Sweet Like Cinnamon~

the room’s dim, lit only by the lamp on your nightstand and the weak strip of hallway light under the door. the bunker’s quiet for once. you’re sitting on the edge of your bed with castiel standing between your knees, coat already discarded over the chair, tie loose, hair a little messed from your fingers. he’d kissed you until your thoughts went soft around the edges. until you forgot to be careful.

then your shirt rode up.

his eyes had dropped to your stomach, to the light brown stretch marks curving over your skin, and your whole body had remembered itself too quickly.

“sorry,” you say, reaching for the hem.

castiel catches your hand before you can pull the fabric down. “why are you apologizing?”

you huff out a laugh that doesn’t really make it. “i don’t know. habit, i guess.”

his brows draw together. upset in that castiel way. as if the world has given him another human rule that’s both cruel and unnecessary, and he’s deciding whether to personally argue with it.

“you believe this is something to hide.”

you look away. “cas.”

“answer me.”

“it’s not—” you stop, annoyed with yourself, with the heat rising in your face, with how stupidly vulnerable it feels to be looked at by someone who never learned how to look casually. “my skin isn’t smooth. it’s not even. and i know you don’t care, but i care sometimes, which is embarrassing.”

castiel is quiet for a moment. then he kneels. your breath catches because he does it slowly, reverently, hands settling on your thighs as if he has all the time in creation and wants to spend all of it right here. his gaze lifts to yours first, asking without words.

you give him a small nod.

he pushes your shirt up a little more, careful enough to make your throat tighten. his fingertips touch the stretch marks on your stomach, tracing one pale-brown line and then another, following the soft paths over your skin as if they aren’t interruptions but details. important ones.

“these are part of you,” he murmurs.

you swallow. “yeah. unfortunately.”

his eyes sharpen, gentle but firm. “not unfortunately.”

he bends his head and presses his mouth to one mark, then another, the kisses slow and warm and so lacking in hesitation that your body doesn’t know what to do with it. your hand drifts into his hair, not pulling. just holding on.

“cas,” you whisper.

“your body has carried you,” he says against your skin. “changed with you. protected you. endured with you. i don’t understand why that would make it less beautiful.”

you close your eyes.

the praise should make you want to hide more. somehow, from him, it doesn’t. it settles low and deep, a little too tender to brush off with a joke.

his hands move over your hips, your waist, the soft fullness of your stomach, never once avoiding the places you expect him to skip. he touches you with open palms, with patience, with something almost devotional in his face when he looks up at you. not hungry in a careless way. hungry with attention.

“there’s nothing wrong with the way you look,” he says, and his voice is so steady it almost makes you angry, because part of you wants to argue and part of you wants to believe him so badly it hurts. “not here.”

his thumb brushes over your side.

“not here.”

another kiss, lower on your stomach.

“not anywhere.”

your eyes burn, and you laugh a little because crying during foreplay feels… very you, actually. “you’re making this really hard to be insecure about.”

castiel’s mouth softens against your skin. “good.”

you look down at him, at the serious line of his face, at the blue of his eyes gone dark with tenderness, and for once you don’t reach to cover yourself. you let him look. you let him touch. and when he rises to kiss you again and his hand is still spread over the marked softness of your waist, you almost believe your body was never asking for forgiveness in the first place.

"Cas" you spoke up with a sigh to which he stood abruptly, hands awkwardly by his sides, "... I've been looking for you" he replied, no emotion on his face despite the very obscene position the two people on screen were in.

you shook your head choosing to walk away, "sure you have, you've certainly been looking in the wrong place" you muttered while he scrambled after you, "i have a question"

you glanced over your shoulder, "about what Cas?" you responded, already preparing for whatever this man was about to utter.

"it's about the female anatomy"

you stopped in your steps and turned around to face him, "...yes?" you questioned, narrowing your eyes.

he cleared his throat, glancing down before meeting your eyes, "in that video, the pizza man was touching her and it appeared that this liquid shot out of her. Is that possible?" he inquired.

it took you a second, once again, to process his words. when you did, you flushed, heat rushing through your face. your throat suddenly felt dry as you stumbled over an answer, "you mean squirting?" you blurted.

his brows furrowed and tilted his head in that puppy like innocence he always had, "is that what you call it?" he contemplated this for a minute while you stood there, heart racing.

he then stepped forward into your space causing you to tense at the proximity. the intensity of his gaze caused heat to pool low in your belly, "so it wasn't fabricated?" his voice was low.

you once again gaped, trying to look anywhere but his dark stare, "i- i mean most of the porn is laid on thick for views but it is a real thing yes" you stammered, eyes wide as the musky scent of him filled your nostrils.

suddenly his eyes narrowed and you watched as he angled his head down and sniffed. your heart dropped in horror.

