Just making it up as I go

"So let me make sure I understand," Dean said. "You think the career I’ve worked my ass off on for the last twenty years is just a temporary hobby."

"I didn’t—"

"You basically called it that."

"I meant—"

"You think omegas are happiest staying home barefoot and pregnant."

"Biologically speaking—"

"And,” Dean interrupted for a third time. “You think an omega needs an alpha to provide for them."

Douchebag frowned in confusion as if he couldn't understand why this conversation had suddenly become uncomfortable.

"Yes, of course."

Dean looked at him, really looked at him and saw a big ass douchebag that believed with complete certainty that his worldview was both correct and universal.

Then Dean snorted into his beer glass as he took the last sip. “Okay," he said, reaching for his wallet. "You're right."

Douchebag visibly relaxed and smiled. "It’s really not that hard to understand.”

“Mm-hm.” Dean nodded and stood.

Douchebag’s smile vanished. "What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving."

"What? Why?"

Dean placed enough cash on the table to cover his meal. "Life's too short to be spending it here with you."

Douchebag stared at him, still confused. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm fucking serious." Dean picked up his jacket. "Good luck finding your dream omega."

The offended expression that crossed Douchebag's face nearly made the evening worth it.

"So let me make sure I understand," Dean said. "You think the career I’ve worked my ass off on for the last twenty years is just a temporary hobby."

"I didn’t—"

"You basically called it that."

"I meant—"

"You think omegas are happiest staying home barefoot and pregnant."

"Biologically speaking—"

"And,” Dean interrupted for a third time. “You think an omega needs an alpha to provide for them."

Douchebag frowned in confusion as if he couldn't understand why this conversation had suddenly become uncomfortable.

"Yes, of course."

Dean looked at him, really looked at him and saw a big ass douchebag that believed with complete certainty that his worldview was both correct and universal.

Then Dean snorted into his beer glass as he took the last sip. “Okay," he said, reaching for his wallet. "You're right."

Douchebag visibly relaxed and smiled. "It’s really not that hard to understand.”

“Mm-hm.” Dean nodded and stood.

Douchebag’s smile vanished. "What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving."

"What? Why?"

Dean placed enough cash on the table to cover his meal. "Life's too short to be spending it here with you."

Douchebag stared at him, still confused. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm fucking serious." Dean picked up his jacket. "Good luck finding your dream omega."

The offended expression that crossed Douchebag's face nearly made the evening worth it.

Dean smiles up at him, and he's sure he's flushed a bright pink, pupils blown, and lips kiss bruised. Cas's eyes flash, the grace leaks through the edges of his sclera. They're a brilliant blue, and Dean takes his hand, plans to put it on Cas's cheek, feel the stubble there, but instead Cas takes it in his own. His calluses are more intense like this, rough to the touch, Dean could rub his thumb against them for hours, feel that texture over and over again. Strong calluses from his angel blade, defeating anyone who wants to cause them harm.

His hand slides down until he spreads it across Cas's palm, and the top of his fingers barely reach the bottom of Cas's, where they connect. Dean has to remind himself his own hands aren't small, but it's easy to imagine. Cas can throw him around right now, effortless compared to normal, and he's always been able to throw Dean around, but it feels different, like Cas has to actively think again to keep himself contained. He's always had that strength rippling under the surface of his vessel's skin, kept in check by pure compassion for humanity, affability, but he was used to that, the way his smaller body handled his grace.

"Wow," he mutters, curling his fingers a bit. Cas takes the hint, wraps his own fingers over Dean's entire hand, almost. He hums, voice rough and steady, settling deep inside Dean's chest. Dean closes his eyes and lets it wash over him, reopens them to find Cas smiling at him softly, and he laughs.

"You make me happy," he says, and Cas's entire being flickers.

"Even like this?"

"Especially like this."

He shines brighter, a look on him so natural that Dean can't believe how many people, himself included, were trying to stamp that out, trying to turn Cas into an angel he's not. It's not something he ever wants to do again, let that festering ache take over until it's all he can do but push Castiel away like he means nothing to Dean, nothing to humanity as a whole. Do they know how lucky they are? Does Dean?

"I suppose, even like this, you are willing to get naked with me," Cas states, maybe more to himself than to Dean.

