#gotta focus gotta shift into alien mode

[talesfromthecrypts]

Alien (1979) dir. Ridley Scott

[a-solitary-marshmallow]

Please Don’t See Me - Chapter 13 (out of 14)

Not – not right. Something was wrong, familiar but not familiar and his head was hurting now, his teeth ached and everything ached. His body felt weird, why was it shaking? Why did he hurt? Where was he again?

 He ached all over, like something was gnawing at him. The bone-deep aching seemed to touch every fibre of his being. It swelled in his jaw, where it seemed to throb alongside his heartbeat. He could hear the crunching as bones shifted and reshaped. He let out a pitiful whine.

 “…with me? Can you…?”

 He hadn’t been expecting an answer to his whimpering. Who was – why? Why was he? No, wait, wrong words. Where was he? He felt like he was struggling to wake from a year-long sleep. Wasn’t sure he wanted to wake up, with the pain radiating through him, intensifying for a moment in his back as cracks and pops shuddered through him. But slowly, slowly, that pain was starting to recede, clearing space for other sensations to filter through.

There was hard floor under his hands. Well, kind-of-hands, with long claws that bit into the wood grain. He could feel air rasping in his throat with every breath that shuddered through him. Something pressed a steady weight against his shoulders, large and warm and grounding. A pair of hands steadying him. Something to focus on. He counted the fingers in his head. One, two, three, four, five, six. Six? He counted again, just to be sure.

 “It’s okay, I’m right here.”

 He knew that voice – lower and a little more prim than he remembered from their childhood, but still familiar. The sense of pack-home-warmth-food-safety-protect. Brother. Brother was there. Brother had given him something awful-tasting, and-

“Stan? Can you understand me?”

He tried to respond but his mouth was dry and only another gasp of air escaped him. How did you speak again? He swallowed hard, testing the muscles that felt like they hadn’t been used in ages. Maybe they hadn’t. When he finally did manage to make a sound it was rough and strained, more of a whine than anything. Maybe it was just the wheeze of his Shift finishing, depositing him firmly as a confused human kneeling on the floor. His claws had shrunk into uneven, dirty nails.

“Just – just nod if you can understand me, okay? Can you nod?”

He swallowed again, forcing out sounds through alien human vocal chords. It came out as a croak. “Ford?”

“Yes!” Someone – Brother – Stanford shouted. Too loud, it hurt his sensitive ears and made him wince. He groaned and brought a clumsy hand up to rub at his throbbing temple. Ugh, either he was hungover or partly in wolf mode or both. Probably both, seeing as he couldn’t quite remember where he was or how he’d gotten there.

“Didja… get the number plate of the car that hit me?”

The words felt odd and disjointed – rusty in his mouth – but they were familiar and made his brother laugh, so he counted that as a win. His memory was pretty blurry, but he was pretty sure that his brother hadn’t laughed in a while. No, Ford had been so frustrated and upset, trying to find some…

…cure.

Huh.

“How do you feel?” Ford was asking him. “Besides hit-by-a-car, of course.”

“Well, I can count up to six and remember yer name, so I’m gonna go with ‘better than before’.” He rasped. With each word his sentences were coming easier, falling into a well-worn pattern of practice. He hadn’t spoken in… how long? Why hadn’t he been speaking?

There was movement, and he was blinking over a shoulder – there were arms wrapped tight around him. A hug? Why was Ford hugging him?

Wait, no, Ford often hugged him. Hugged Rebus. Who was him, who was also-kinda-not-quite Stan?

The final puzzle piece clicked into place, and Stan groaned.

“I turned into a goddamned lapdog.”

The last few weeks were a blur – he wasn’t quite sure it wasn’t all a dream, but he remembered glimpses of it. Of having the mental capacity of a spoon. Napping while Brother worked. A sense of protect-danger-keep-guard-fight. God, he hoped he hadn’t attacked anyone Ford liked.

“Yes. You were Warped.” Ford pulled away to dive into techno-babble, one hand still on Stan’s shoulder. Stan looked around blearily at their surroundings – Ford’s lab, it looked like. The last thing he remembered was being in the forest, but…

He pulled his shredded jacket closer around himself and shivered.

“Do you remember the bear that attacked us?” Ford continued. “You must have ingested some of its blood, because you were affected by the same substance that mutated it. One of the symptoms I’ve isolated is cognitive deterioration, which explains why you were stuck in a simpler mindset. That was the main challenge to reverse. Luckily I was able to figure it out in the end.”

“’Course ya did.” Stan mumbled out. Ford was the smart one, of course he would be able to fix him. Ford let out a little, relieved-sounding laugh, eyes fixed on Stan’s arm as he ran his six fingers over an old scar. At least, it looked old, seeing as it wasn’t a fresh wound anymore. Stan didn’t remember getting it. It looked like some huge bear had taken a chunk out of his arm or something.

…oh yeah, the bear.

“It did take me quite some time to develop a cure. You aren’t the most cooperative subject, Stanley – at one point you climbed onto the roof and then were unable to get down for several hours. I thought your fear of heights had faded since childhood?”

Being dangled over the edge of a five-story building helps with bringing back old phobias. Stan very carefully did not say that out loud. Oh, look at that, his brain was working well enough to recall memories of his escapades with Rico’s gang. Whoopee.

