(A/N: Rated M for mature content and language.

Hello! So... here's a lovely idea that occurred to me when I was thinking 'wings...mmmm' and I wanted to double the fun. So. Dean's a winged mutant. Castiel is an angel. See where this is going? heh. Now, the mutant thing is kinda sorta a nod to X-Men, but it's not a cross-over because I'm not really using that 'verse or any of the characters. So, it's like an AU/homage sorta thing? I dunno—Just enjoy Dean with wings, OK? So. Uhm. Lemme know what you all think? Please? *starving author puppy face* [Oh. Just FYI: The title might change... still thinking that over...]

Overall warnings: MalexMale slash. AU. Language. Smut. Wing fic. Wing kink. Weird, made-up Angel customs. Accidental bonding/marriage. Angel!Castiel. Mutant!Dean. Mutant!Sam.

Enjoy :))

Dean Winchester looks around the deserted field for a few moments, just breathing in and taking in the quiet sounds of nature before he strips off his shirt. Not that he really needed to check, but he's satisfied he's the only one around. Probably for miles. He doesn't exactly mind stripping with an audience but letting his wings out? That shit is a solo mission. He flexes and stretches his back muscles and lets his wings unfurl from where they're tucked up tight, his shoulder's rolling as he sighs quietly with relief. It's like stretching your legs after a long car ride and it feels friggin' awesome to finally stretch them out.

His shoulders bunch and shift; something feels off. He looks over his shoulder, spreading his wings out so he can look himself over. He huffs and gently grabs a wing, sliding his hand down as he brings it around his body so he can get at his feathers easier. Some are twisted this way and that and bent at odd angles like his hair gets after a good nap.

Stupid friggin' feathers.

He spends a few moments combing the errant feathers with his fingers, switching between wings every-so-often so he doesn't get a kink in his back (again), gently easing them back where they should be until they sit right. He licks his palms and smooths the feathers between his moist palms, nodding with satisfaction when everything feels as it should be. He flicks his wings back and stretches them out again, not-so-subtly admiring his wing-span (which is pretty impressive if he says so himself). They're over 30 feet wide and look kinda like an eagle's wings—bad ass.

He used to hate being different but he's finally come to accept—and even enjoy—his wings.

Because, yeah, he can fly and that's some awesome shit right there.

He pumps his wings a few times, warming up. The familiar low burn that settles deep in his back and chest muscles feels pretty good now that he's flying regularly and his 'flying muscles' are well defined. He bends his knees a few times and he takes off into the sky, not even bothering to stifle a whoop of joy as he does so. He's learned the hard way not to go too high; it gets too friggin' cold for him the higher he goes. He contents himself with flying in lazy, looping circles, stretching his body out randomly and playing with his shadow on the ground.

./.\.

Castiel is one of the youngest Angels in his garrison, if not in all of Heaven. He's therefore the first one picked for the most mundane of tasks. Not that he minds; he very much enjoys visiting Earth for any reason. He enjoys people watching, taking in nature and just marveling at the wonders of his Father's creation. Most times, his missions take twice as long to complete because he spends so much time just watching and looking. He hasn't gotten in trouble yet (he has a feeling Gabriel enjoys his small acts of what some see as rebellion, or maybe the Archangel has similar interests and understands) and thankfully his tasks are always simple enough, time constraints aren't an issue.

He's flying low and slow today, watching his shadow dimple and wave over the long stalks of wheat and other crops. He spreads his arms out, delighted to see his shadow's shape change accordingly. His wings aren't there enough to cast a shadow, so the image is rather amusing and he chuckles softly to himself. He dives and rolls, rising into the sky to avoid a large piece of farm equipment just in time to keep himself from being impaled.

Or worse—ground into angel meat.

Not that it would truly harm him, but he would most likely need a new vessel after acquiring such damage. And he's quite sure even Gabriel would be upset about that; his brother wouldn't smirk, give an indulgent eye roll and snap his fingers like he usually does when Castiel pulls one of his 'shenanigans'. Appropriate vessels aren't always easy to come by; some angels wait generations for a worthy vessel. He subconsciously pats at his chest; he'd certainly miss this vessel if he allowed it to come into contact with a farmer's thrasher.