"Have you seen your dick right now?" Dean says, without much thought, but it comes easy to him. Cas's eyes crinkle around the edges, wrinkles he's let his vessel develop so that he'd match Dean, one for one.

"Nonetheless, I don't believe I can prep you right now. That might change your mind."

Dean swallows, probably flushes a little more. Cas is so large, looming over him where they lay down on Dean's bed. Or, well, Dean lays down and Cas kneels over him, the cushion soft under his knees, hard against Dean's back, the weights between them different enough that it's like they're on an air mattress. Cas is dense, bone mass large, wings who knows how heavy; Dean could ask, but he likes the mystery.

"You love prepping me," Dean complains. Cas is still soft, still simple, as he reminds Dean of the size of his hands, tells him that he doesn't want to break him.

"That's impossible," Dean says. Cas laughs like a bell, probably what the most gorgeous bell in the entire world sounds like, in some monestary in Asia, far away, out of reach, leaning over him, causing his hard cock to twitch and leak. "I want one inside of me," he says, once again not thinking. He never needs to when Cas takes everything in stride.

"Prep yourself for me first. Just a bit. I'll take over soon enough," Cas cajoles, and with just a feather touch, two of Dean's fingers are wet, ready for use, so much easier than trying to fish out the lube bottle in one of his nightstands.

It's not like Dean is particularly tight, not with all they've done. One finger slips inside him easily, second one not far behind in his impatience. Cas wraps a giant hand around his bicep, the entire way around, grounds him when he brushes against his prostate and whimpers.

"Fuck, Cas," he moans. Just because Cas isn't fingering him right now doesn't mean he can't pretend he isn't, like his two fingers are one of Cas's giant ones, stretching him so beautifully. Cas is staring at him, he knows he's awash in the blue grace, he can feel it coming out to explore him, all of Cas's different eyes, and the feathers around him brush against him, making his back arch, because he loves Cas so damn much. He wants Cas, all of him, down to the very core of his being, wants to drown in him, taste him, feel him, cry in his arms and tell him how sorry he is, for all of it, everything.

Mostly, though, he wants one of those fingers. He pulls his own out, wraps his disgusting hand around Cas's bicep, fingers not even touching together, so different from when Cas did this exact same thing.

"Please. I'm ready," he begs, and Cas stares into his soul. Probably literally, he's always complimenting the colors and shapes and patterns and size of it, eager to please Dean, make him see his worth, and with his grace dripping from the surface of his skin like this, he has no idea what Cas sees. If he can even see like a normal human right now, if he's still contained enough, not too otherwordly.

"Please, Cas." His hand tightens and he wonders, breifly, how hard, how painless, it'd be for Cas to put the hand scar back. Claim him forever, this time. Dean would curse him if he dared heal it again, bum some hex bag from somewhere. He could do it.

"Let me know if it's too much, okay?"

Dean nods, feels a palm splay over his chest, over the entire thing, a little pressure. "Yes," he croaks.

It burns a bit, that one finger. Cas is slow to push it in, slower than Dean likes, and he keeps Dean still with his big hand. He's so close to Dean's cock, he could get a much needed touch if he could lift his hips up just that tiny bit, could start frotting against his forearm, won't be enough but will be something.

"I'd have to loosen you with my grace to get my cock to fit," Cas says, like it's just some simple fun fact, but Dean's stomach burns and he throws his head back with a groan, brushing against more and more feathers. He wants to be held by them, thinks that if they can carry Cas, they can certainly support his weight, but he's too focused on thinking about Cas's words to ever request something like that right now.

Cas leans down, his heat overwhelming, and nudges against Dean's jaw line, tucks what he can of his head there, starts mouthing wetly at Dean's collarbone. It seems so small in comparison. If Cas gave him a hickey right now, there'd be no way for Dean to hide it, and he sure as hell wouldn't let Cas heal it.

"Think you can handle a second?"

Dean makes a keening noise, so overwhelmed he swears he can feel tears at the back of his eyelids. It takes everything in him to nod, to encourage Cas closer when he feels the second finger nudge in with the first, and it's so much more than Cas's normal cock. Any more and Dean might burst.

He'd take it all, though, if Cas were offering. He hopes Cas offers. Wants him all.

Cas spreads his fingers. Dean has the air punched out of him, a silent gasp, his back trying to arch, still impossible with Cas's strength. He wants more, would take more, but it's already too much, feels like he might die, even though Cas will never let that happen, not again.