Another shiver ran through him. It was cold down here – or at least it felt that way, given Stan’s sudden lack of fur. The only warmth came from Ford. The nerd was constantly in motion as he babbled, putting a warm hand on Stan’s arm or touching his shoulder or grabbing his face to tilt it from side to side and study his eyes in the light. If Stan didn’t know any better he would have thought his brother was fretting.

Fretting over his latest lab rat, maybe. Was that why Ford had – had fixed him? Because Stan was more useful with his brain intact?

No, Ford was probably just feeling guilty about kicking him out while he was in that state. (And of course Ford would get rid of him, Stan was nothing but trouble, always had been, the only thing he was good at was fucking things up.) So, he found a cure. Undo the damage, fix Stan up before kicking him to the curb, so the scientist could walk away with a clean conscience.

Well, screw that. Ford might as well have just booted him out then and there, when Stan’s head was full of bees and he couldn’t remember his own name. At least then he wouldn’t have had to know that he was being rejected yet again.

As if rejection was something new. Heh, story of his life.

“Stanley, pay attention.” Stan felt a hand lightly tapping his cheek, drawing him back to the present. He finally focused on Ford’s face. The nerd looked almost as bad as Stan felt, with wild hair and tired, bloodshot eyes and ink stains on one cheek where he must have fallen asleep at his desk. He didn’t smell too great, either. Like old coffee, unwashed human and rusted metal. The nerd must have been feeling really guilty to put himself so out-of-sorts. “Now, are you noticing anything unusual for either your wolf or human form? Your eyes are still somewhat reflective but that could just be a werewolf trait rather than a Warped trait. You feel hot, you may be developing a fever. Stay here, I’ll get a thermometer – or, do you think you can stand?”

“Why did you fix me?                      

Ford looked as if Stan had slapped him. Shit. Stan hadn’t even meant to speak, but the words had slipped out.

Well, gotta commit now. He shuffled back and folded his arms over his chest, trying and failing to meet Stanford’s eyes.

Ford made a disbelieving sound. “You’re my brother. I couldn’t just leave you like that.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you felt responsible or whatever.” Stan waved his hand dismissively (and clumsily, because coordination with hands was hard. Too many moving parts.) “But did you ever stop to consider that maybe I didn’t want to be fixed?”

“Why on earth would you want to stay like that?”

“Ya didn’t even have to put up with me!” Stan shouted, flinging up his arms, and Ford’s mouth snapped shut. His chest bubbled with anger. “You could have just – I dunno, sent me off into the woods or something.” And it would have hurt just as much, sure, but Stan wouldn’t have been around to feel that pain. “I woulda been fine.”

“You were an animal-”

“But at least I was happy.” Stan snapped. “When – when yer mind is mush at least you don’t know what you’re missing out on, you don’t know that people don’t want you around, you don’t have to be sad all the time. Maybe I like not bein’ me. Maybe I like not knowing how much of a screw-up I am. Maybe I don’t want to know that I’m JUST ANOTHER EXPERIMENT TO YOU!”

Ah, shit. Way to go, motormouth.

Stan huffed and finally met Ford’s eyes, expecting his brother to look angry at his outburst – and maybe, just maybe, a little bit guilty. He hadn’t expected the aghast look he received.

“Stanley.”                                          

Stan flinched back, suddenly very unsure of what was going on and what Ford’s horrified reaction meant. “What, what did I do?”

“Stan, of course you’re more than an experiment. If – why do you think I worked so hard to bring you back?” Ford leaned forward and grabbed Stan’s shoulders again. “If I wanted a lab rat I would have left you in that form, which now that I say it seems quite heartless and this is really besides the point because the point is that I didn’t. You’re my brother, Stanley, whatever grievances we’ve had in the past. And… and if I’ve made you feel that I would think otherwise I apparently haven’t been a very good brother.”

Stan scanned his twin’s eyes, trying to find some hint of dishonestly – any indication that he was lying. He found nothing. And damn it, now he was even more confused!

“…what was all that talk, then?” Stan’s voice was rough. Lack of practice probably. He sounded like a chain smoker. “The ‘it’s my life’s work to study anomalies��� and stuff?”

“It is my life’s work to study anomalies. What does that have to do with this?” Ford frowned, as if confused. Stan spluttered.

“The – the whole ‘only-not-kicking-me-out-because-of-it’ deal!”

“I didn’t say that!” Ford protested.

“Yes you did! You said it right to my face!”

“All I said was that I wouldn’t be-”

Ford stopped. Blinked hard. Swallowed. Stan could almost see the cogs whirring in that big old brain of his.

“…oh. I can see how that would give… the wrong impression.”

Stan groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to grind out the headache he could feel growing there. “Look, Ford. I just – I’m tired, okay? So you can just say your piece and send me off or study me or whatever. But don’t make me –” He let out a frustrated growl. “Just stop givin’ me false hope, okay? I don’t wanna hear it. I’m just… tired.”

The last word was low and pathetic. God, what was wrong with him? C’mon Stan, get your act together! He was a fucking werewolf for crying out loud, and he was sitting here acting like a kicked puppy. No wonder Ford was…

Hugging him again?                

“Hey, hey hey hey, what’s goin’ on here?” Stan flailed a little in the rib-squeezing grip. His eyes prickled – because he was stupid and Ford was hugging him, Stanley, and Stan hadn’t been deliberately hugged in almost a decade. Tears spilled over without his consent. Thank god Stanford couldn’t see his face.

“I’m hugging you.” Ford mumbled into his shoulder.

“Yeah, I – I get that.”

