All the thanks go out to Lena and Emma for putting up with me while I wrote this.
If you wish to bless your home, you leave a bowl of milk for your brownie. You hang iron over a baby's cradle to keep the fairies from snatching them away. To please a puca, you leave the last berries of fall for them to enjoy. But beware, little one, of wolves and especially wolves that rise on two legs and walk among us. Remember. Remember.
They say that there are men who are hairy on the inside. On nights when the moon is full, they shed their human clothes and human skins and run in the freedom of the midnight. They say that the Devil has a poultice that can curse a man to being a half-wolf for the rest of his days. They say that the wolves have a golden prince. They say many things.
They say there's a little village far away. The people there live on what the hard earth yields for them, what kills their huntsmen can bring them, and on what monies can be made in felling the tall trees. They are a hard people, who do not shy from blood or pain. It is a land that breeds the strong. To bring out the vitality of their blood, mothers make for their children red hats and scarves to don on their heads.
In this village of red-capped children lived a blue-eyed young man, just recently crossing the threshold of adolescence. This young man, this child, was the youngest of his mother's brood, and bane of her existence. More stubborn than her eldest, more rebellious than her second, more questioning than her third, and more inclined to stumbling into trouble than her fourth. And compared to her fifth! Oh! He was a sweet child, but still he managed to make mischief in his carelessness. In him, he held a boundless curiosity and an incurable innocence that led him to wandering after bees and lazing by the hearth next to the cat. For the sake of his wide, innocent eyes, his mother made him a long, red, hooded cloak. And thus, he would walk among the other villagers, heedless of how he sailed among them like a tall, scarlet flag.
One day, his mother handed him a basket of food and wine, and instructed him to take it to Grandmother Naomi in the woods. He felt himself swell slightly with pride. Usually, the task was accomplished by one of his older brothers with him as small, talkative company. But this was a sign of his mother's growing trust; even more so, since she was allowing him to travel alone.
"Watch out for wolves, Castiel." She said, giving him a kiss and a long knife to carry, "Stay to the path."
There weren't actual wolves to fear. The warning had been one from days before the wolves left the woods, and the memory of those times stuck in the words of the people. And that's what the wolves had become; nothing more than a memory. Jauntily, he set out on the path to his grandmother, red cloak on his shoulders, swinging the basket as he went. The path was long and winding and he barely resisted the urge to walk instead on the soft grass that bordered the path. Soft grass led to quiet meadows, and quiet meadows led to rippling streams that could enchant him for hours. All these things would not lead him to his grandmother's house any sooner. So he dutifully stayed on the path, as his mother instructed him to.
But then he got distracted by the blue cornflowers in the field. He would have passed them by, but it occurred to him that his grandmother might like some freshly picked flowers. And it wasn't too far off the path. And it wouldn't take him too long to pick them. That was excuse enough for him. And thus he went, tearing off into the field, basket and wine abandoned on the path. This, he thinks as he admires blue petals, is something his mother, his father, his brothers, the villagers will never understand. There is a beauty in the land, for it is untouched by the will of man. It is raw and shameless. Is this what his grandfather sought when he built his cottage in the woods for himself and his wife to live in? Perhaps. Perhaps.
Just as he was about to add more flowers to his handful, he froze. All forest sounds had stopped. Something large moved beyond the trees. Foolish boy! Just because there were no wolves didn't mean there weren't other dangers. He left his knife in the basket of food. Quickly, he scrambled back to the path, taking a firm grip on the silver handle. He stood at attention on the path, ready for attack. Nothing came at him. The birds continued their songs, the squirrels chattered away. Slowly, he continued along the path. He drew the knife out of the basket, walking with it held loosely in his grip.
He was halfway to his grandmother's house when he was startled by the sound of rustling from the bushes. Setting down the basket, he raised his knife, ready to slash at any monstrous attack.
There was no such attack. There wasn't even a monster. It was a man, not much older than himself, in a forest green coat with a rifle over his shoulder. A hunter.
"Who are you?" the man asked, his green eyes widening in surprise.
"Castiel.
"An angel name for an angel boy."
"Who are you?"