He dips and rolls a few more times, enjoying the chance to just fly without other angels making fun of him. Most see it simply as a way to get around, traveling at high speeds nearly instantaneously between destinations, instead as something to enjoy. He likes it, though. It gives him a sense of home—of freedom—when he's not Home. And he's better able to look and study as he flies slowly, taking in his surroundings.

Castiel rises a little higher, keeping his distance from anything else the might be in his way, and regretfully returns to his task that brought him from Heaven. His focus is sharp now, eyes flicking rapidly as he catalogs every grain of wheat, stalk of corn, and budding plant as he soars. Insects lazily crawling and building homes. Small animals burrowing and munching whatever crops they can reach. He's not exactly sure what he's looking for, only that Gabriel said he'd know when he saw it. Whatever it is, anyway. He's been flying over Kansas for about a week now, and he hasn't found much but flat lands and fields—not that he's in any rush. He turns right, turning wide so he can inspect another swath of land.

He pulls up short, nearly tumbling over himself with the sudden stop. He hovers, still and silent, eyes widening as his breath catches in his throat.

Gorgeous, golden wings. Outstretched and arched in invitation.

Castiel stares, paused in mid-air, heedless to anything but the sight before him. Is this what Gabriel has him searching for? He doesn't know, but it seems highly unlikely. Gabriel would have teased him, at least a little, if he was being sent on a Mate Search. He doesn't recognize the wings; he can't think of an angel in all of Heaven with wings like these.

Magnificent, breath-taking, gorgeous wings. He's drawn in; how could he not be?

His decent is less than graceful and he's suddenly face-first in those gorgeous, golden wings, his vessel becoming tangled with another in a clumsy, twisted heap. He stops breathing, trying to avoid the heady scent coming off the wings but it doesn't help. It's like every other sense compensates and he's nearly surrounded—overwhelmed. His vessel moves without his consent and his face is in the nearest wing, his own practically exploding into being and arching low to press against the slightly smaller golden ones. He makes a strange, gurgled sound as his Grace reacts and he's suddenly feeling boneless and in danger of losing control of his muscles.

There's a grunt from under him, a very deep sounding grunt, and he's being pushed at, their tangled limbs making any sort of distance quite unlikely. He's quite sure their feathers are just as entangled and he makes a curious sound deep in his throat. The limbs near him flail a little at the sound and he takes note they're strong, well formed and quite obviously male limbs.

Oh well. Castiel has no regard for gender or any of those other odd human qualms about Mating. His fingers are buried in golden wings and he's quite content to never remove them. His face is still pressed into the soft feathers, greedily inhaling the amazing scent surrounding him in great gulping lungfuls. His Grace is practically singing and he makes a happy sound that reminds him of a large cat he spied once laying in a sunbeam.

"Dude!"

Castiel blinks a few times, registering the fact he's being spoken to. He doesn't remove himself from the body or the wings, but he does tilt his head back a little. Just enough to see messily arranged, short caramel colored hair and narrowed green eyes. And freckles—no, angel kisses, he thinks with a strange sort of giddiness. A light dusting, and just across the cheeks and bridge of a well-formed nose. Embarrassingly, it takes a few tries to get his voice to work, but he finally gets his vessel to cooperate.

"Hello," he says, voice sound like he's swallowed gravel. His throat is dry and his body is too focused on wings, freckles, lovely eyes for him to really notice, though.

"Uh, hi," Dean says slowly, eyes narrowed. He's confused and completely freaked the fuck out. For several heart-stopping moments, he thought he'd been dropped by a big ass bird or something. Or maybe one of those small planes. He's marginally glad he's not splattered all over the landscape, even if he's not sure if the weirdo currently groping him is a better option, though. The guy seemed to have broken his fall so he's not hurt; just had the wind knocked out of him.

