Pixikinz

Fourth installment of the Castiel “At First Sight” series, which consists of “At First Sight,” “You’re Growing On Me,” and “Under His Wing,” all linked on their titles. Requested by anon, but altered to fit my own persona plot line. “For the At First Sight continuation (I’m not very good at this but I love this series of imagines so much! Thank u by the way for writing!) what if the Winchesters actually knew Cas & y/n were together” Oh, they know. They’re just really good at pretending they don’t. “so they purposefully leave the bunker on a “hunt” to give them alone time. Maybe smut, fluff? And in the end the couple comes out of their room to see the Winchesters grinning because they were right? Thank you again for your imagines, love em!” I’ve warped the ending with intent to shock. Hope you like it!

(All past and future installments can be found on the “The Story Continues…” page.)

You sighed once more, leaning into the angel’s shoulder, allowing him to support your weight. His arms wound easily around your body, his wings adjusting above to envelop you further, their feathery shroud closing in. You were practically running yourself into the ground, staying awake so far into the morning that it became pointless to attempt sleep, but you had no other option if you were to keep up with the work load. You were constantly ringing a mutual hunting partner named Garth when you were fortunate enough to pluck a detail from the ancient texts, relaying the information to him in hopes that it somehow applied to his ongoing mystery hunts. The man was too good at getting himself into trouble, but you would try your damnedest to ease him through each escapade. The excruciating hours seemed fewer with Castiel at your side, enjoying your presence in more ways than one, his position beside you exhibiting his desire for a human-specific touch that even the hyper-sensitive nerve endings adorning his wings could not satisfy. He was wholeheartedly content with watching you work in silence, his thumb rubbing foreign letters into the backside of your palm, his thoughts very obviously preoccupied with his wings. The restraint he upheld was weaker, less strict as you grew closer, but he continued to at least attempt to keep the trilling of his rustling feathers to a hushed minimum to lessen the level of glimmering distraction, though his attempts were oftentimes unsuccessful. Every minute or so into Castiel’s fruitless quest, you’d feel the silken touch of his wingtips. You would never be able to deny the luxury of such contact, but you both understood the need to complete certain assignments, especially when it came to Garth. Thus, Castiel would mumble an apology, cheeks burning low over his dazzling smile, before flexing his wings away from your body. This charade was repeated as soon as you had immersed yourself in the inkblots and crude sketches, your skin tingling beneath the cautious, involuntary extensions of Castiel’s feathers, your head growing misty from the delectable aroma wafting from his chest… his every feature lured you from your work.

You were going to get Garth killed.

You closed the leather-bound pages, defeated, your resolve shattering within you like a wall of cracked glass… and there were his wings, already furled on your every side, ready to sweep up the fragments and invite you into their owner’s loving arms. All you had to do was shift, lay your cheek against his chest, and you were in a whole other world, surrounded by spectrums of heartbreaking hues and waves of calming light. Castiel’s wing-song flourished instinctively, every quill vibrating in the awareness that they now had your attention; it was an almost victorious sort of tune, you noticed with a chuckle. You tilted your face to your angel, watching his tongue dart tentatively over his lips before he leaned towards you, feathers ushering you closer…

A doorknob squealed in an adjacent room, and Castiel’s wings had plastered themselves as best they could to his spine, his hand flying from yours, his face one of guilt and embarrassment as he swiftly relocated you more firmly in your own seat, abandoning the shared space as both Sam and Dean exited the bunker’s small armory. You grimaced, both at your predicament as well as the memory of helping to stock the room as if you were in a war zone; your biceps still protested almost all movement due to the deep-set ache grinding against each contracting muscle from the strain of hauling boxes of heavy bullets. The brothers strolled over to the library’s extended table, their eyes unassuming and free of accusations, carrying with them their usual nylon duffle bags. Sam tucked a glimmering angel blade into the inside of his jacket, Dean’s eyes remaining respectfully on a fissure forming on the wall’s aging paint opposite you and Castiel, peeking up after a few seconds and, finding you weren’t in a compromising position, he offered a supposedly-clueless smile. You didn’t buy his elaborate facade for a half-second, but you appreciated the effort. The air above your head shivered visibly, at least to you, as Castiel’s eager feathers strained against his rigid composure, his hold weakened by the state you were in when disturbed. These human indulgences were as exhilarating as the otherworldly embraces you shared. Surely, the brothers could identify tension, thick as it hung around them, pushing down from all sides like garlands of stressful discomfort. They were merely acting the unobservant roommates.

