major problem. It was mostly instinctive, a kind of subconscious reflex. That lack of control was painfully obvious the first time they fought.
The massive argument was most likely over something slight - Dean couldn't even remember what it was. All he remembered was Cas slamming him into a brick wall and hoping against all hope that it meant hard, fast, good old fashioned hate-sex.
His grin faded though as Cas' wings flared out to their full height and width. They extended the entire length of the warehouse they'd been scouting. He watched the feathers flatten slightly and Cas' blue eyes turn steely gray.
Then a high pitched scraping sound had filled the air around them – not unlike the sound of a blade being sharpened – and Dean knew that sound intimately. Cas had growled low... actually growled. He'd never heard the angel make a sound quite like it.
Locking his eyes on Cas was easy now, angelic laser-stare be damned. Dean could give as good as he got. But a faint glint of light caught his attention and a closer inspection of the wings made him second guess the retort about to leave his mouth.
Cas' wings had turned silver. It was a dullish gray not unlike brushed metal. The feathers stood on end, each pointed toward him, like a bundle of iron shavings attracted to a magnet.
Of course, it was the individual feathers that held his attention most. Every fiber along the quills had solidified and turned sharp. Thin and sharp. Thin and sharp and metallic.
Yep. His angel's wings had pretty much morphed into a blanket of knives.
And sharper than knives – more like goddamn razor blades. Every last one.
A beating he could take, but yeah. This was a little different.
Hindsight was a bitch, but he'd wanted this so much, almost begged Cas to show him.
Curiosity killed the cat, sure. But Dean would bet his ass it wasn't shredded in the process.
He'd been right all along… he hadn't known just how right.
Don't ...no, really, don't... piss off the nerd angels.
~end~