"Dean."
They stood gazing at each other for what felt like an eternity; one from the path and one ready to cross it. Dean's eyes were mesmerizing, like the spring leaves as they caught sunlight. Castiel felt thin and willowy next to Dean's large, sturdy frame. They might have stood a century longer had the wind not tugged at Castiel's cloak, urging him onward to his task. Castiel's eyes widened. Granny!
"Good bye, Dean." His grandmother must be worried about him; wondering where he was. It wouldn't do to be distracted for so long by strange hunters. Even if they were devastatingly handsome. If he wasn't in such a hurry to walk away, he might have looked back to see the hunter's eyes follow him as he went.
Granny Naomi tsked and tutted at him for his tardiness, but he knew she was happy to see him in the way she straightened and shifted his cloak, chiding him for being so windswept. He helped her tidy around the cottage, grinding the dried herbs and filling jars with teas that could ease sore throats and coughs. While he completed these tasks, Granny Naomi continued in her lesson on creatures to beware of. Last time, when he had accompanied Raphael on a trip to help with Granny's garden, she told them tale after tale on the subject of identifying and killing witches. The time before that, when he and Gabriel carried supplies of sugar, salt, and flour, she lectured the two of them on the nature of vampires. This time, she chose a hairier subject.
"Wolves are walking stomachs." She said primly from her place at the table, "They care only about their need to fill their bellies. No creature on this earth knows hunger as well as the wolf. That's why they are so dangerous. Beware of wolves, Castiel."
She pounded her cane on the dirt floor near the fireplace. Castiel glanced at the furs near where her cane landed. Long ago, when he was still a babe in his mother's arms, his grandfather had rallied the men together to drive away the long-legged, loping wolves out of the forest. It took them many years, long enough for Gabriel to remember the end of it, before they accomplished their task. But accomplish they did. Wolves had not been seen in the woods for a very long time. After the death of her husband, Grandmother Naomi was given two wolf pelts as a sign of the villagers' thanks for the deed they had done for the village.
I think I would have liked to have seen a wolf.
Castiel was easily his Grandmother's favorite. Michael and Lucifer were too busy cutting down trees with their father; Raphael too engrossed in his studies to pass the national exam and become a scholar; Gabriel too rambunctious for the old woman's sensibilities; and Balthazar too inclined to make needling quips that infuriated the old woman. After a time, it became Castiel's assigned duty to care for his grandmother. He didn't mind. Such frequent trips to his Grandmother's home allowed him opportunities he would not have had otherwise.
The seasons shifted into the transition of autumn as summer let out a dying gasp and winter closed in. The leaves were making their great migration to the ground below, painting the forest floor in spatters of brilliant red and vibrant yellow. Castiel was once more on the path to his grandmother's when he heard a sound in the underbrush, off of the path. Without hesitation, Castiel walked in the direction of the sound. He saw the back of a familiar green coat and smiled.
Dean was kneeling on the forest floor, a freshly killed deer at his feet. By his side was a massive, brown dog with a long, shaggy coat. There was something wolfish about the face and the set of the ears, but the dog couldn't possibly be a wolf. As a hunter, Dean would never let so dangerous a creature near him and allow it to still be among living. That, and there were no wolves in the woods. Dean looked up at him as he came closer, boots crunching on fallen leaves.
"Hello, Dean. Who is your friend?"
"Hello, Cas. This is Sammy." He placed a gloved hand on the dog's head, scratching gently behind the alert ears, "Don't worry. He's friendly. He's sticking around because I owe him a little something."
He took out his hunting knife and neatly severed a leg from the deer carcass, slipping his knife between where the leg met the hip and twisting the blade with a practiced hand. Task completed, he stood up and backed away, letting the dog grasp the portion in his massive jaws. Castiel watched in wonderment as the dog trotted away.
"Are you sure you should let your dog run off like that?"
Dean let out a barking laugh. Dean laughed often in Castiel's presence, and to the young man there were few things more beautiful than the sight of Dean's smile or the sound of his laughter.
"Sammy's not my dog. And he can take care of himself. He'll make his way back here soon enough."