He spreads his fingers, he twists them, he hits Dean's prostate with a deliberate press, and Dean is whining, moaning, trying to move, completely unable, tiny compared to Cas, his angel, this angel who's done so much for him, too much, not enough, he's so close already, hardly a touch to his cock, can barely reach Cas as he fails to thrust.

"Please," he begs again, will keep begging if he needs to.

"Come from my fingers, Dean." And he always says shit like that like nothing unusual is happening, the words are normal, oh Dean, did you know that the world's oldest cat was 38 years old? Now come, Dean, on my fingers, be a good boy just like Creme Puff and this is so normal, so very normal. Wings tighten around him, sweat drips from his pores, and he doesn't understand how Cas only feels bigger as time goes on.

His orgasm is sudden, punched out of Dean casually, and when the first wave of pleasure rolls over him, Cas rips his fingers out and puts that same wet, large hand on his cock, jerks him through the release of his spend, doesn't let up until Dean is scratching at his skin, tears dripping out, nails at a risk of breaking. When Dean simply can't take anymore, Cas stops the movement of his hand, the air flickers with untapped electricity, and he leans down and laps at Dean like a dog at an overflowing water bowl. He cleans Dean's stomach until nothing is left, sweat and come and all, and through Dean's barely opened eyes, he sees Cas smiling, like he just had the sweetest ambrosia.

Dean laughs, wet and bubbly, bones soft in the bed. "I love you," he says. A matter of fact. Dean Winchester loves Castiel. As clear as night and day.

Cas, ever full of energy like this, keeps smiling. Grace surrounds him in a heavenly blue glow and he lifts Dean up, slides his wings under him, wraps them around Dean, and rolls them over before Dean can do so much as protest.

"I love you too," Cas mumbles into Dean, pressing into him with everything he's got, close and warm and safe and alive.

"Don't think you're getting out of fucking me with that monster you've got between your legs, by the way."

Cas chuckles, still tucked into Dean, and Dean knows there would've been a time, many years ago, back before they were this, that Cas would've been confused or concerned or both, but he knows Dean now.

Dean smiles up at him, and he's sure he's flushed a bright pink, pupils blown, and lips kiss bruised. Cas's eyes flash, the grace leaks through the edges of his sclera. They're a brilliant blue, and Dean takes his hand, plans to put it on Cas's cheek, feel the stubble there, but instead Cas takes it in his own. His calluses are more intense like this, rough to the touch, Dean could rub his thumb against them for hours, feel that texture over and over again. Strong calluses from his angel blade, defeating anyone who wants to cause them harm.

His hand slides down until he spreads it across Cas's palm, and the top of his fingers barely reach the bottom of Cas's, where they connect. Dean has to remind himself his own hands aren't small, but it's easy to imagine. Cas can throw him around right now, effortless compared to normal, and he's always been able to throw Dean around, but it feels different, like Cas has to actively think again to keep himself contained. He's always had that strength rippling under the surface of his vessel's skin, kept in check by pure compassion for humanity, affability, but he was used to that, the way his smaller body handled his grace.

"Wow," he mutters, curling his fingers a bit. Cas takes the hint, wraps his own fingers over Dean's entire hand, almost. He hums, voice rough and steady, settling deep inside Dean's chest. Dean closes his eyes and lets it wash over him, reopens them to find Cas smiling at him softly, and he laughs.

"You make me happy," he says, and Cas's entire being flickers.

"Even like this?"

"Especially like this."

He shines brighter, a look on him so natural that Dean can't believe how many people, himself included, were trying to stamp that out, trying to turn Cas into an angel he's not. It's not something he ever wants to do again, let that festering ache take over until it's all he can do but push Castiel away like he means nothing to Dean, nothing to humanity as a whole. Do they know how lucky they are? Does Dean?

"I suppose, even like this, you are willing to get naked with me," Cas states, maybe more to himself than to Dean.

"Have you seen your dick right now?" Dean says, without much thought, but it comes easy to him. Cas's eyes crinkle around the edges, wrinkles he's let his vessel develop so that he'd match Dean, one for one.

"Nonetheless, I don't believe I can prep you right now. That might change your mind."