"your arousal..." he murmured, eyes glancing towards your parted lips, "i can smell it" he inhaled again.

his gaze darkened as you froze, mortified simultaneously feeling the slick gathering in your panties. his hands came up, settling on your hips and gently pushed you back against the wall causing you to let out a small gasp. the lust haze filling your brain almost let a moan slip at the contact of his big strong hands man handling you.

"i would like to try, if that's alright" he suggested, voice low with his own seduction.

the suggestion took you by complete surprise and you could only stare, baffled.

"I'm going to need your words sweet girl" he prompted, husky with a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

the shaky exhale and the tiny nod you gave him was all permission he needed before he took you by the waist and roughly guided to your bedroom. your heart raced with anticipation, a thrill shivered down your spine.

there was a flutter in your stomach as he closed the door behind him, click. he locked it and turned back to you. he approached slowly, that angel like innocence being replaced by a predatory hunger in his eyes.

you tensed again when he stopped in front of you, a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, "easy," he soothed and buried his nose in your neck, inhaling again.

he captured your lips in a kiss, hand cupping your cheeks as his thumbs rubbed coaxing circles before he gently laid you down on the bed so that your lower half was hanging off. you couldn't help the small whine that escaped when he kneeled in front of you.

god he looked divine, lidded eyes staring up at you dark and ravenous. hair that was going to be tousled soon no doubt as you needed something to hold onto. lips plump and swollen from the kiss. his warm hands stroked up your thighs, gripping them tightly and pulled you closer.

"what are your limitations?" he suddenly asked.

you blinked at him, "... what?"

"how many rounds can you handle?" he clarified.

you swallowed thickly, "yes" you answered without thought.

a humourous huff escaped him, "words baby"

"I don't mind" you replied more sure of yourself. he nodded, pleased with the answer and tugged your pants down in a smooth motion.

you startled slightly. you had forgotten for a moment how strong angels are. you didn't get a chance to react as he suddenly spread your thighs and buried his nose against your covered pussy, inhaling again, a low groan escaping him. his lips brushed the wet spot gathered there.

your head tilted back, lips parting, "Cas...please"

god, the need was too much. the ache in your cunt was begging to be relieved. he pulled back, the juices that had soaked through causing strings of slick to stretch from his lips. you moaned at the sight, one hand coming up to tug at his hair.

his hands tightened on your upper thighs at the sound of your moan, eyes flickering up briefly before tugging down your panties. wordlessly he stuffed them into the pocket of his trench coat. you watch as he positioned your legs over his shoulders and paused at the sight of your glistening pussy, as swollen and pink.

"already so wet" he remarked with reverence watching as slick pooled onto the sheets below.

without warning he swiped his tongue through your folds up towards your clit. you gasped in pleasure, falling back into the sheets in bliss. he pulled back momentarily with a groan of your name, "you taste divine" he said, awe filling his eyes.

he dove back in like a man starved, slurping up your juices obscenely while white hot pleasure weakened you, squirming beneath his hold. you cried out, "Cass...god" you breathed.

the rumble he let out sent vibrations through you, "god wouldn't be able to make you feel this way sweetheart" he teased before his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked.

you cry out again, the pleasure already building in your belly. your hands tangled in his hair, holding him in place as you whine.

you came suddenly with a loud call of his name. he made a low pleased sound in the back of his throat, tongue not slowing down as he coaxed you through it. you didn't get a chance to catch your breath as he slid two fingers into your sopping hole without warning. thick, filling you up so good.

you whimpered at the intrusion, only able to voice barley coherent words as he pumped them, lips working in unison as he continued to swirl your clit. the other hand splayed across your stomach, keeping you in place.

you came again, cum coating his chin as he hummed, "that's it" he murmured against your puffy clit. by this point your eyes were teary from overwhelm as his fingers hit that sweet spot inside of you. you clenched around him and he sucked a breath through his teeth at the feeling of your gummy walls squeezing his fingers.