Castiel sits down on a fallen log, brushing off a few fallen leaves. Dean trusses up the deer, preparing it to be moved and butchered later. He wiped his knife, took off his gloves, and sat down next to Castiel with a satisfied sigh, stretching out his long legs. Castiel smiled down into his hands, playing with the cloth covering of the basket. Without being asked, he passed one of the small cakes inside to Dean. Briefly, their fingers touched in the passing of the pastry. The smile fell from Dean's face as he searched for something in Castiel's expression. Whatever it was he sought, he did not find it.
"Something seems to be troubling you, angel."
Castiel sighed and kicked at the leaves, sending a few of orange ones briefly into the air.
"There's a girl in the village. She tries to follow me everywhere," Castiel's nose wrinkled as if he had tasted something bitter and unpleasant, "I think the villagers have already planned out our wedding."
"Weddings are fun, Cas. Weddings have cake," Dean took of a bite of the pastry in his hand, "And girls are very fun."
Castiel blushed as Dean waggled his eye brows, innuendo made even more clear. His fingers took a tight grip of the cloth now, tugging and stretching at the fabric anxiously,
"But I don't want to do things like that with her." His skin crawled when he thought of her predatory gaze. The thought of her swollen, blood thirsty lips making contact with his skin made him want to scrub himself clean all over. Dean snorted softly. He removed the cloth from Castiel's grip, smoothing it back over the basket. He took Castiel's hands in his own, tracing feather light patterns with his thumbs.
"What a strange one you are. Or perhaps it's one of the male persuasion you seek; some handsome village boy who caught your eye?"
Castiel looked away from the expectant gaze, but did not tear away from Dean's warm hands.
"There's no one in my village that I think of that way."
Only you, he thought as he gazed deep into Dean's eyes, feeling his own cheeks heat. Dean smiled softly, then rose up, shouldering his rifle.
"I hate to leave you, Cas, but I must go check my traps. It wouldn't do to leave my catches unattended."
He whistled through his teeth, and a massive black horse answered with a thunderous neigh as it made its way towards them. Castiel gazes up at the beast in awe. Dean smiles down at Castiel from where he stands, rubbing the horse's nose. He lifts the deer carcass easily, loading it onto the horse's back, murmuring reassurances as the horse shifts its hooves nervously. Dean nodded farewell then walked off, clicking his tongue and urging his horse to follow.
Castiel stretched out his back as he rose up from the log. He brushed off the leaves that clung to his cloak, and returned to the path. The more he encountered Dean the more he liked him. Castiel kicked at a small pebble in his path, sending it flying into the forest. It was a pity he hadn't been born a girl. Perhaps then, Dean would have shown him what he meant by the "fun" girls supposedly were. As it was, Castiel had to reconcile himself with the fact that he was not what Dean wanted; he did not have soft curves and breasts, and nothing short of a magic potion could change that.
"If a baby is born feet first, he is sure to grow up to be a wolf."
"What's that, Granny?"
"Mind the fire! Foolish boy!"
Castiel was supposed to be stirring a pot of stewing herbs to be made into a poultice. The fumes had gotten to him, and quickly he set back to his task, eyes watering.
"How can that be," he coughed, "Isn't the baby born one of us? How can a human grow to be a wolf?"
"Such is the way of things," she said with a wave of her hands, "The surest protection against the beasts are clothes. They can only turn human because of them. And if you burn a wolf's clothes, he can never turn into a human again."
"Can't he just find new ones?"
"Don't interrupt!" she glared at him sternly. She paused grinding with her mortar and pestle to raise a bony finger to point at him.
"Should you ever encounter a wolf-man, Castiel, you must throw your cloak upon him. Do you understand? He won't be able to change forms and tear you to pretty little pieces if he stays a man."
Castiel frowned, trying to process and make sense of what his grandmother was saying.
"And a man can be reasoned with." He offered, trying to at least contribute.
"No. A wolf can never be reasoned with."
But you said he was a man! Castiel wanted to scream.
"I tell you these things for your own good and safety. Now take these herbs and add them to the pot. And for heaven's sake, don't stop stirring."