“It has been brought to my attention that I’m not very good at communicating sentiment through words.” Ford continued. “So, I – I’m hugging you instead.”

“…okay.”

______________________________________________________________________

Ford was beginning to realize that he had – eloquently speaking – fucked up.

When he and Stan were younger they had been thick as thieves. Ford could read his brother’s face as easily as an open book. He’d known when Stan was hurting, or feeling guilty or lovesick or whatever else the knucklehead had seen fit to try and hide. Stan had always been better at reading people but if there was one person Ford understood, it was his brother.

He didn’t know how to read his brother’s face now. Maybe Stan had learned to hide his feelings better, or Ford had simply forgotten how. Either way, Ford hadn’t been able to tell what Stan had been thinking since the man had barged back into his life. His brother had been hurting and Ford hadn’t even had a clue. And now everything he said seemed to make it worse.

So Ford didn’t speak. He hugged his brother tight and didn’t let go.

After another moment Stan hesitantly hugged him back, scarred arms closing loosely around Ford’s back. A shudder ran through him and he sniffed. Then hiccupped. Then sniffed again, as if he were desperately trying to hold back tears and failing.

Ford weighed his words carefully before speaking. “…I don’t want you to leave.”

Stan’s fingers dug into his back as the man stiffened.

“Not because of my research, I mean.” Ford continued. “Honestly, Stan I – I missed you. Through the last nine years. You were such a huge part of my life and suddenly you were gone. I wanted to have my freedom – to go to college and move away from home – but never at the expense of my brother.”

Ford’s mouth was dry. He swallowed and forged on.

“Having you back – even in disguise – has been wonderful. I didn’t realize how much I missed you until I got you back. How much I missed my brother. I was so afraid that I’d lost you forever.”

He forced his voice to not wobble; emotions were well and good but falling apart over that particular scenario could wait. Right now Ford was trying to make a point, he didn’t have time to be distracted.

“I’ll understand if you never want to see my face again but please trust me, I want to keep in touch. I don’t want you to just disappear again. And I most certainly will not force you to do so. Do you understand?”

Stan was shaking. Ford rubbed slow circles on his back, desperately hoping that he was helping instead of making things worse. Stan made a soft affirmative sound.

“…mm hmm.”

“And I worked so hard on curing you because I care about you. Even though I may not be good at showing it.”

“Mm.”

Ford gave a low chuckle. “Plus, I… may have gotten in over my head, just a little bit, with some of my experiments. I’m glad I’ve had you to watch my back.”

Stan snorted. His voice was barely a mumble through Ford’s coat. “A little? On day two I was saving your ass from a bunch of angry cat-birds.”

“Griffins are not cat-birds! They are eagle-lion hybrids. And for your information they are generally non-aggressive unless provoked! I just… got a little close, is all.”

Stan pulled away, chuckling wetly as he scrubbed at his face with a torn-up sleeve. “Yeah, whatever.” He cleared his throat. “Jeez Poindexter, you need to sweep down here. You, uh, got a lot of dust.”

“…sure. Dust.”

Stan’s clothes were unsalvageable at this point – torn to ribbons and stained with blood and dirt and other substances Ford couldn’t identify. Even if they ceased to exist when Stan took his wolf form (which would be an incredible thing, Ford had to investigate its limits and the logic behind it) he had been wearing them for far too long.

Which begged the question…

“Stan?” Ford ventured. Stan looked across at him warily.

“…I don’t like that tone.”

“Why did you stay for so long?” Ford crossed his legs to settle next to his brother, since Stan didn’t seem like he was ready to move. “Not that I haven’t appreciated your company, but…?”

Stan buried his face in his knees and mumbled something.

“Stanley, you know I can’t understand you when you mumble.”

“That’s the point of mumbling.” Stan said a little louder.

“You’re dodging the question.”

“Deliberately.”

“Just answer it!”

Were shoulder punches still safe? Ford risked it, and was rewarded with another snort of amusement.

“Ugh, whatever, nerd. I didn’t really have anywhere else to go so I figured – why not stay for a while? Ya know, in case you needed me to bail you out again.”

“Nowhere else to go?” Ford echoed, mystified. Of course Stan had somewhere to go – he must have had a home somewhere! He even had a car… which, now that Ford came to think about it, seemed rather lived-in. And wasn’t even registered. And there was the fact that his brother was dressed like a hobo. And had a mullet. “…oh.”

“Just shut it, I don’t need yer pity.” Stan rolled his eyes. “Yeah. By the time I got outta that stupid cage I figured ‘hey, might as well stay for a bit’ and you know the rest. Now you got your answer, I’m a homeless bum. Go ahead, yuk it up.”

“I’m not laughing.”

Stan squinted at him suspiciously. And… he looked pretty terrible. Ford was pretty sure that he looked like a mess but Stan was twice as bad. His skin was sallow and waxy and his eyes were sunken in, the skin around them dark like a raccoon’s.

Alright. Priorities. Ford pulled in a deep breath, and let it out.

He climbed to his feet and offered a hand. “Do you think you can stand up? You should take a shower and make sure there’s no Warped blood on you. I have some clothes that should fit you, and then you’re going to eat a vegetable. Human bodies need vegetables, Stanley.”

Stan peered at him. “I’m not actually a human, Sixer.”

“Human or not, vitamins are important. Come on.”

Stan reached up, and then hesitated. “Are, um – you sure you want me in your house? After all the, uh…”

“Deceit?” Stan flushed and looked away. “We’ve both made mistakes. And you can more than make it up to me by telling me about werewolves like yourself.”