But now that he's regaining the ability to breath and not thinking he's dead or smooshed against the wheat field, he's freaking out. And getting pissed off, hands swatting at the ones trying to grope and man-handle again. Seriously, what the fuck? Every time the guy grabs at his feathers, he's torn between smacking the hands away or asking for more. Which... freaks him out even more. No body touches his feathers, not even Sam. It's all kinds of wrong he's not kneeing the guy in the junk for being so damn handsy.

And enjoying himself if the continued bad-touching and sounds he's make are any indication. He doesn't know whether to re-think the 'kneeing him in the junk' idea or let the guy have at it.

Castiel hums softly and rubs his hands along the top of the golden wings in a gentle downward sweep, palms gliding along fine, but strong bones, his thumbs briefly dipping inwards to graze along the softer feathers. The wings quiver alluringly and he's entranced, awe-struck and staring openly. He shifts enough to be able to get his other hand on the other wing, needing to feel both at once, but he's stopped by a hand on his chest. He looks down at it dumbly, confused. He looks back up, taking in the rest of the gorgeous face to go along with the breath-taking wings.

A dizzying, heated surge of something goes through him and he's reacting without thinking again; leaning in for a kiss. He's seen the practice on television and purses his lips accordingly, eyes closing in preparation.

Castiel blinks when his face tilts away, and there's a low-grade sting in his jaw. It takes a few moments for him to realize he's been struck. Punched, judging by the man's still-raised fist. The man under him is glaring balefully, fist significantly reddened but raised and ready to hit him again. "Yes?" he asks, confused once again.

"Get the fuck off me, man," Dean grinds out, keeping his cool by will-power alone. His fist is throbbing just from the one punch, but he's prepared to do it again even if it breaks his damn hand. Crash landing was one thing but he was so not gonna just lay there and let some weirdo fondle him—uh, well. Anymore than he already has. The guy doesn't move, just stays sitting astride him, blinking his blue-blue eyes at him like he's got no clue what's going on. He bucks his hips up, trying to dislodge the guy.

He's fucking heavy and it has the opposite affect; the guy's legs clamp tight around his hips. And the fucker moans softly, like he enjoyed it.

Dean stills, gritting his teeth. The fact that he wants to try that again, test how turned on this hands-happy guy really is, just annoys him. His eyes narrow again and he decides he's gonna have to play dirty if he's going to get out of this with any sort of dignity. And a minimum of broken bones. "Dude, you got to the count of three to get the hell off me."

Castiel stares at the man under him. He looks enraged and he knows he should not find the angry blush alluring (it does lovely things for the light smattering of freckles across the man's cheeks and makes his gorgeous eyes practically glitter in a fetching way), but he can't seem to help himself. The golden wings are arched high, stiff, bristling and broadcasting the man's ire.

He cocks his head as he studies the beautiful wings; he really can't figure out what he's done wrong. He's vaguely aware of the man saying 'three', but not paying much mind as he's too intent on studying quivering wings and angry facial features.

Unfortunately, his vessel is rather sensitive in some areas and his eyes widen as pain explodes in his crotch. He whimpers softly as his hands cup the throbbing area and he rolls onto his side, freeing the man. His legs come up with another whimper and he's in enough pain to not care about the other new feelings coursing through his vessel at the moment.

"Shit," Dean hisses under his breath. He should not feel bad about this—the guy definitely had a punch to the dick coming—and should be glad it was a better spot than the dude's granite jaw. But he can't help feeling bad; it's a pain he can sympathize with and he can't explain why he gives a shit. Or why he feels a phantom throb to his own groin that feels like more than just sympathy pains any guys gets seeing another guy take a shot to the 'nads.

Castiel sucks in a few deep breaths, trying to focus on that instead of the pain, the sickening waves of nausea rolling through his lower body and stomach in slick, roiling, throbbing waves. He makes a mental note to discuss the vulnerability to this part of the human male's anatomy with his Father at his earliest convenience. Something needs to change about the design because this is horrible.

He whimpers again when the man approaches him, his legs coming up higher, tighter to his body in an effort to protect the area from more damage. It makes pain burst through him anew and he wonders if it'll be considered inappropriate to let the watery sting in his eyes manifest fully. Thankfully, the other man stops a few feet away, arms coming up to cross over his chest and he just... stares.