Castiel resisted the urge to groan and bash his head against the stone hearth. No wonder his brothers avoided Granny Naomi like the plague.
Winter came, and its snow fell softly and silently, hiding the land under a thick, secretive blanket. Castiel ran outside and frolicked joyfully, his cloak spilling about him like blood when Gabriel tackled him down, sending his own red cap flying in the process. They wrestled about until Castiel had his brother pinned, both of their clothes soaked wet by the melted snow.
"You're growing up, little brother."
"Granny still treats me like a child."
"Yes, and mother is going to send you on yet another errand to her. Don't let Granny get to you. She doesn't know everything. Even if she pretends she does. And you are your own little man with your own little mind."
Castiel paid his brother back for the final quip by jamming the wet, red cap back onto Gabriel's head. Gabriel spluttered and shoved him back down into the snow.
"Be careful in the woods, Castiel. Lucifer said he thought he saw a wolf." Panting, Gabriel sat back, and gathered together snow into a ball, shoving it into Castiel's face. Thus began an all out war of flying snowballs, joined by Balthazar as he saw the fun he was missing out on. When their father and Michael and Lucifer came back with their bundles of wood, they were met with the sight of the boys, and even Raphael, covered in snow and shouting uproariously.
Castiel's feet were the only ones to walk the path in the forest, leaving crunching indents in the pristine snow. He wrapped his blue scarf more snugly around his neck and face. The cold nipped at his fingers as they tightened their grip on the basket. Castiel's knife dangled loosely in his hand. He was grateful to Raphael for wrapping the metal handle in leather. The last thing he needed was for the cold metal of the handle to bite his hand as he held it. He trudged along quickly, wanting to get out of the cold in at least a timely manner.
But then the snow had started falling again. He slowed his pace and pulled down his red hood and his scarf. The snow fell on his dark lashes and clung to his dark hair. Castiel's breath fogged the air as he let out a slow exhale. He came to a stop and closed his eyes. It was just so beautiful and peaceful here.
"The moon will be out tonight."
Castiel opened his eyes, smiling at the rough tones of the familiar voice. Dean stood, leaned against a tall tree, his rifle, as ever, over his shoulder. He made his way down to the path and to Castiel, grinning all the while. Castiel returned his smile, shifting away slightly as Dean playfully brushed snowflakes out of his dark locks. Castiel returned the action, running his fingers through Dean's short hair.
"I just realized," Dean said, bringing a warm hand up to cup Castiel's numb cheek, "I've seen you in this forest, with that basket, at least a dozen times now, and I've yet to ask you where you go when you leave me."
Castiel huffed out a laugh, fog floating out of his mouth in short bursts.
"I go to my Grandmother Naomi's. She lives in the forest all by herself and has no one else to care for her."
Dean throws back his head to laugh, white teeth gleaming.
"That's a dangerous choice for an old woman to make."
Castiel shakes his head, smiling and walks Dean off the path. Even through the snow, which seemed to turn everything into secrets to be discovered, he knew his way around the woods. Not too far from where Dean found him was a clearing with two stumps, perfect for sitting on and sharing a slice of apple pie.
Dean moaned happily around the pastry, gracing Castiel with appreciative eyes. Castiel wrapped his red cloak more tightly around him as a cold breeze danced around their heels. Castiel looked up as a red cardinal flitted by. He laughed, imagining what it would be like if he actually were the bird, flying against the white sky. He caught Dean staring at him and smiled,
"We run into each other so much. Sometimes I think you've lost your way."
"I never lose my way. And I could probably get to your Grandmother's long before you do. Even without the path."
"Impossible," Castiel snorted, "The only way to get there is through the path."
"Maybe for you, Cas. But I have my compass," he took out a small box from his coat pocket, opening it and showing Castiel the needle inside, "It always points north, no matter where I am. It's useful, for hunters like me."
Castiel gave him a disbelieving, but indulgent smile. Dean's green eyes hardened ever so slightly, and he stood up, brushing the snow from his pants and coat.
"You still don't believe me. Alright, let's play a game. I bet you I can get to your granny's before you do. And if I win, you'll give my prize."