“I – I won’t touch anything. Or break anything.” Stan mumbled.

“Except for my door.”

Stan flinched. “That wasn’t – I mean–”

Of, curse it. Ford hurried to reassure him. “No, no, I’m sorry, that was a joke. A poor one.

“…your jokes are terrible.”

“My timing could use work.” Ford conceded.

“We’re such a mess.”

“That’s an… accurate way to put it, actually. But you’ll just have to get used to it, because you’ll be staying with me for the near future.”

“I – what?” Stan jerked.

“You said yourself, you have nowhere else to go. And you’ve certainly been pulling your weight, what with making sure I don’t die. So you’re staying here, for as long as you need. Unless you have any other plans?”

Stan spluttered.            

“Just take my hand already.”

With shiny eyes and a rather red face, Stan did. Ford pulled his brother to his feet.

And then promptly went down again as Stan’s legs gave out beneath him, sending him into Ford and both of them to the floor.

 “…you do remember how to walk, right-?”

“Stupid fuckin’ legs-”

“That’s alright, take your time.”

“Shut up!”

[javocjovian]

Gossamer Wings

Title: Gossamer Wings Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22486564 Rating: E Ships: Destiel focus, implied background Sabriel (Gabriel lives) Tags: Top!Castiel/Bottom!Dean, hurt/comfort, angst, loss, fluff, Castiel’s wings, wing kink, healing sex, comfort sex, Destiel focus Summary: Set in Season 12, Dean struggles to cope with Mary’s betrayal after she confesses to working for the British Men of Letters. Luckily, an angel is watching over him. Word Count: 4836

This fic was written for the @profoundnet​ scavenger hunt, based on the following bot prompts:

- Dean is cleaning his gun - Cas is preening his wings - Sam has genital herpes

- Dean is feeling vulnerable - Cas is polishing his angel blade - Sam just walked in on Cas and Dean boning

Happy 2nd Birthday, PB!!!

Beta-ed by @banshee1013​

Gossamer Wings

Despite the bunker being occupied by two people and an angel, it was unusually quiet. It had been that way since that morning, when Mary left.

For a while the silence felt explosive. It reverberated like an unearthly presence after Mary’s departure, but after it faded a much worse silence took its place—a black hole had opened up, producing a heavy, suffocating silence like the kind at a wake, or a funeral.

This funeral was a different kind than Dean was used to, however. This was the funeral of a person still living, and in a way the funeral of Dean himself. He could feel pieces of himself beginning to rot, corroding away as if dissolved in acid, polluting his mind and his memories with doubt and resentment. It was a slow, brutal death. A death deserving of a slow, brutal silence.

 Although Dean bore the brunt of this insatiable void, exposed to it on a level Sam never could have been, Sam was united with Dean in this silence. He supported him without flinching and Dean appreciated it more than words could express. Or perhaps words could express it. Perhaps they were words for only a mother's ears, to be purged and healed by the gentlest of love. How cold and uncaring irony was.

 Castiel arrived late in the afternoon. Sam filled him in on the landing, and no more words were spoken. The only sound was the occasional, sloppy clatter of metal on the table as Dean cleaned his gun.

Castiel didn’t dare break the silence. He joined Dean at the table as if answering a silent prayer. Aside from a nod of greeting, Dean didn’t look at him. Castiel could see Dean's world shifting in his eyes and he knew at once he needed to stay. He decided it would be best if he didn't sit around staring at Dean, however, so while Sam disappeared into the catacombs of the bunker Castiel opted to polish his angel blade.

 Even if he couldn't express it, Dean was grateful for Castiel's presence. He knew Castiel hadn’t come by for more than an update on Kelly Kline, so when he took out his blade Dean felt a part of his world resolidify under his feet.

For the first time since Mary's rebirth, Dean felt as though he had something sturdy to latch onto. Something immovable to stand sentry amidst the void threatening to break apart his world. Dean couldn’t think too hard about it, though. The thoughts clouding his head were too blurry to commit to and yet so heavy that they seemed to press against his skull and weigh him down. The silence helped. Cleaning his guns helped. The illusion of productivity kept his mind in survival mode, leaving the thoughts to simmer in a cloud of noxious nothingness, not existing and yet existing far too much.

 Castiel tried to think of something to say—some way to pierce through that cloud and comfort Dean—but he saw no good way to do it. So instead he kept polishing his angel blade. Eventually it was so shiny he had to angle it to keep from casting light into Dean's eyes, although Dean might not have noticed. Perhaps this silence was what Dean needed. Castiel did not know. Perhaps he should speak. Perhaps Dean was waiting to hear words of comfort.

Just as Castiel was resigned to speak, Sam returned with a duffel bag over his shoulder. Castiel sighed in relief.

"Hey." Sam looked exhausted.

Dean didn't look up. "Hey."

"I gotta uh… go find Gabriel. Take care of a thing," he said quietly.

Dean grunted.

Sam shot a Cas an appreciative look and headed up the bunker stairs. His footsteps clambered against the metal steps and echoed across the cavernous ceiling.

 Castiel watched him leave in vague concern, but he didn't ask questions. The Winchesters had never been prime examples of healthy coping mechanisms. Far be it from Castiel to stop Sam from going off on his own, especially if Dean didn't have issue with it. Castiel listened to Sam's footfalls fade and the heavy door swing shut.

The silence grew louder.

When Castiel could no longer pretend the polishing was making any difference, he slipped his blade into his coat. He almost dropped it for being so clean.