Even from Castiel's position on the ground, eyes freely watering now, he's unable to look away from the other man. His wings aren't nearly as stiff or arched any longer and the expression of aggression looks forced. But the defensive stance he's in is intimidating enough, Castiel stays put. He really has no interest in the other man giving him a repeat performance.

"So," Dean says when the guy has stopped rolling around and crying for his daddy. He doesn't know what to say. He's not going to apologize and anything else seems pointless. Once he's sure the guy isn't going to puke or anything, he turns to leave, stretching his wings out to make sure they're OK after the tumble. He flicks off some loose dirt and smooths a few errant feathers, but otherwise his wings are fine. He prepares to take to the sky again, hopefully leaving Romeo in the dust.

But damn his curiosity when he hears the guy gasp in a way that has nothing to do with his throbbing crotch. He looks over his shoulder and flexes his wings again. Sure enough, the guy's on his knees now; hands laying limp at his sides instead of cupping the family jewels as the guy stares at him—his wings—with wide-eyes and pinked cheeks.

Dean stretches and flaps his wings once, experimentally, and notices the way those blue-blue eyes follow each move with intensity. He snorts, unable to help himself. He doesn't think he'd met anyone yet that got off on feathers... "Dude. Really?"

"Yes," Castiel murmurs after a few moments, belatedly catching onto what the other man meant. "They're beautiful," he adds in an awed whisper. A heated feeling works through his own wings when the golden wings flutter then flap and arch again, tucking down low and close to the other man's body. He nearly smiles at the bashful display but a look at the man's face clues him in on that being a rather bad idea. He gets to his feet, the pain in his groin down to a low throb thankfully, and carefully regards the man. He's being glared at, as if his words are being questioned for validity.

And he cannot have the other man thinking he's anything but sincere. He steps closer, slowly and cautiously watching the other man for any other signs of violence. He doesn't reach out to touch, even though he wants to. Needs to. As he gets closer, the left golden wing actually flicks forward towards him, as if responding to that need. He very nearly reaches out anyway, but he doesn't.

"Beautiful," Castiel says again. His gaze reluctantly leaves the gently trembling wing to meet narrowed green eyes and he exhales softly, a reverent sigh. "Absolutely magnificent."

Dean snorts and rolls his eyes even as a warm feeling constricts his chest. He should not care what some wing-freak thinks about his wings. But it still makes him feel a little gooey inside. He's really annoyed his wings react; fluttering a little, as if he's batting his damn eyelashes at the guy staring at them with hearts in his eyes (and—just great—a boner growing in his pants). Oddly enough, it's the awed glances the guy's giving his wings that are freaking him out more than the bulge in the guy's pants.

"I am Castiel."

Dean blinks a few times, embarrassed he'd been staring at the guy's crotch. He snaps his head up, meeting the intense blue again. He wants to fidget, but he doesn't. "Huh?"

"I'm Castiel," he repeats, dragging his gaze away from the golden wings and meeting green eyes. "My name," he adds when there's still confusion. He steps closer, using the other man's momentary disorientation to his advantage. He's close enough to touch... He doesn't but he can inhale, subtly Scent.

"Oh," Dean says, feeling really fucking stupid. "Uh. I'm Dean."

The guy makes a rumbling noise that could almost be a freakin' purr and the intense staring continues, blue eyes flicking all around to take in different parts of him. Mostly, the guy—Castiel—can't seem to stop looking at his damn wings, though. They do that damn fluttering thing again and he wants to grab them, hold them down. "Gotta thing for wings, buddy?"

"Yes?" Castiel says, unsure. He enjoys Dean's wings immensely but it's not a common interest of his. He's looked upon many wings before without feeling... this. "I like your wings, Dean," he clarifies, feeling immediately better. He doesn't want Dean to think he goes around just ogling strange wings. He sidles closer and Scents again. The smells of nature are almost overpowering Dean's but he doesn't want to get too close. Yet.

He slowly turns, keeping his gaze on Dean over his shoulder. It takes a few moments concentration, gathering his Grace, and his own wings are visible. He stretches and flaps them, fluttering them when he hears a soft sound from Dean. Excellent. He almost feared—

No matter, it's not an issue and he stops thinking about it. "Do you like my wings, Dean?"