he added a third finger, stretching you out. you writhed beneath him, "please...Cass please" you pleaded, for what you didn't know. you just knew you needed more.

his teeth grazed your sensitive bud and you flinched, back arching at the strange sensation causing his hand to knead your belly in response, soothing. he pulled back briefly, face flushed and his tongue darted out to flick your clit. kitten licks as he looked up at you, watching as your face scrunched in pleasure while you gushed around him.

wet obscene sounds filled the room, squelches which seemed to redden his cheeks as his eyes watched your expressions with fascination.

the coil in your belly snapped again, your vision going white and his lips wrapped around you again, sucking harshly. you're crying at this point, squirming helplessly against him with pleading.

"Cass... too much" you gasped but he knew you didn't really mean it.

his lips quirked again when your thighs squeezed around his head, tears streaming down your face and reduced to a babbling mess. he added a fourth finger and you moaned loudly at the stretch.

another strange pressure built in your belly and you tried to push him away, "Cass wait" you gasped but he didn't let up, this only encouraged him as his eyes lit up.

his lips sucked roughly, his fingers speeding up angling his wrists to hit your spot deeper, more relentlessly. your mouth fell open in a guttural whine and he blushed.

then the pressure snapped. for a moment you couldn't hear anything, couldn't see anything as white clouded your vision. an unbearable climax as a clear white liquid forcing his fingers out, coating his chin, neck and chest while he watched with a grin, eyes wide with captivation.

your hands, tight in his hair finally loosened as you struggled to catch your breath. he slowly stood, lowering your sore thighs gently and you whined. he shushed you softly, leaning over and cupping your cheeks, "you were amazing" he praised causing you to giggle helplessly.

"next time we'll test how many times i can make you squirt"

your eyes widened, your heart skipping a beat in thrill and chuckled nervously while he stroked your cheeks, staring down with adoration.

When it’s you, Dean’s instincts are torn between conceding and winning. There’s some part of his broken, shattered soul that wants nothing more than for you to win every single argument so that neither of you storm off with injured hearts and a fear that your relationship is unsalvageable. The deepest parts of him hate fighting, because he wants you to feel safe with him; two people who grew up stubborn need the safety of each other more than anything else. The worst part is that after the fight is over but before the apologies, the only person Dean can see in the bathroom mirror is his father staring back, eyes dark and devoid of the tenderness a parent should have, face eerily close to Dean’s own.

Dean comes to find you later that night, the softness of socked feet on the bunker floors deafening in the quiet tension. It’s strung taut, a thin rope Dean can walk on but won’t break, and he treads delicately to keep the peace. You’re curled on the chair, book open in your lap that Dean realizes you’re actually reading. He clears his throat so as not to startle you, shoving his hands in his pockets and shuffling awkwardly in place.

“Baby?” Dean calls, voice thin.

You don’t reply with words, but the intentional tip of your head toward him shows that you’re not too angry to listen.

He really should be apologizing, begging for your forgiveness and making the empty promise not to do it again. He should get down on his knees for you and look up to your pretty eyes when he says he didn’t mean it.

“Are we okay?” is what he says instead.

It takes all his concentration not to wince at the words, and even then, he doesn’t do a good job. Your neutral hum could mean anything, and Dean swallows thick before trying again.

“Did I ruin us?”

You finally look up, watching hi with the kind of stare that says you’re undecided.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers.

You’re still waiting, and he knows exactly why. He still hasn’t apologized properly, and he knows from experience you’ll wait as long as you have to until you get one. He’s too stubborn to apologize and you’re too stubborn to let it go without getting one, and it comes to a head like this every time. Dean’s never been one for apologies; if he has to apologize, it means he was wrong, and Dean Winchester is never wrong. Unless it’s you, in which case he admits defeat more readily than one would expect.

“Look,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Can you look at me? Please?”

You slowly creep you head up, eyes sharp and cold wit the same kind of certainty that Dean’s own eyes often hold. Dean’s hands come out to cup your face, thumbs stroking over the plush of your cheeks, glowing something soft and valuable under the lamplight.

“Talk to me,” he says. “I can’t apologize if I dunno what to apologize for.”

Your hands come up to meet his in a waltz, achingly soft to music you can’t hear, and pull his palms off your face.

“Bad start.”