Dean hadn't noticed. He'd was already dismantling a second gun.

In the silence, an odd thought came to Castiel—He hadn't cleaned his wings in a while. Years, perhaps. They didn't work anymore, but his wings had once been a source of pride for Castiel, and he used to take care of them meticulously.

He didn’t have naturally extravagant wings like Michael, or elegantly wild ones like Gabriel. Even Lucifer’s had a dark allure, despite their light, almost alien-like glow. By contrast, Castiel’s wings took work to keep vibrant and strong, but Castiel was happy to expend the energy. His had been on par with Naomi’s and even Joshua’s, all because of effort.

Perhaps, even though Castiel’s wings didn't work, there was still use in taking care of them. Admittedly, he’d been unable to stand the damage done to them, damage he blamed himself for when the Metatron took his grace, and he’d let his wings fall into disrepair. But maybe the act would absorb him like it once did.

 Castiel got up and moved to a more comfortable chair away from the table. He was resigned to make some noise, but it hadn't disturbed Dean. Castiel let his gaze linger on Dean for a second, then turned to his wings.

Unfurling them was like taking off a heavy coat after a very, very long day. He stretched them out and was surprised by how good it felt. They didn't hurt any more, but Castiel never presumed they would feel good again. Not like before Metatron, before the Leviathans even.

A few celestial feathers fell to the ground and vanished, but Castiel could only expect that. At least Dean couldn't see his wings. Dean had never seen his wings. Nothing beyond shadowy, incorporeal impressions anyway. The thought filled Castiel with a kind of grief; albeit nothing, he was sure, compared to Dean's.

Castiel curved a large, spindly wing over his shoulder and began to pick at the broken and fading feathers. He winced a little every time a feather had to plucked, the healthy ones surrounding it swelling slightly. It was a necessary pain. For the health of the whole wing some feathers had to be removed. Castiel remembered how he used to think that way. Now every feather seemed precious, especially as he had lost so many. But the moment Castiel removed them they fell to the ground and vanished into specs of light.

For the first time in a while Castiel met Dean's eye, and for a moment he thought Dean wanted to speak. Castiel waited, almost holding his breath, but Dean looked away and resumed cleaning his gun. For fear of saying the wrong thing and making Dean flee, Castiel said nothing and began tending to his other wing.

They fluttered over the table briefly, an ashy shadow of their once magnificent, inky blue splendor. This wing still hurt a little, but he knew it wasn't from the fall. Dean's body had long been rebuilt, losing him the handprint that had once immortalized his rescue from Hell, but Castiel's wing still bore the matching scar.

It had been a coincidence, really, like Castiel being assigned to Dean in the first place. He had used his wing to shield them both when Castiel lifted Dean out of the sulfur and brimstone. Dean had reached up to grip his wing and the wound shone like daybreak. It fueled Castiel's grace, healing him, but a scar remained—A human handprint. Dean didn't remember this of course, and Castiel saw no reason to put that on his shoulders. The scar had long faded anyway. The mark that had once been baby white was now icy black, a shade lighter than the surrounding plumagem but it still stood out to Castiel.

Again, Castiel saw Dean looking at him and again Dean lowered his eyes.

Worried his moving around was bothering Dean, Castiel stopped preening. His wings settled back down, the feathers deflating slowly. He found himself staring at the color. He'd always been fond of blue, although he had been jealous of that one parrot in the Amazon jungle. He had the most lustrous, shimmering emerald feathers. He’d turned his eyes to Castiel, black like shiny stones, and cawed as if to say "you would look better in green". Cas assumed he was being mocked and flew away, but perhaps the parrot had been correct, as parrots often were.

Castiel realized he'd been staring, but he found Dean staring back. Castiel had been absentmindedly stroking his clean, even feathers. It felt good, even now, but it was obviously bothering Dean. Castiel dropped his arm sheepishly.

"Cas," Dean spoke at last. His voice was raspy with disuse, or overuse, he wasn't sure. "What are you doing?"

Castiel cleared his throat."I uh… my wings. They were uneven. I was just fixing them." He flushed slightly, realizing how unimportant it was.

Dean wasn't cleaning his gun anymore. Castiel wondered when he'd stopped.

"I can see that," Dean said.

"I'll stop, if it's…" Castiel said automatically, but then he paused. Dean could see that? Did he mean he could actually see his wings or was it just a turn of phrase? Castiel's brow furrowed. A part of him didn’t want to know, but his lips formed the question before he could stop them.

"Can you… see them?"

Dean's emerald eyes lingered on Castiel before returning to the gun. "Yeah. I can."

Castiel's expression melted. His wings shrunk, as if being compressed by the unspoken void in the room.

"Ever since we went to Heaven," Dean said. "Sam says he can't see them anymore, but…"

"You still can?"

Dean shrugged noncommittally.

Castiel tried to mask how thunderstruck he was. He swallowed thickly and looked away. Dean gave him the courtesy of resuming his cleaning.

"Kind of hard to miss when you're over there preening."

Just like that, Castiel felt his embarrassment begin to fade. There was a note of teasing in Dean's voice. Castiel sighed. "I didn't realize."

Dean glanced at him gently. "Don't worry about it."