"Uh," Dean trails off, feeling stupid again. But this time it's like his brain has switched off for anything but 'holy shit, lookit them wings!'. Which—awkward. Castiel is glancing at him over his shoulder again, chin nearly resting on the tan fabric of his goofy trench coat as he looks at back at Dean, those damn blue eyes at half-mast and hooded like a damn porno. He has about .4 seconds to wonder why the fuck he's being looked at coyly, blue nearly hidden under sooty black lashes, before his attention is back on the wings.

And, OK, yeah; he could kind of see why Castiel was spazzing out over his wings. Because while his were admittedly pretty nice to look at, Castiel's were friggin' awesome. They were at least 5 different colors; white, to a pale grey, to a dark golden color that blended into a chestnut as dark as the guy's hair. And they had a shine that made him want to stroke one, see if those feathers were as soft and silky as they looked.

"Yeah," Dean croaks out. He shakes himself, scowling lightly. "What the fuck, man?" Castiel merely blinked at him, eyes wide and guileless. He crosses his arms over his chest again and scowls, "What's goin' on here?"

Castiel slowly turned back around, keeping his eye on Dean. Once they are fully facing each other again, he steps closer, mere inches away. "I don't know what you mean, Dean."

"Dude, back up," Dean says, waving a hand frantically. "Personal space."

Castiel obliges, stepping back. "Apologies, Dean." He restrains the urge to move forward again, spurned on by Dean's approval of his wings, but giving Dean the space he's asked for. His head tilts a little to the right, silently asking for Dean to clarify his earlier question.

"I mean, what. The. Fuck?" Dean says slowly. It only gets him another head tilt (to the other side this time) that makes him grit his teeth against the 'awww!' that he wants to blurt out. Grown ass men with wings should not look like adorable puppies. It should be a law somewhere... He exhales sharply and rubs at his face. "Why're you groping me, man?"

Castiel hums and inclines his head. His eyes dart down to Dean's bare upper arm and he has to curl his hands into fists so he doesn't reach out and touch the hand-shaped brand shining brightly from the skin there. A part of him is dismayed he's done such a thing without prior plans (or explicit consent), but another is joyous at the Mating Mark left there.

He notices Dean's gaze slowly lowers, following where he'd been looking. He prepares himself for another assault when Dean shouts out an indistinct sound of surprise and outrage. It doesn't come and he slowly opens his eyes, peering at Dean curiously.

"What?" Dean breathes out, staring at the raised skin on his shoulder. Now that he's looking at it, he can feel it; it's warm and tender. What the fuck? How long has that been there? Why is it there? He looks back up at Cas, eyes narrowing when he realizes Castiel is staring at the mark with something he wants to call pride. The dick. "Did you do this?" he demands, jabbing a finger towards the brand and wincing when it flairs with pain.

Castiel rushes forward, pulling Dean's hand away from the Mark. His feathers brush over the area and Dean relaxes as the pain eases but goes tense again when he realizes what just happened. He's bound to be dizzy by the sheer number of emotions his Mate goes through and portrays in rapid succession. "I did," he admits. "I hadn't intended to," he adds when he's glared at.

"And what, exactly, is this?" Dean asks, indicating his arm with just ahead tilt this time. He so doesn't wanna touch that... thing. Not if Castiel is gonna use some weird kind of feather mojo to make it feel better. He's trying not to freak out... Because none of this seems good.

Castiel hesitates for a moment. "It's a Mating Mark," he finally says softly. He's about to explain what, exactly, that entails when Dean's wings suddenly flap out and he takes off with a powerful thrust and rush of wind. He stares after Dean's rapidly retreating form, contemplating. Is Dean initiating some sort of Mating chase or is he in need of a moment alone to digest the information?

A low-grade flutter of panic and irritation, which he knows isn't from him, seems to roll over him and he figures it's the latter. He slowly lowers himself to the ground, crossing his legs and resting his hands in his lap. He idly looks up at the sky, content to wait until Dean comes back.