Your voice is curt, smothered in the kind of brutal honesty Dean’s come to expect from you. He recoils a little until he registers the undertone of grace threaded through your words; an opening, potential for repair, a guiding light in the dark kept just barely out of his reach. Dea n’s eyes drop to where you’ve kept your hand lanced with his, a silent offering for him to take, an opening for forgiveness if he can let himself take it. If he can put his ego aside and acknowledge that he does owe you an apology. He also knows that he’ll get the apology he’s owed if he caves first. For not the first time in his life, he wishes he was Sam; Sam wouldn’t have this issue, mostly because he would never have argued with you I the first pace and he’d have apologized before it got to this point.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he finally says.

“Not an apology,” you retort.

Dean makes an indignant sound.

“What do you want from me?”

“An apology.”

“I am apologizing.”

Your brow raises, and you make a scoffing sound, disbelief on your features

“No,” you say, matter-of-factly. “You’re hoping if you say enough other stuff, I’ll forget, and you’ll be forgiven by proxy.”

Dean’s eyes narrow.

“How hard is it for you to just say you’re sorry?”

“I could ask you that too.”

Your brows raise again, this time in an expression of completely disbelief.

“Okay, fine. I’m sorry. See? Easy.”

Dean knows he’s being difficult, and he also knows you’re being petty, but still, he cant find the words to say what he means. What he wants to say is something along the lines of how you mean to much to him for him to let you do what you try to do, even though you’re capable. Both can be true at the same time, he reasons, his protective streak at war with the calm side the rolls over without a fight.

“Are you really sorry, or are you just sayin’ that to make a point?”

Dean surprises himself by saying that, and the hurt that flashes across your face drives a stake through his heart and pins him to the wall.

“I didn’t-,” he starts.

“Enough of the bullshit, Dean,” you say, tone so low Dean’s sure he’s hearing it from the grave.

“I’m s-.”

“Are you really sorry, or are you just saying that to make a point?”

The silence that follows is suffocating in Dean’s lungs, filling them with something denser than air that drags his body down through the depths and threatens to leave it there to rot under the angry waves.

“Angel, I’m serious. I’m sorry, okay? Outta line, ‘s my bad.”

Dean hopes you can see the genuine apology in his features, because as soon as the words left his mouth he was wishing he could take them right back.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you warn, voice softer now.

“I know.”

“Then why does it still happen?”

Dean shrugs, guilt ripe on his cheeks.

“’Cause I dunno what else to do.”

The honesty makes the both of you pause, Dean bracing for disaster, and you realizing something that should’ve been clear before.

“Dean…” you start.

“Forget it,” he says, defensive already. “Doesn’t matter.”

Your eyes soften, hand reaching for his cheek and cradling it like angelic statues cradle holy water.

“It matters,” you murmur. “It’s you. Of course it matters.”

“Shouldn’t.”

You frown, pulling him closer.

“I’m sorry too, for what I said,” you offer, an olive branch in the talons of a dove. “Can we move on?”

Dean nods, something curt that you know is hiding softness. “Sure.”

You draw him in for a kiss, the chapped skin of his lips pushing devotedly against the softness of yours. His palm drops to your waist, fingers squeezing into the skin, reveling in the way you fill out his grip. The other hand quickly follows suit, resting just above where he knows your hipbones lie under your skin. Your hand drifts out, curling around Dean’s neck and lacing your fingers through the hair there, feeling the way he shivers in response. By the time you break apart for air, Dean’s face is flushed a tipsy shade of pink, and there’s a low, delicious ache in the pit of Dean’s stomach that’s already starting to turn his legs to mush.

“Sweetheart?” Dean says after he’s caught his breath. “Y’still mad at me?”

You pretend to think, grin pushing your face into what Dean thinks is the only sight that matters anymore.

“Maybe,” is your teasing, sultry response.

“Can I change that?”

“Depends on if you can make up for that you said about me on the hunt.”

Dean frowns. “I didn’t say anythin’ about you.”

“No,” you agree. “The deputy did. But you didn’t correct him when he said I was too big to be useful. Which, by the way, you’re welcome for saving your ass even when you told me to stay away.”

“I didn’t know if you wanted me all up in your business. God knows I’m aware you’ve capable of dealin’ with asshats like him.”

You grin, all teeth. “Well thanks, Prince Charming. Consider this blanket permission to get pissed for me. It’s hot.”

