This part isn't really M Rated, but future chapters will be. Please Review.
My boyfriend keeps his halo on the nightstand. From my side of his bed I can just see a glowing arc of it, obscured by my wallet and a box of tissues. His sheets are white and the lacy bed-skirt hangs down all the way to the floor, where it swishes about softly in the breeze that comes in through the open bay window. We're not exactly on the beach, but we're close enough that you can almost taste the salt in the air.
I always wake to see him stretching his slightly-muscular arms, yawning and making soft sighs to himself. Sometimes he hugs his broad shoulders. Sometimes he sits cat-like on his haunches, with his hands together in front of him. Sometimes he sways and coos as if receiving a gentle caress; his eyelids flutter, and he smiles, with his mouth closed, content.
For a little while I pretend to be asleep, watching him enjoy the breeze and the sunlight, the coolness of the bed, or whatever it is that seems to bring him so much happiness. He wriggles his shoulders and unfurls his wings; blowing the silk canopy outwards. The billowing sheet collapses in slow motion as he folds them in again. His raven-like black feathers are sweet and smooth; rich, earthy, but somehow immaculately pure. I hold my breath and drink in their beauty as they slide silently together and flutter across his naked body. Castiel, he looks how apple pie tastes.
He fits the halo above his head, its glow warming his dark hair. He rises from bed with his wings tucked curtly across his nude back. His toes touch the floor and he glides across the room, hips swaying as if he weighs nothing at all.
I'm trying to catch a glimpse of his ass wiggling as he walks, but his wing-tips are in the way. He arches his back and tosses his head, and I'm watching the crisp morning light play across his sides and back. After all this time, I'm still consumed with lust for him. Kissing his lips is like drinking great draughts of cool milk and spiced honey. I wonder, not for the first time, if this is all wrong. I even asked him once, when he was still flush and sticky with sex, "Cas," I asked him, "Is this wrong?"
Maybe I'll never know. Maybe I have to figure it out for myself. He kneels at the window. Birds are just starting to sing outside, and he runs his comb through his crazy hair in a vain attempt to make it look presentable. Watching him, I fall back into the lazy sort of late-morning dreams that are so full of meaning at the time, but later I know will seem foolish. As the morning breaks, I can see him in little snips and vignettes, half mixed in with my wandering dreams. Now he's singing gently. Now he's eating half a grapefruit and licking the spoon. When I finally throw the sheets off and sit up, he's leaning on the bed at my feet, resting his chin in his hands. He says, "Good morning, Dean."
Cereal with little slices of fruit for breakfast. Clean clothes folded at the foot of the bed. I don't know why I've got things so good; I don't know why I deserve Cas. Before he leaves for work I make love to him up against the breakfast bar. "Make love", that's always what I call it with him. Other boys I used to "fuck", or "nail", or "screw". It doesn't seem to fit for him though, doesn't seem right. Even with his pants and boxers down around his ankles, he seems so above this place and this act. Even biting his lip and arching his back, even spreading his wings in bliss and knocking a vase off the bar, he seems so perfect and innocent.
He preens and straightens himself while I clean up. He kisses me goodbye, and he blows out the door.
I should get out of the house. Maybe go apply for some jobs. I should at least put on some pants and get outside. Pants first though; once I've got that figured out, everything else should fall into place. Pants are in the laundry hamper. Doing the laundry, that'll be a good chore to start the day. Cas likes to fold the clothes though, I can never do it right. Maybe I'll let it wait till this afternoon, get some more perspective before I decide whether to do it myself or let Cas take care of it later. I've got to have pants though. Maybe I'll just wear them dirty. Cas hates that, kind of makes me look like a shlub. Don't want people to think I'm the kind of guy who can't find a clean pair of pants in the morning.
Sometimes I hate how good things are with Cas. I should just go hang out with Sam and Ruby. Maybe kick back a few beers. I grab some clothes out of the hamper and throw them on before I rush out the front door, almost tripping down the stairs in my flip flops, almost fleeing from the perfect antebellum porch.