"And what is that?" Castiel asked, tilting his head.
"A kiss."
Castiel felt his cheeks heat at the thought. Briefly, his eyes darted to Dean's lips, then back up to his eyes.
"And if I win?"
Dean smiled down at him, green eyes gleaming.
"You get whatever you want. Do you know what you want for your prize?"
His brows waggled humorously, making Castiel burst into chuckles.
"I'll think about it." He answered between laughs.
"Do we have bet then?" Dean raised a hand, waiting expectantly for Castiel to take it.
"Yes." They shook hands amiably. Castiel made his way back to the path with his basket and his knife, his mind excited over the thought of what he could ask of Dean. Dean watched the red cloaked figure walk off and laughed lightly to himself. He sniffed lightly at the air. As was the way with winter, night would fall soon. This was going to be like taking sweets from a child.
He ran fast and hard. He had lied when he said that he needed the compass. To Dean, the forest was as familiar as his soul. But he had not lied in saying that walking off of the path was the fastest route. The winding path took many unnecessary turns, and his way was the most direct. He slowed his run to a slow trot as he neared the cottage. It was like a giant, unnatural, sleeping beast in his home. The warm glowing eyes tempted him with the warmth it offered inside. He sniffed the cold air and bared his fangs. Smoke wafted up from the chimney, irritating his senses. With light steps, he made his way to the door, knocking three times.
"Who is it?"
"Only your grandson."
"Open the latch and come in."
Slowly Dean lifted the latch of the door, and eased the door open. Naomi was seated in her rocking chair by the fire, bundled in a blanket and keeping her old bones warm. At the sight of Dean, she rose up from her chair, fear flickering across her face. In the firelight, his eyes glowed an unnatural green
"Who are you? What did you do to my grandson?
Dean grinned, feral and sharp.
"Nothing he didn't want."
"Creature of the devil! Go back to Hell where you belong!" She threw her hat at him, and a bible, and neither deterred him from his grim intent. His smile grew wider, fangs lengthening.
"Oh, but Granny, Hell has no hold on me. I come from the forest."
Swiftly, he stripped out of his clothes until he was naked as the day he was born.
"Your husband's traps killed my mother. Your poisons killed my father. You keep their pelts as trophies for your hearth. Your people drove my pack from our woods. And now we are back, and blood calls for blood."
And with that, he sprang upon her, shifting seamlessly into his monstrous, wolfish form, and he tore her to pieces, leaving nothing left but her white bones. With a huff, he snuffled mournfully at the pelts resting pitifully by the fire. Stretching his muscles, he shifted back to his human shape, tears shining in his eyes. He lifted them gently from the floor and dropped them into the flames.
Castiel arrived at the cottage as the sun made its way to bed. He would have to spend the night with his Granny and hurry home in the morning. He saw no sign of Dean, but the snow had been falling for quite some time now. Any tracks the hunter had made would be obscured by now. He walked up the little stone path and came to a stop at the door, shivering from the wetness of the melted snow.
"Who is it?" asked the voice inside after he knocked.
"Only your grandson."
"Open the latch and come in."
He started in surprise at the sight of Dean in his grandmother's rocking chair. The Hunter had shed his green jacket, and looked fairly comfortable by the fire in his loose undershirt and dry pants.
"Oh it's you! So you beat me here after all." He smiled, but it faltered, taking in the sight of the bible that was rarely closed, resting on the wooden table next to the hunter's rifle. His blue eyes flicked over to the fire, and he was stilled by the sight of the half burned wolf pelts, eaten by the flames.
"Where is my granny?"
Dean eased the rocking chair back and forth languidly.
"Outside, gathering wood for the fire."
"You would let an old woman go to the wood pile on her own on a night like this?"
"She seemed a determined old thing. Who am I to stand in the way of her?"
"I suppose." Castiel replied, placing his basket on the wooden table. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a hank of long, gray hair attached to scalp. Dean had been thorough in his clean up, but not thorough enough. In the wink of an eye, Castiel snatched up the rifle and aimed it at the hunter's heart.
"What are you?" he growled, "And what did you do to my grandmother?"