Dean stutters, momentarily taken aback by your abruptness. His grin slowly widens, tipping up the corner of his mouth as it becomes his signature smirk, all confidence and cockiness.

“Noted, darlin’. Noted.”

For someone as attentive to his surroundings as Dean, it never ceases to amaze him how easily he lets himself get lost in you. All he remembers from the journey between the library and the bedroom is your warm lips on his skin wherever you could reach, and his calloused fingers catching on the material of your sweater, socked feet stumbling over each other on the way like they’re too eager to bother with balance. It’s messy and uncoordinated and somehow underneath it all is the soft knowledge that this is the most real it can ever be. Dean’s lips brush against the skin of your neck, moving around the whispered words he breathes into your skin, letting the goosebumps that rise in their place soak in the praise he’s so afraid to give to you in daylight.

Dean’s consciousness narrows to you and only you, The constant light hum of electricity in ancient walls and the creaking of a settling foundation are lost to the quietness of the moment The occasional flickering of the lights don’t register any more than the groaning floors under the weight of your bodies pressed so close together. Even the faint scent of the bedroom means nothing to Dean; it’s been replaced by your smell, something so intrinsically you that Dean could pick it out anywhere. All that registers in his one-track mind is the shape of your curves and your comforting weight leaning into his chest as you chase after his lips.

“Can I take care of you?” Dean mumbles into your neck. “Can I make y’feel good?”

“You always do.”

Deans smile is soft, but there’s something in his eyes that says he wasn’t looking for flattery.

“I know,” he says, smirking. “I meant don’t you worry ‘bout me, okay? This’s about you, sweetheart.”

“Dean.”

“What? ‘M apologizin’.”

“That’s not fair,” you complain.

“Who said anythin’ about fair?”

You go to complain again, to convince him he’s allowed to be taken care of too, but he steals the words from your mouth when he kisses you and slips his tongue into your mouth. He can taste anger dissolving in your tongue, giving way to something sweet and dizzying. His head’s spinning with your drug as he lays you down on the mattress, sucking soft marks on the sides of your neck as he works toward the neckline of your top. His fingers tease up your shirt from below, skimming along the fat of your waist like a pebble skipping on the waves of a lake. Each pass moves the shirt higher until he can slide it off your body and drop it to the floor beside the bed.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, voice as low as the lamplight is dim, afraid the break the peace that’s filling the room.

“Yeah?” you say.

“Yeah.”

You reach up to peck his cheek. “I know.”

Dean smiles back. He knows you know you’re beautiful; he tells you several times a day. Every time he forgets how sexy you are when you’re confident, and every time he remembers, he’s immediately hard.

“You know?”

“Yessir.”

Dean laughs something rough. “Good. Hope y’won’t mind the reminder then.”

He’s on you at the first exhaled breath that leaves your kiss-swollen lips. He trails wet kisses down your sternum, tongue smoothing over the spots when you give a soft sound in response. Dean’s hands are restless, trying to hold all of you; they flutter like birds from your hips to your ribs to your chest, cupper as much of your skin as he can and smoothing his thumbs over your nipples in a soothing rhythm. He’s taking his time, mouth pressing to every inch of you that his hands can’t touch, pushing himself as close to you as he can so your warmth soaks into his skin and you’re as close to one person as you can be.

“Love this,” he says, taking a handful of the flesh over your ribs and squeezing it. “Love all of this.”

You giggle, his touch almost ticklish. “Good things it’s all for you.”

A faint sound escapes Dean’s throat, and it takes more energy than he’s willing to admit to in order to keep himself from rutting into you. His eyes trail to your stomach now, paying special attention to where your skin folds in ripples like fossilized riverbeds, shadow and light painting beauty on your body for Dean to see. You’d think after all this time, he’d have our body memorized. He does, and he dreams about you almost every night in perfect detail, but he needs his eyes open right now. He can’t possibly worship you if he can’t see you; at least, not yet. He’ll save the devout praying for when he’s buried between your thighs.

He’s mouthing at the hem of your pants, taking the fabric in his teeth and nipping it away so he can reach your skin. His stubble is ticklish and it’s unfairly funny how desperate he is, but by the time he works your pants down your legs and off, your breath catches from the weight of his stare. Dean’s not looking at you like you’re a person. He’s watching you like you’re a deity, residing over some domain he’s never had access to. Like you’re more than human, more powerful, like your very existence means more right now than his ever will.