Castiel watched Dean put the gun back together, doing everything in his power 'not to worry about it'. But he was failing. Every embarrassing moment came back to him as if someone were injecting the memories into his brain. All the times Castiel's wings failed him, how ragged they looked this past year, all the times he and Dean were alone together… Castiel may have been hard to rile up but wings were the most expressive part of an angel. Oh the frailties they had betrayed. Even now, Castiel became increasingly aware of every little breath and twitch that fluttered through his weak and pitiful plumage. Castiel's face felt hot. He could see that parrot again, whistling smugly at him.

Dean set the reassembled gun down at last. It gleamed as brightly as Castiel's angel blade buried in his pocket.

For the first time in hours, Dean got up. Castiel expected him to go to the kitchen (he hadn't eaten anything greasy in far too long) and anticipated a moment to himself, but Dean didn't leave the room. He walked over to Castiel.

Castiel looked up at him, feeling unusually ruffled. Without explanation, Dean sat on his lap. Castiel's arms came up automatically, holding onto Dean as Dean leaned down and kissed him.

Castiel was surprised to say the least. He had been prepared to not so much as move for the next few days if need be, but for what felt like the millionth time he was met with the humbling fact that he knew nothing about human grief.

Still he knew enough to know that this wasn't usually how humans coped. So when Dean broke the kiss, Cas murmured, "Dean?"

Dean didn't respond. He just leaned against Cas with his hands on Castiel's, his eyes closed, their foreheads pressed together. Dean’s body was so warm. Castiel could feel his sides expand softly with every breath.

Inappropriate as it was, Castiel was struck by the beauty of Dean's grief. He couldn't help but admire every vulnerable, human line in his face, so close to Castiel’s. If Castiel’s wings had a face it would resemble Dean’s. Castiel reached up and stroked his cheek, his fingertips brushing through Dean's short hair.

Dean kissed him again, and this time Castiel kissed back. It was a slow, lingering kiss. The sound filled the silence like water lapping against the shoreline. Castiel could have sat forever in that silence, but guilt was beginning to creep into him. Dean was so very warm. But it was his duty to protect Dean, more so now than ever before, so when the kiss broke Cas asked again, more persistent this time, "Dean?"

Dean finally looked at him. His eyes were tinged with pink, yet the green shone more brightly than ever.

"Do you... want to talk about it?" His voice was barely audible, but Dean heard him.

"No," he said brusquely. As if to keep Castiel from asking any more questions, Dean kissed him again.

Castiel wasn't sure what they were doing could be called kissing anymore. They were barely moving at all, just brushing their lips together, breathing against each other.

Castiel had a hard time breaking away this time. This was the most affectionate Dean had ever been with him, and it made Castiel very happy. So happy that he realized his wings had puffed up, despite their newfound desire to hide behind his back. The resulting spark of self-consciousness urged him into speech.

"Dean," Cas spoke again. "I think… ah."

The words died in his throat as Dean reached up and gently touched his wing. Castiel inhaled softly. Dean looked transfixed by the rippling blue and black, like a deep sea or the furthest reaches of space. Castiel’s eyes fell closed.

"Does that feel good?" Dean asked, observing him.

Castiel nodded silently. He wouldn't call an angel's wings erogenous, but touching them was something only a lover would do. And Castiel was reminded that Dean was in fact his lover.

Castiel opened his eyes and saw Dean's gaze had begun to smoulder. Guilt was overridden by more animalistic drives, and Castiel pulled Dean into a kiss. Dean met him gladly, opening the kiss and leaning into him fully. He sat completely on Castiel's lap, feeling the inside of Castiel's wing while Castiel’s arms wrapped around him. The kiss became insatiable, but it wasn't until Castiel felt Dean roll his hips into him that Castiel stopped.

Castiel took hold of Dean's hips and Dean stopped with difficulty. He freed Castiel's lips, looking winded and confused. Castiel's heart sank.

Castiel swallowed, trying not to let Dean's lingering taste overtake him yet again. "Dean," he mustered. "Is this really want you want right now?"

The resulting look of annoyance was hard to endure. Dean studied him, then finally said, "Yes, Cas. It is."

Castiel didn't believe him. "It's just…" He stopped. He could tell at once that bringing up Mary was the wrong thing to do, so he searched for other words. They came to him with surprising ease. "Dean. You know I would do anything for you," he said seriously, "But I need to know that this is really what you want."

Dean's annoyance began to fade. Castiel watched him in resignation, but when Dean refocused on Castiel his irritation had been replaced by something Castiel rarely saw—vulnerability. Dean didn't want this—he needed this. So when Dean swallowed and said, his voice quiet but certain, "Yeah, Cas. I do," Castiel didn't hesitate.

Guilt sturdily replaced by duty, Castiel brought his hands up to Dean's face and pulled him into a deep kiss. Dean melted. He kissed Castiel over and over again with growing desire. No inch of Castiel's skin went unkissed. Then he leaned over Castiel and kissed his wing.

Castiel's chest (and his feathers) swelled. Self-consciousness gave way to pleasure as Dean lavished his wings with affection, but it quickly became too much. Castiel pulled Dean back down and took him into a hungry kiss. Soon they were making out on the chair and Dean was rolling his hips against Castiel's stomach. This time Castiel didn't stop him. Instead, his hands dropped to Dean's ass.

Without warning Castiel stood up, lifting Dean with shocking ease. Dean felt a jolt of arousal as he was handled like a rag doll. He grabbed Castiel’s jaw and the kiss turned fiery.