Dean swallows, probably flushes a little more. Cas is so large, looming over him where they lay down on Dean's bed. Or, well, Dean lays down and Cas kneels over him, the cushion soft under his knees, hard against Dean's back, the weights between them different enough that it's like they're on an air mattress. Cas is dense, bone mass large, wings who knows how heavy; Dean could ask, but he likes the mystery.

"You love prepping me," Dean complains. Cas is still soft, still simple, as he reminds Dean of the size of his hands, tells him that he doesn't want to break him.

"That's impossible," Dean says. Cas laughs like a bell, probably what the most gorgeous bell in the entire world sounds like, in some monestary in Asia, far away, out of reach, leaning over him, causing his hard cock to twitch and leak. "I want one inside of me," he says, once again not thinking. He never needs to when Cas takes everything in stride.

"Prep yourself for me first. Just a bit. I'll take over soon enough," Cas cajoles, and with just a feather touch, two of Dean's fingers are wet, ready for use, so much easier than trying to fish out the lube bottle in one of his nightstands.

It's not like Dean is particularly tight, not with all they've done. One finger slips inside him easily, second one not far behind in his impatience. Cas wraps a giant hand around his bicep, the entire way around, grounds him when he brushes against his prostate and whimpers.

"Fuck, Cas," he moans. Just because Cas isn't fingering him right now doesn't mean he can't pretend he isn't, like his two fingers are one of Cas's giant ones, stretching him so beautifully. Cas is staring at him, he knows he's awash in the blue grace, he can feel it coming out to explore him, all of Cas's different eyes, and the feathers around him brush against him, making his back arch, because he loves Cas so damn much. He wants Cas, all of him, down to the very core of his being, wants to drown in him, taste him, feel him, cry in his arms and tell him how sorry he is, for all of it, everything.

Mostly, though, he wants one of those fingers. He pulls his own out, wraps his disgusting hand around Cas's bicep, fingers not even touching together, so different from when Cas did this exact same thing.

"Please. I'm ready," he begs, and Cas stares into his soul. Probably literally, he's always complimenting the colors and shapes and patterns and size of it, eager to please Dean, make him see his worth, and with his grace dripping from the surface of his skin like this, he has no idea what Cas sees. If he can even see like a normal human right now, if he's still contained enough, not too otherwordly.

"Please, Cas." His hand tightens and he wonders, breifly, how hard, how painless, it'd be for Cas to put the hand scar back. Claim him forever, this time. Dean would curse him if he dared heal it again, bum some hex bag from somewhere. He could do it.

"Let me know if it's too much, okay?"

Dean nods, feels a palm splay over his chest, over the entire thing, a little pressure. "Yes," he croaks.

It burns a bit, that one finger. Cas is slow to push it in, slower than Dean likes, and he keeps Dean still with his big hand. He's so close to Dean's cock, he could get a much needed touch if he could lift his hips up just that tiny bit, could start frotting against his forearm, won't be enough but will be something.

"I'd have to loosen you with my grace to get my cock to fit," Cas says, like it's just some simple fun fact, but Dean's stomach burns and he throws his head back with a groan, brushing against more and more feathers. He wants to be held by them, thinks that if they can carry Cas, they can certainly support his weight, but he's too focused on thinking about Cas's words to ever request something like that right now.

Cas leans down, his heat overwhelming, and nudges against Dean's jaw line, tucks what he can of his head there, starts mouthing wetly at Dean's collarbone. It seems so small in comparison. If Cas gave him a hickey right now, there'd be no way for Dean to hide it, and he sure as hell wouldn't let Cas heal it.

"Think you can handle a second?"

Dean makes a keening noise, so overwhelmed he swears he can feel tears at the back of his eyelids. It takes everything in him to nod, to encourage Cas closer when he feels the second finger nudge in with the first, and it's so much more than Cas's normal cock. Any more and Dean might burst.

He'd take it all, though, if Cas were offering. He hopes Cas offers. Wants him all.

Cas spreads his fingers. Dean has the air punched out of him, a silent gasp, his back trying to arch, still impossible with Cas's strength. He wants more, would take more, but it's already too much, feels like he might die, even though Cas will never let that happen, not again.

He spreads his fingers, he twists them, he hits Dean's prostate with a deliberate press, and Dean is whining, moaning, trying to move, completely unable, tiny compared to Cas, his angel, this angel who's done so much for him, too much, not enough, he's so close already, hardly a touch to his cock, can barely reach Cas as he fails to thrust.