“Shit, sweetheart,” Dean whispers. “Look atcha.”

“Like what you see?” you tease, wiggling your hips toward him.

Dean groans low. “God, yeah.”

You lay there for a minute more, completely bare with nothing to hide your body from Dean’s eyes. If it were anyone else, you’d be shy, anxious, desperate for them to stop looking; not because you don’t want them to, but because it wouldn’t feel right if it wasn’t Dean.

“Ready? Y’okay?”

Dean’s holding himself over you by the elbows, pushing himself upright when your hands reach out.

“Almost,” you reply, eyeing his chest. “I’d be better if you took the damn shirt off.”

Dean throws his head back in laughter, taking a hand and removing the shirt over his head in one motion. As he runs a hand through his hair to tame it, he sees the light push of your thighs together as you watch him.

“Like what you see?” he teases.

You push a palm against his chest. “Always.”

Dean settles at the foot of the bed, knees on the rug and hands roaming over your calves.

“Can I taste you?”

“Only if you say I taste sweet.”

Dean grins, victory in hand. “Y’always do, sweetheart.”

“Knock yourself out.”

You’re expecting Dean to dive right in, mouth ravenous against your most sensitive parts. Dean wants to, he really does, but tonight is an apology, and the harshest arguments always deserve the gentlest apologies. Instead, his hands roam up your legs, tracing every line in your skin like lines to his favourite poem, committing them to memory and giving them his utmost attention. His fingertips leave goosebumps in their wake, a memory of his touch that lingers in your skin longer than either of you care to admit. He moves over every natural line of your body with dedication, paying no mind to where it differs from his. Soft kisses to the inside of your knees, the plush of your thigh, the highest dip of your hips as they draw him closer to your core.

What Dean sees there stops him in his tracks, mouth open and eyes eagerly consuming you like the only thing he needs to live. The sight that befalls him at the gates to your core has his mouth dropping open. When the lights are totally off, Dean relies on the proximity of your bodies and a treasure trail of kisses to direct himself up your thighs to your core. With his sight taken away, he lies on touch to find his way home through the labyrinth of your body. Today, with the dim gold lamplight illuminating you, he’s discovered a new method of direction; the stretch marks along your thighs and stomach.

Dean’s noticed them before, felt the texture under his hands and lips alike, the rough surface a beautiful contrast to your softness elsewhere. But here, seeing them fully, feels different. Dramatic, impatient, valuable like something in a museum.

“Dean, y’okay?”

Your voice sounds soft yet clear, and instead of shattering the moment, it melds with it, drawing Dean further in.

“Huh?”

You give a soft laugh. “I asked if you’re okay.”

“Oh.” Dean’s eyes flick up from your thighs for just a second. “Sweetheart, I’m awesome.”

“Well okay, Mr. Fantastic, y’gonna do anything or just stare?”

“Jesus, be patient,” he whines.

“I am. If I wasn’t, you’d’ve come already.”

Dean’s teeth nip lightly at the inside of your thigh, making you squeak something very undignified. He soothes the spot over with his tongue, sucking a gentle mark next to it, a stamp of his passage. Your thighs tense under his fingers as they tickle upward over the skin, trailing goosebumps like ducklings following their mother.

Under the lamplight, your marks are absolutely gorgeous. They rope over your skin like vines, feathering off at the ends and molding with your body until they look like they were always made to be there. They catch the light in ways Dean never knew were possible, twisting it from something timid into something fierce. That, combined with the texture, make them look like slivers of a gemstone embedded in your thighs and stomach, calling to him like how a lighthouse sings to the boats on the water.

And suddenly, no matter how dangerous or impractical it is, Dean knows he’s got to put a ring on your finger. The faceted stone would catch the light of his bedroom lamp just as beautifully as these marks do. Dean finds himself tracing them with hot kisses, learning the echoes of your life story as perfectly as he can. The build-up means that when he finally gets his mouth on your core, the gasp you let out mixes with his heady moan in a duet only you two can play.