Castiel carried him the short distance to the war table, never once breaking that kiss, and sat Dean on the edge. Castiel pulled Dean's shirt off, revealing scared yet firm skin dusted with freckles. Dean quickly reciprocated, getting Castiel out of his coat. It fell right through Castiel's wings as if they weren't there, yet Dean could see them growing in size, puffing up like a stormy, frothy sea. He unbuttoned the top of Castiel's shirt and kissed the bare skin of Castiel's neck.

Castiel sighed and undid the rest of his shirt on his own. Dean's arms wove around his back to the base of Castiel's wings and gave them an experimental rub. Castiel groaned.

Castiel leaned forward, toppling Dean onto his back. Dean saw Castiel eyes—shockingly blue and electrified—and he felt a second jolt of arousal that sparked into flames as Castiel yanked Dean's pants and boxers off in a single motion. Dean swallowed a moan. He always enjoyed when Castiel used his inhuman strength in bed, and this time was no different.

"Cas," Dean panted gruffly as Castiel began feeling up Dean's nude body. His hands were coarse and calloused, but Dean loved it. The contrast between his gentle touches and his firm hands drove Dean wild. He spread his legs on either side of Castiel's hips, shameless in his nudity and hungry for more.

Castiel began removing his own pants, and Dean was happy to see that he was just as erect, if not more, than Dean. He watched hazily as Castiel leaned over him, his wings spreading high above them, and took both of their erections into his hand.

Dean's lips parted in a silent groan. Castiel began stroking them together and Dean's hips seemed to lift of their own accord.

Dean's was clearly enjoying the stimulation—Castiel could feel precum beading at the tip of Dean's head—but rather than pacify Dean as this act often did it only seemed to frustrate him.

"Cas, Cas…" Dean breathed, "I appreciate the effort but…"

Somehow, Castiel understood. "You want me to fuck you," he said, his voice breathlessly blunt.

Dean's cock twitched. It was so rare to hear Castiel talk like that. It sent shivers down Dean's spine.

"Yes," Dean practically whimpered.

Castiel let go at once. He parted Dean's legs, reached down, and slipped his fingers between Dean's thighs, then his eyes glowed blue. His wings lit up in patches, like lightning arcing across the night sky, and Dean realized what he had done. He’d lubed Dean up using grace. Dean made a rather unmanly noise. Castiel had never used his power like that before.

Realizing he had aroused Dean into stunned silence, Castiel took over completely. His wings flared, shielding them from the harsh bunker lights, and he pulled Dean’s hips close. Dean spread his legs in anticipation, and within seconds Castiel was sliding in. Dean silence broke and he moaned in bliss.

Castiel filled Dean to the brim, gave him a second to adjust, then pulled out and did it all over again. Dean's head dropped onto the table.

Castiel enjoyed watching Dean's body shake and his jaw stiffen. He liked seeing Dean's cock, an unusually gorgeous one for a human, dribbling precum with every thrust. He loved the sounds Dean tried and failed to hide, and the way his body moved, as if milking every last bit of pleasure from the motions. He loved everything about this one particular human.

"Cas, oh Cas… harder."

With Dean's encouragement, Castiel began doing just that. He fucked Dean senseless on the war table, drawing groan after groan from Dean’s lungs. Truth be told, it was a little harder than Castiel thought would be comfortable, but Dean had always enjoyed a little too much. Castiel maneuvered his hips to find that angle Dean loved, and sure enough Dean’s back arched and he began cursing.

“Oh fuck, fuck’s sake… there, Cas. There…”

Dean's legs came up over Castiel's ass and Castiel scooped Dean up in his arms. Dean was panting and swearing into Castiel's shoulder, muttering his name repeatedly. Castiel had never heard such a beautiful prayer.

In Dean's rapturous haze, he reached around Castiel's back and clumsily massaged his wings. Castiel's body trembled and he groaned. Dean had only ever heard Cas groan a few times, so there was no way in Hell Dean was letting go of that spot. He raked his fingers through the inky feathers and Castiel bucked into him hotly. Dean moaned, spurring Castiel on.

Castiel’s wings may have looked damaged and battle worn seconds ago, but it that moment they shone brighter than any of the Archangels’. In that moment, Dean couldn't tell that Castiel had lost a single feather. He was the most magnificent angel Dean had ever seen, feathers glowing like a neutron star.

 “Cas, oh Cas,” Dean's voice cracked and he began sputtering, "gonna come…"

Castiel's eyes were closed now, but he nodded feverishly. “Then come Dean,” he rasped, not letting up.

Dean didn't stand a chance. His breath hitched, his body shuddered, and Dean felt his pleasure burst at last, expanding throughout every muscle and even into ones he didn’t know he had. He gasped and moved his arm to stroke himself as he came, spurting with every thrust. Soon his head fell back and his body shudder. He couldn't keep his eyes open. He heard Castiel grunt and spasm, then come to a staggering halt deep inside his body, and Dean knew he was coming, too.

Dean was still muttering Cas’s name, hardly aware of himself in that moment. His body was ringing so powerfully that he couldn't move. Castiel seemed unlikely to move, either. He was laying atop Dean, his chest expanding against Dean's with every satiated breath. Dean let go of his wings and put his arms around his back. Castiel was heavy and warm, and the weight felt good.

Dean’s voice came back to him as he caught his breath, and soon he was panting out, "Oh my g… Cas. Where did you learn that?"

Castiel picked his head up to look at Dean. He looked windblown, but answered simply, "The pizza man."

Dean stared at him for a second, then laughter slowly rumbled through him, shaking Castiel gently.