Dean continued his comfortable rocking, but now the tilt of his head was decidedly more beastlike, and the quirk of his grin more feral.
"I ate her." Dean said. The sheer bluntness and the careless way in which he spoke the words terrified Castiel.
"You're a monster."
"She killed my mother and my father. In the eyes of my people, she was the monster. Blood calls for blood."
A sound came from outside, a mournful sound, a heart-wrenchingly painful song. It started in one voice, and was then joined by many, creating a chorus of anguish sung to the full, white moon. Castiel glanced at the window, and swiftly back to Dean.
"We have company."
Slowly, Dean rose from the chair, careful to not make any sudden moves. Castiel tensed, his grip on the rifle tightened, but the hunter—no, the wolf, made no attempts to disarm him. Instead, the wolf walked closer to the window, his eyes gazing unfocused through the glass.
"It's only my brothers."
Wolf. Wolf. Wolf. Cry out child, but no one will come for you. There is no one here to answer your call. Only the wolves will hear you now.
"Are you from our world…or theirs?"
Dean's focus returned to Castiel. He gave him a quiet, secret smile; one Castiel knew was shared between the two of them alone.
"Both…and neither."
Castiel's head ached from trying to process everything that was occurring around him. His granny was dead; his grip on the rifle was liable to numb his fingers from the tightness of it; the man he loved was not a man, but a wolf that walked as a man; and his red cloak was cold and wet, making his skin feel heavy and tired.
"Where do you live?"
"Nowhere, angel. To belong to both worlds is to have no home."
"You must be so lonely." Castiel whispered, "Are you cursed?" his voice was so small now. He could feel his heart squeeze in his chest as the fear reared its head once more. He was going to die in this cottage, and Dean would be his killer.
"Is the blue of your eyes a curse?"
"No."
"No." Dean echoed. Despite all logic telling him to shoot, Castiel lowered the rifle. Dean stepped closer, sensing the danger fading quickly. They gazed into each other's eyes, a lifetime of questions and answers exchanging between the two in the span of that long moment. In that moment, an understanding blossomed between them as Dean's eyes asked a silent question, and Castiel blinked slowly in answer.
"Wolves keep our promises. Do angels?" said Dean, voice soft.
"What do you mean?"
"Our bet, angel," Dean raised a hand to stroke Castiel's cheek. Castiel shuddered, but did not move away. "Our bet."
"Yes. Your prize was-"
"A kiss."
Castiel's eyes glanced away.
"What big arms you have." Castiel murmured musingly. He stepped forward, running his hands up the limbs, starting from the wrist and ending with his own arms wrapped around Dean's neck.
"The better to hold you with." Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel's waist, ignoring the dampness of Castiel's clothes.
"What big eyes you have."
"The better to see you with."
I'm sorry, green eyes seemed to say.
I know, blue eyes answered back.
"What big teeth you have."
Dean grinned widely in reply.
"The better to eat you with."
Castiel burst out laughing. If blood called for blood, then Dean's blood was singing a song of Castiel. He was no one's meat. Dean licked his lips. The hunter's eyes were almost predatory, hungry for something. He leaned forward, close enough for his breath to mix with Castiel's.
"Tell me to stop." He said.
"Don't."
Dean froze where he was, large eyes meeting Castiel's questioningly.
"Don't stop." whispered Castiel.
Grinning once more, Dean surged forward and claimed Castiel's lips. He did not taste of blood, as one might think. He tasted clean, like spring rain. Despite the fierceness of his attack, his lips met Castiel's softly, tenderly. Castiel nipped playfully at his bottom lip, and Dean answered his antics with a growl. They broke apart, breathless and panting.
"I have wanted to do that for so long now, angelface."
Castiel raised his hands to Dean's face, framing the features he so loved. A wolf knows his mate. A wolf recognizes them. A human knows only the beating of his own heart and the feelings that spring from that well of emotion. Nothing could break Castiel's love for Dean, not even if he tried.
Castiel untied his red cloak and slipped it from his shoulders, folding it neatly, as was his habit.
"What shall I do with my cloak?"
"Throw it into the fire. You will not need it after this." Answered Dean, raking his eyes over Castiel's form.