The way his tongue moves against you is noting short of sinful, buried as deep in you as he can be, his nose occasionally brushing against the skin of your lower stomach. For Dean, the taste of you on his tongue is nothing short of heavenly. You taste, to him, like the sweetest thing in his world; sugar and honey and candy all in one. He could live here, in the space between your thighs, with his hands on your stretch-marked hips, his lips and tongue working your core and his face cradled lovingly by the plush of them. He can’t think of any greater heaven. He’s been hard for a while, a fact he finally notices when he hits a spot inside of you that makes you sigh, the sound jerking his hips forward on an invisible string until his clothed cock grins against the mattress edge.

Even though you’re only connected by soul and Dean’s tongue, you still move yourselves in tandem. Your hips buck against his face, his hips grind helplessly into the mattress. The carpet bites at his knees, but he doesn’t stop. As long as you keep meaning like that, you’ll keep drawing muffled sounds from his chest and he’ll keep his face right where it is. Each pas of his tongue is accompanied by a draw over your marks, each squeeze of your thighs brings a suckle to your sensitive parts. Dean’ takes his time savouring the trail to the peak, timing it by the shaking of your thighs and heat radiating though his spine and dick.

He rides the waves with you until you crest over them, coming hard on his tongue with a keening cry of his name. The flood of taste is overwhelming, your sweetness setting off sparks in Dean’s belly, shoving his hips forward. He thrusts helplessly into the mattress once, twice more before the pressure in his core becomes unbearable.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hips stuttering as he chases release, kissing up your inner thighs. “Beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Dean-.” you start.

“I know.”

Your name is coating his tongue in sweetness when he comes, lapping up your leftover taste. He spills heavy and warm into his boxers, hips pushed forward, chasing the stimulation. He should be ashamed, he thinks, but the ecstasy rush is too great to feel anything over than pleasure.

“So?” you say when he’s panting.

“So?”

“Do I still taste sweet?”

Dean’s grin is bright despite the tiredness. “’Course you do. You’re the sweetest.”

You can taste yourself on his tongue when you kiss him breathless. He shucks his ruined boxers and jeans, climbing up beside you to kiss you better.

“Stay,” he says. “I’ll get a towel.”

“Hey, Dean?”

He turns, watching. “Yeah?”

“’M not mad anymore.”

His replying grin is just as loving as the light touch he cleans you up with, tucking you into bed and opening his arms for you to roll into.

“’M glad.”

You start to fall asleep naked and intertwined, arms and legs thrown over each other’s bodies in the most intimate way. Not even sex could replicate the intimacy of the moment, because it’s vulnerable and real and soft in the way that says you’ve both learned to stop hiding yourself from each other.

“Hey,” Dean starts, breaking the silence and only continuing when you tip your head to look at him. “I was wrong, ‘kay? I know that.”

“You were.”

Dean gives you a glare, but it’s weak.

“Carry on,” you say around a laugh.

“…I was wrong, but I’m still gonna love you, ‘kay? Promise.”

You kiss his cheek, slow and soft. “I know you will.”

And when Dean closes his eyes that night and falls into the peaceful sleep he’s come to known since laying with you in his arms every night, sparks fly behind his eyes in all the colours of the marks on your thighs. And to him, he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

Castiel had seen many, many things in his endless lifetime.

He’d seen the stars light up one by one, the seas part to make space for land, sunlight touching the Earth and humans taking their first steps.

He witnessed kingdoms rise triumphant only to crumble into dust centuries later, he watched cities fight wars in the name of Heaven and others in the name of Hell, he stood beneath constellations before mankind had even given them names, heard the first songs ever sung and listened to the final breaths of souls alike.

He’d seen beauty beyond mortal comprehension.

The shimmering auroras dancing over frozen landscapes untouched by civilization and its contaminating fumes, the quiet majesty of galaxies blooming in the endless dark, new life made from nothing but divine will.

He’d also seen horrors no human mind was meant to carry– but that was a story for another time.

And yet nothing– not Heaven's armies, not the birth of creation itself, not any wonder he’d witnessed over millennia… Nothing could have prepared him for the sight before him.

You.

Bathed in the soft glow of your bedroom light, dressed in delicate blue that mirrored the color of his eyes– the same pale blue that shone beneath his skin whenever he used his grace. The fabric hugged your body like it had been crafted by the hands of Aphrodite herself, every lace detail beautifully placed against the expanses of skin.

For the first time in eons, Castiel found himself at a complete loss for words. Beautiful was no longer a sufficient word– he often came to the realization that the word had always been too small for you.

His gaze lingered– not out of impropriety, but because he simply couldn't look away. For centuries, observation had been second nature to him. Angels were made to witness, to record, to remember.