Although Dean rarely laughed after sex—it seemed a worrisome thing to do—Castiel was relieved to hear it. Dean's eyes glittered as he smiled at Castiel.

"Damn. Cas, that..." Dean started to catch his breath. "...that was amazing. I've never felt so good in my life."

Castiel smiled back.

Dean lay on the table, still chuckling to himself as Castiel got up. He pulled out gently, only then realizing his error.

As if reading his mind, Dean said, "Don't worry about it. I gotta shower anyway." He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

"Yes… I suppose you can't be impregnated."

Dean chuckled, "I better not. But I appreciate the effort." He shot Castiel a roguish look.

Castiel smiled a little wider. He leaned over Dean once again and wove their fingers together. He kissed Dean's bruised knuckles, enjoying the smile it brought to Dean's face. But like an odd note in a familiar song, Castiel realized something wasn’t right.

Dean wiped another tear from his eye. His smile had changed.

"Dean?" Castiel said, beginning to see that Dean was in pain, "Did I hurt you?"

Dean took a quick breath. "No, no Cas. You're good." He was telling the truth, but still, more tears were forming. "Shit," Dean murmured, wiping his eyes again.

Castiel suddenly understood. He didn't say anything, he just lay gently atop Dean, holding his hand and caressing his fingers. He kissed his hand, closing his eyes patiently. Dean was grateful.

Dean wiped his eyes again, focusing on the feeling of Castiel’s lips on his fingers. It calmed him, and at last Dean took a shallow breath and murmured, “Sorry, Cas.”

Castiel opened his eyes—They were as blue as a warm summer sky. Castiel reached up and wiped a stray tear from under Dean's thick eyelashes. "Don’t be.”

Dean gazed at Castiel appreciatively, even more so as Castiel ended the conversation by leaning down and kissing him.

 After a few lazy moments, Castiel could feel Dean's comfort returning. Dean began gently stroking Castiel's wings and smiling slightly.

“Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Castiel hesitated over Dean’s lips, but Dean gave him such a warm look that Castiel asked his question anyway. "Why didn't you tell me you could see my wings?"

“I was afraid you'd hide them,” he admitted.

Castiel paused. That was exactly what he would have done. It wouldn't have even occurred to him that Dean enjoyed seeing them, not after they broke. This revelation filled Castiel with affection, but still, he sighed. "I wish you could have seen them before. They were… magnificent."

Dean’s smile surprised Castiel.

"They still are, Cas,” he said simply. “They're the most beautiful things I've ever seen."

For a moment Castiel looked distant, like he was processing Dean's words. His wings rippled slightly, brushing against Dean's hand. When Castiel detected that Dean was in fact telling the truth, Castiel was overcome with emotion. The only thing he could think to say was, "I love you, Dean."

Dean's smile widened. He dabbed at his eyes. "Shut up."

Castiel smiled and kissed him.

Dean kissed back, murmuring softly against his lips, “...love you too…”

Castiel held Dean to him, kissing him on the war table. The compressing, creeping silence that had plagued the bunker evaporated at last. The bunker felt bigger, and Castiel's wings felt too heavy to carry. It was a wonderful weight.

 Despite this improved silence, neither of them heard the bunker's door close from upstairs. It wasn't until they heard a pained intake of breath that they realized they were no longer alone.

Dean sat up on his elbows and looked over his shoulder. Sam was determinedly facing the other direction and rubbing his eyes as if trying to erase the image burned into his retinas.

"Hiya Sammy," Dean grinned.

Castiel nearly fell off the table.

"Really? On the table?" Sam demanded blindly.

Castiel's wings shrunk instantly. He looked like a guilty dog who'd just snuck a treat, and it almost made Dean start laughing again.

"Sorry, Sam," Dean chuckled as Castiel hurriedly passed him his clothes. "But you should really knock."

"On the front door?" Sam heard clothing being put on and chanced a glance at them, but was met with the sight of Dean's bare ass. "God, damnit…! Put...put some clothes on, Dean."

"The human body is a thing of beauty, Sam," Dean announced.

"Yeah, well, your human body is cleaning that table. With bleach."

 Much to Castiel’s relief, once everyone was fully clothed Sam and Dean moved on quickly. That, or Sam was already denying it had happened. Either way, the atmosphere improved greatly. They sat around the kitchen and chatted while Dean cooked the greasiest meal he could think of, claiming he was so hungry he could eat a salad.

Rather than being upset with Castiel, which had been Castiel’s primary concern, Sam seemed grateful. He attributed Dean’s change in mood to Castiel’s… intervention… and left it at that.

It wasn’t until dinner that Castiel finally remembered. “Sam, did you say you needed to see Gabriel?” He asked curiously.

Sam looked up from his plate, which he was devouring despite his assertions that no meal needed that much tabasco sauce.

Dean glanced at him casually. When Sam took too long to respond, Dean smirked. “Gabriel gave you herpes didn’t he?”

Sam nearly choked. “No!”

Castiel squinted.

Sam beat his chest with his fist, going red. “No! He just…”

Dean rose a brow, chewing slowly.

“I may have… called him immature last night.”

Dean snorted.

“So he… uh, yeah. But it’s fine. We made up.”

Dean eyed him slyly. “I’ll bet you did.”

“Shut up.” Sam smiled.

Castiel watched Sam and Dean laugh and bicker, and felt oddly at peace with the world. He knew the subject of Mary would have to come up eventually, especially given the reason for her departure, but the time wasn’t now, and Castiel was glad for that.