“We’re heading out. Rick Dawson just called, says he’s got a demon problem not too far outside of Hays, thought we’d help him out. Only a few towns over, shouldn’t take too long,” Dean’s eyes shifted to Castiel, who now upheld a stiffer posture than even his usual, as if he were concerned about their figuring him out, discovering you to be his lover. You supposed he thought he was protecting your honor by maintaining the secret. Close quarters, your near-family family members present at almost all times, that sort of smudge he thought your record didn’t deserve. An angel thing, apparently. They were all chivalry and pixie dust. Dean gave him a little nod, his mouth opening slightly as he winked, turning on his heel and marching towards the vault door that sealed the outside world away from your Heaven, his heavy boots setting your nerves on edge. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Don’t burn the place down,” he warned, the industrial locks within the bunker’s entryway spinning shut with a weighted conviction behind Sam, his figure back-lit by the milky moon, avoiding eye contact all together as the portal to reality swung to a close. Castiel’s wings erupted in a collected sigh of relaxation, every vane shivering closer to you as his hand ran from your shoulder to your elbow, his touch as cautious as if you were made of sand, his conscience constantly nagging him to mind the particles of you as they tumbled downward. His very touch sent your heart beat racing towards dangerous speeds, his smile nearly audible as his fingers traced over your skin.

You turned to face him, his wings humming a strange tune you hadn’t heard before… it was a hymn of excited agitation, a swell of happiness and a sudden drop to silence before fizzling back to life, the feathers quivering in undecided confusion. You had never been alone with him, truly alone with him, before. The idea elicited thoughts that someone corresponding to the Heavenly Host might find… alarming. His eyes trailed to your collarbones, his hands spreading warmth upward as he traced his way to your shoulders, his wings shuddering blissfully. You laid a hand against his chest, his eyes closing in peaceful serenity as you inched your fingertips towards the nape of his neck, his head tipping back as you stood, his hands falling to your hips as your lips connected. His wings, as you had grown to expect, erupted in overwhelming song, music you couldn’t place with words tugging on your heartstrings as your lips moved against his. To say you were comfortable with each other physically was an understatement; you were almost always touching, excusing the few hours you spent sleeping (if you slept at all, that is. Lately, you were running on vapors), but you had never experienced the type of carnal contact you found yourself desiring. Your lips pulled on his with a cautious fervor, his hands lowering still to wrap around the backs of your thighs, pulling you to straddle his lap, his breath passing over your face as he exhaled. He smelled strongly of honey and of an unplaced, yet equally mouthwatering scent, your mind exploding as the sensory overload swaddled your mind. His hands smoothed over your back, following the trails his feathers left along your skin. He pulled his lips from yours, which was apparently a great effort on his part, his hands moving to cradle your face, his eyes bright with sapphire passion. His jaw flexed as he exhaled, enforcing the already evident, and somehow painful, genuinity of his expression. He touched his forehead to yours, his hand sliding from your cheek to bring your palm to rest over his heart, to feel his pulse beat rapidly in perfect synchronization with your own. His lips were tugged upwards in a bashful grin, the striking galaxies in his eyes dancing as his feathers whispered against your ears, his breathy chuckle barely carrying over the humming of his wings.

“Y/n,” he whimpered, his voice more breath than speech, “I should let you know… when we touch, my thoughts… they wander into yours. It’s a minor reflex. I would apologize, but it appears that we… we share…” he panted, gulping back another chuckle as your face burnt, the pad of his thumb smoothing a line over the curve of your blazing cheekbone. “I love you, and I would very much like to be with you.” He had whispered, though you were alone in the bunker, your pulse thrumming wildly against your throat. You stared into his eyes, letting your thoughts wander, your breath coming faster. With a mighty swell, his wings had propelled you both to your feet, his hands guiding your legs around his waist, his lips pressing into yours with sincere longing as he walked towards your bedroom. Once within the confines of your room, he rolled his shoulders, his wings producing enough of a breeze to slam the door behind you. His body bent over you as he laid you onto the covers, removing his trench coat once you were nestled among the unmade sheets. Your eyes swept over the thin fabric stretched over his abdomen, your stomach a bundle of rusted nails and screws. Castiel’s hand reached forward, his eyes on yours as his fingers smoothed over your rib cage, your clothing vanishing, leaving your skin at the mercy of the chilled bunker air, were it not for the wings that rushed to your rescue. He held himself over you, the mattress squeaking beneath his weight, the soft brush of his lips against yours enough to ease your nerves, your body relaxing into the tug of your clothing melting away and the warmth of his hands grazing your body, your mind going hazy from the thrilling trill of his wings. Soon, your room was alight with a roseate hue, his gemstone wings flinging primarily crimson arcs of light against every and all surfaces, his body nestling between your legs before his eyes found yours again, his arms shifting as he held himself over you, your hands trailing down the ridges of his muscled torso, wings above you stretching experimentally, feathers murmuring as Castiel’s body trembled from your contact. Your finger stopped at the elastic waistband of his briefs, his eyes shooting open, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as you tentatively reached inside, his hardened member meeting your touch. His wings beat erratically, knocking a lamp from your bedside table. Castiel’s face progressed to scarlet in embarrassment, his jaw tight. Your own cheeks flushed, your free hand reaching beneath Castiel’s arm to stroke where the feathers met skin, his hips dipping to yours. You pulled away from his erection, your hands working the fabric from his body, another wing beat moving in time with the disappearance of both your and his remaining undergarments. His eyes shifted over your body, wings fluttering slightly before he ran his hand over your breast, pressing a kiss to your jawline. The entirety of the experience was… surprisingly relaxing, and as gentle as if you were forged of glass instead of flesh. Castiel whispered your name as he eased inside of you. His wings dipped towards you as he thrust again, your neck craning against the feeling of something so blindingly perfect, someone so cherished. A shy moan filtered through your lips, Castiel’s feathers humming almost inaudibly in response as the angel’s lips dove to your neck, his lower body rolling in and out at a slow, almost torturous pace, the air of romanticism never overwhelmed by the lust building in your core.