But this? This was different.

His vessel didn't require oxygen, yet he found himself taking a deep inhale nonetheless. Something warm fluttered under his ribs, spreading through him in a way he would’ve struggled to define outloud– Dean would've probably called it being whipped, but Sam probably could offer a far more eloquent explanation. Castiel simply knew that you were looking at him with uncertain eyes, your fingers nervously smoothing the delicate fabric over your hips and all he could think was how tragically unaware you seemed of your own beauty.

"You're awfully quiet, angel" You murmured, a nervous laugh escaping your lips as you looked down at yourself. "Is it too much?"

Your question finally pulled him from his thoughts. His brow furrowed into a frown, confusion flickering across his features as he tilted his head in that deeply bewildered holy-puppy way of his. "Too much?"

"The lingerie" You gestured vaguely to yourself, suddenly unable to meet your boyfriend’s eyes despite what felt like an eternity of staring at each other. "I just... thought I'd surprise you"

His heart (that curious, stubborn thing he'd once insisted angels didn’t possess like humans did) suddenly squeezed in ache. "You have surprised me" The words left him almost reverently, raspy and low like he always talked. "I simply..." His voice faltered, another rarity for the usually stoic angel. "I don't believe there is a language, human or not… capable of accurately describing how beautiful you are"

A faint flush spread across your cheeks, face heating in embarrassed flusteredness. "You always say things like that"

He frowns once more, almost offended by the implication. "Only when they're true" The angel adds, eyes drifting over the blue lace once more before settling on your face– because despite everything, it was your smile that undid him the most. "The color suits you" He said quietly– unawarely reminding you how lucky you were to have a lover like him. Most men would’ve focused on how your tits looked or how fast they could tear the lace from your body… Not him though, he focused on you.  "Though I suspect you would look just as beautiful in any other color you chose"

Your heart softened at the quiet certainty in his voice. It wasn't a line, wasn't practiced or aimed to get into your pants– Castiel had never flattered for the sake of flattering. Every word he spoke, he believed wholeheartedly. "You really think so?" You asked, almost shyly. No matter how big you could make yourself in the outside world or hunting– the moment your lover looked at you like this, with all his intense admiration, your whole demeanor melted away.

His brow knitted together again, as though the question itself puzzled him. "I know so"

The angel took a tentative step toward you, careful in the way he always was whenever he feared crossing an invisible line. (As if he could ever make you uncomfortable) Even after everything you'd shared, Castiel never assumed what you might be comfortable with, never assumed he was entitled to your space. "May I?" His hand hovered just inches from your waist, waiting.

You answered by closing the remaining distance yourself. The corners of his mouth lifted into that small, impossibly soft smile reserved only for you. His fingertips brushed against the lace at your hip with astonishing care, as though he were touching something fragile enough to disappear beneath his hands. He wasn't admiring the fabric so much as he was admiring the way it looked on you. "It feels..." He searched for the right word, thumb absentmindedly tracing one of the embroidered patterns. "Delicate"

"It is" You can’t help but chuckle softly, fond at his reverence.

"I understand why humans enjoy beautiful things"

You laughed again, the sound easing some of the nervousness still stubbornly coiled inside your chest. "I think you're supposed to say I look beautiful, angel"

His blue eyes met yours immediately, a hint of confused panic to the look. "I thought that was already established"

Another smile escaped you before you could stop it. "Y’know–" You teased softly, resting your hands against the lapels of his trench coat. " –most boyfriends would've had a much stronger reaction by now"

"I am having a strong reaction" He retorts, head tilting to the side, confused as ever.

"You are?"

"Yes" His expression remained utterly earnest. "I simply don't believe ripping the clothing from your body would properly express my appreciation"

The laugh that burst from your lips filled the room, warm and honest. "You've been spending too much time with Dean" The way he’d spoken about ripping the lingerie from your body was one hundred percent learnt from your hunter friend.

"He did suggest that would be the appropriate response"

"And you're not taking his advice?" You chuckle softly, one hand gently running through the dark strands of his hair.

Castiel looked at you as though the answer were obvious, though he also melted into your touch, eyes briefly fluttering closed before focusing back on your face. "No" His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking gentle circles across the skin. "I would rather admire you for a while longer if you’ll let me"

There was no hesitation in his voice– only devotion.