"And my gloves?" Castiel asked, slipping them off of his cold-stiffened fingers.
"Into the fire with them as well." Dean sat back on the floor, looking up at Castiel expectantly.
"And my shirt?"
And item after item fed the flame, until Castiel was left stripped bare. Dean gazed hungrily at him now, traced the contours and lines that made up Castiel. Blushing, Castiel folded his arms across his chest. Dean shook his head, tsking and smiling. He rose from his place on the floor and took the blanket folded on the back of the rocking chair, shaking it out with a flourish and laying it down on the floor. Castiel smiled and knelt on the blanket.
"What a gentleman." He said, voice like smoke, as Dean sat next to him. Dean leaned forward, and kissed Castiel casually, as if they were old lovers. Hesitantly, Castiel raised a hand to the front of Dean's shirt, loosening the ties there. Curious fingers dared to slip under the shirt and trace the muscles that bunched and rippled under skin. Dean kissed the corner of Castiel's mouth, ghosted his lips over Castiel's jaw line, they latched himself onto Castiel's neck, sucking in dark bruises and losing himself in the scent that was pure Cas. Briefly, he drew away to strip away his shirt and pants, so they were both equally bare before each other's eyes.
Castiel's eyed Dean like a starving man, not sure of what it was he wanted but certain in his hunger. He brought his mouth back to Dean's, running his fingers through Dean's hair and scratching at his scalp. For his part, Dean leaned further and further back, until Castiel's form was draped over his own. He ran is large, calloused hands up and down Castiel's back before gripping Castiel's hips and bucking his own. Castiel gasped, reminded now of his own hardness as well as Dean's. Instinctively, he ground his hips down into Dean's, eliciting moans of pleasure from both.
"Cas. My Cas."
Dean's hand wandered down once more, this time stopping to squeeze the cheeks of Castiel's buttocks. Abruptly, he flipped them, sending Cas on his back to the floor. Before Cas could protest, he shushed him, laying quick kisses on his stomach, forming a trail down to Castiel's swollen erection. Without warning or hesitation, he took Castiel into his warm mouth. Castiel gasped, collapsing onto his elbows, whispering Dean's name endlessly. Dean smirked, and raised a hand to Castiel's mouth. Without being told, Castiel took hold of Dean's hand and sucked his fingers, coating them generously in saliva. They met each other's eyes, and the intensity of their shared gaze was enough to have them both burning inside.
Gently, Dean brought his hand back down and traced his fingers around Castiel's entrance. Castiel gasped at the penetration of the first finger, and Dean shushed him, rising up to kiss him. They lay down by the hearth, Dean fingering Castiel open unhurriedly, letting his mate get used to the experience. After what felt like an age of lazy warm kisses, Castiel traced the hunter's freckles and whispered,
"Dean, I'm ready now."
With a smirk, Dean repositioned himself over Castiel, lifting one of the young man's legs and placing it over his shoulder. He spat into his hand, slicking himself, not wanting to hurt his mate on their first night. With a kiss to Castiel's calf, he pushed himself forward, entering with a hiss at the tightness. Castiel's breath came in sharply, feeling pain despite the preparation. His hands scrabbled for Dean's, and when he found them, he gripped them tight, lacing the fingers together. Dean leaned forward, kissing his temple soothingly, careful to not move forward too much. They moved slowly, Dean allowing Castiel to get used to his girth, the feeling of being filled. Dean touched his forehead to Castiel's, looking deep into his eyes. Castiel unlinked their hands, resting his on Dean's broad back as Dean slid his own large hands under Castiel's head and neck. As Dean began to thrust, Castiel raked his fingernails down Dean's back, leaving angry red scratches in their wake. Together, they reveled in the slide of flesh, the mingling of sweat, the expanse of touch and skin. Somehow, Dean managed to brush against a place within Castiel that caused him to jerk and tilt his head back, numbed with pleasure. Again and again, Dean reached that place, until they both found release in each other's arms.