"Please," he begs again, will keep begging if he needs to.

"Come from my fingers, Dean." And he always says shit like that like nothing unusual is happening, the words are normal, oh Dean, did you know that the world's oldest cat was 38 years old? Now come, Dean, on my fingers, be a good boy just like Creme Puff and this is so normal, so very normal. Wings tighten around him, sweat drips from his pores, and he doesn't understand how Cas only feels bigger as time goes on.

His orgasm is sudden, punched out of Dean casually, and when the first wave of pleasure rolls over him, Cas rips his fingers out and puts that same wet, large hand on his cock, jerks him through the release of his spend, doesn't let up until Dean is scratching at his skin, tears dripping out, nails at a risk of breaking. When Dean simply can't take anymore, Cas stops the movement of his hand, the air flickers with untapped electricity, and he leans down and laps at Dean like a dog at an overflowing water bowl. He cleans Dean's stomach until nothing is left, sweat and come and all, and through Dean's barely opened eyes, he sees Cas smiling, like he just had the sweetest ambrosia.

Dean laughs, wet and bubbly, bones soft in the bed. "I love you," he says. A matter of fact. Dean Winchester loves Castiel. As clear as night and day.

Cas, ever full of energy like this, keeps smiling. Grace surrounds him in a heavenly blue glow and he lifts Dean up, slides his wings under him, wraps them around Dean, and rolls them over before Dean can do so much as protest.

"I love you too," Cas mumbles into Dean, pressing into him with everything he's got, close and warm and safe and alive.

"Don't think you're getting out of fucking me with that monster you've got between your legs, by the way."

Cas chuckles, still tucked into Dean, and Dean knows there would've been a time, many years ago, back before they were this, that Cas would've been confused or concerned or both, but he knows Dean now.

Sam looked as if Dean had just gutted him, and skinned him too for good measure. "Sarah's pregnant!" he blurted.

Dean blinked, utterly thrown. "…Sarah?"

Bobby ran a hand over his face. "Daniel Blake's daughter."

Dean's brow furrowed while Sam's chin wobbled, though he was also scowling as if Dean were being deliberately obtuse. "The guns and antiques guy? The one who haunts flea markets and garage sales?" He snapped his fingers as the face of a pretty brunette beta finally came to mind. "That debate competition in Lufkin, right? Cas and I drove you."

"It was Model UN." Sam muttered sullenly, though he shrank in his seat, voice thickening with tears, "but yeah."

"I…" Dean gulped back a wave of nausea as his vision tunneled, "I thought you didn't go for it, Sam. That you chickened out on asking for her number."

Sam scoffed, arms tight around himself as if it were all that was holding him together. "Yeah. About that."

"It's his, Dean," Bobby said heavily, "I saw the girl, she's sure—"

"Obviously," Dean cut in sharply. "Contrary to popular belief about women and male omegas, the vast majority of us fucking know who sires our kids!" He glowered at Sam, "Did you doubt her? Did you seriously ask if it was yours?!" he seethed.

Sam hesitated a beat too long. "I…never asked that. I kinda knew when…" He trailed off helplessly.

Right, those good ole Alpha sniffers. Hadn't stopped Paternity Court being a thing. "You got Sarah Blake pregnant." His voice was flat, dead.

“Charlie,” Castiel sighs, rolling his eyes as best he can without dislodging Charlie from his chest. “I’m not going to get involved with someone I met online. Least of all someone I had exactly one semi-pleasant conversation with.”

“I’m not saying you have to,” Charlie says, raising her chin so she can look up at him all innocent and wide-eyed. “Just, if he comes back, chat again. Maybe send him a DM. See if you guys click.”

“And what if we do? What if we do, and he’s into male omegas, but then I tell him about myself and he pulls away.” Castiel sighs, feeling heavy and tired all of a sudden. He’s had a little over thirty years to get to terms with his gland defect. But sometimes the unfairness of it all hits him all over again.

Technically, biologically, he’s omega. He slicks when he’s aroused and he can bear children. But he’ll never be able to form a scent bond. The single most important way to connect with a partner on an emotional level is simply unavailable to him.

“What if he doesn’t?” Charlie asks.

Castiel stares at the frozen image of London’s Tower Bridge on the TV screen. “Then that would be literally the first time that’s ever happened,” he says.