They rested together, panting from exertion. Dean gave Castiel a final kiss before shedding his human skin. Castiel watched in fascination at the transition from man to wolf. It must have been painful, it had to be, but years of practice made the change little more than a discomfort, and there, where once was Dean, was a golden wolf, with unnaturally green eyes. Castiel curled around the wolf, inhaling the scent of the forest and combing his fingers through thick, soft fur. His bare skin, so unused to being touched by anything other than cloth, reveled in the feel and tickle of Dean's golden fur. Dean huffed and stood. Castiel blinked up at him in confusion, until Dean shifted and positioned his paws until Castiel was trapped in the four cornered cage of them. The wolf gazed down him, a silent question behind the green eyes. He nodded, granting his permission once more. And with that, the wolf leaned forward and nipped gently at where his neck met his shoulder. He gasped at the feeling of sharp teeth breaking skin, and Dean lapped at the wound apologetically. Between the wolf's paws, Castiel convulsed in pain, as he felt his muscles stretch and knit in strange ways, cramping and forcing his body to writhe as bone lengthened and shortened. Dean continued to lick soothingly at his skin, making low, murmuring noises.
It will be over soon.
At the end of it, Castiel was on his back on the cold floor, exhausted. Dean licked the new, inky black fur like a mother cleaning her pup. He nosed playfully at Castiel's chin, and Castiel tilted his head back further, exposing more of his long neck. Dean accepted the act of submission and moved to the side, nudging Castiel up and onto his new four paws. Once he was sure Castiel had his footing, he moved to the door, knocked the latch up, and leaned his weight onto the door until it opened. He trotted out into the cold, wintry night, and Castiel followed his mate out into the new world and the new family of Dean's pack.
Castiel's family had not taken the news of Grandmother Naomi's death well. They mourned the old woman, burying the bones they had found under the bed, wrapped in a blood stained cloth. But a grim cloud had fallen upon their house over the disappearance of their youngest. The brothers began to each wear the same haunted expression, so determined were they to find their brother or whatever had slain him. Often, when the work for the day was through, they would walk together in the woods, searching for traces of the thing that could have taken their brother.
It was on one such day that Michael, Gabriel, and Balthazar were searching the woods together. The snow was melting from the ground, and there were more and more patches of mud. They had found the unmistakable paw prints of wolves, and now they were certain as to what they were seeking. Michael kept his rifle in his arms, ready to fire.
They came upon the pack of wolves soon enough. They were impossibly large, almost like bears, and they were many. Clearly, they were on the move, leaving the woods to seek out better prey. The brothers were downwind of the wolves. It would be easy enough to rid the forest of their threat once more. Michael aimed his rifle at the closest wolf, black furred and slim, standing close to a massive golden wolf. At the click from Michael drawing back the trigger, the wolf turned its head in their direction, and Gabriel gasped at the sight of eyes that looked so very human.
He knew those too blue eyes.
"Michael, no!" Gabriel shouted as he gripped the barrel of the rifle and tilted it up into the air.
"Gabriel, what are you doing?! That's-!"
"Castiel." Balthazar said, his voice thick with tears, "It's our brother."
The wolves stood stock still. Neither side trusted the other to not attack. The huge, golden wolf raised its hackles, rage evident in its expression, but the small black one—the tilt of its furry head only proved that it was indeed Castiel—nosed reassuringly at its muzzle. Slowly, Castiel turned back to where Michael, Gabriel, and Balthazar now stood in plain sight, and bowed his head.
This is goodbye, my brothers.
Balthazar answered, raising his hand in farewell. And with that, the pack burst into a run and disappeared into the trees. Winter was leaving this land, making its way for Spring, but it was not their home to stay in. Wolves no longer had a place in the woods, for it was claimed by man.
"Go in peace, Castiel."
A/N. This was meant to be a one-shot, and then it got long. This is also the first time I've ever written a sex scene, so I apologize if it wasn't satisfactory. I spent about half an hour avoiding it, and when I finally did write it, it took me an embarrassingly long time because I kept looking around to make sure no one was reading over my shoulder (I was in my university's library).
I forgot to mention that this was heavily, HEAVILY based on Angela Carter's short story "The Company of Wolves" and the film that was adapted from it.