You ran your hands through his hair, feathers brushing against your lips, your eyelids, your wrists as Castiel’s head ducked into your shoulder, his pace increasing just barely, his wings pressing backward to propel himself forward, the feathers roiling like timid waves. He breathed your name again and again, his hips bucking into yours, your legs squeezing around his waist as your pleasure increased. Soon, you found confidence in your voice, fingers clenching around masses of heat and feathers as you spoke his name aloud. Your lips moved to his, your fingers tangling in feathers, hair, clutching to his skin. A new light began to fill the room, coming from the base of Castiel’s wings, a semi-blinding white light. He slowed as the light burned brighter, pushing once, twice, three times before the coil within you sprang loose, his wings pressing backward as far as was possible before diving downwards, shuddering to immobility, the light dying, a new warmth spreading between your legs. You stared agape at him, his breath ragged in his chest, his lips meeting yours with a sloppy determination, a whispered ‘I love you,’ escaping from between your lips. He smiled into your skin, his fingers relocating stray strands of hair behind your ear. He pulled away, moving to rest beside you, waiting for your joined breathing to slow when the sound of the bunker’s entrance screeched against the stagnant air within. Castiel’s eyes shot to yours, confusion painting his otherwise calm features, his clothes appearing on his frame the second yours did on you, his hand pulling your from the bed and into the library in time to see Sam and Dean stumble down the stairs, clutching at various open wounds, blood seeping from between their fingers, their faces streaked with a garish red. Your hand went limp in Castiel’s, his wings pinned behind him in shock. “Dean, what’s hap-” Castiel began, but the look of aggravated terror on the hunter’s face silenced him. His wings were silent.

You spent your every waking moment with the masses of light and song brushing against your skin, tender kisses Castiel stole without attracting the attention of the Winchester brothers, his eyes sparkling as his feathers swarmed around your face, ruffling your hair in the slightest breeze he could create. Your daily activities often consisted of Castiel’s wings disrupting your productivity in some subtle (to others, of course. To you, no action could go unnoticed) fashion, and when your eyes found the angel’s face, he would offer a playful smile, the edges of his lips tilting towards a smirk. These wordless communications alone should have alerted the brothers of the shift in your relationship, yet you continued to fly under their radar. It was a small miracle in itself that so perceptive a pair as Sam and Dean hadn’t yet calculated the shortening distance you held between the angel and yourself, yet Castiel could stand mere feet away from you, a wing enveloping your entire torso. His feathers trilled with the finest song you had ever been blessed enough to bear witness to, their unnaturally fine texture bristling gently against your cheekbones, your wrists, wrapping around your hands… your world was now fully swathed in soft silk facets, rainbows shattering against nearly every surface touched by the artificial light of the ages old lamps in the Men of Letters bunker. What was touched by this dull, passionless light was born anew from Castiel’s wings, his feather breathing true colour into the room, illuminating every last corner with a dim, kindred glow, furniture painted with hues your tongue couldn’t form a name to match. Surely, the Winchesters must have noticed by now. Castiel’s distance decreased by the inch with every new day until his body stood close enough to touch, had you extended a finger, his wings rising and falling around you with each breath he took. His feathers shimmered ever closer to you, yet the Winchesters remained adhered to their books of lore, unaware of the patterns of crystalline light painting their faces. You would diagnose them with blindness, had they refused to notice your dry hair in the middle of a thunderstorm. Castiel’s wings had acted as both umbrella and raincoat, Cas’ own hair lying flat from the torrential downpour, his wings fluttering to expel the water from among their feathers. Even specimens as courteous as the Winchester brothers couldn’t ignore the defiance of nature.

They knew. They just wouldn’t vocalize their knowledge.

Castiel’s caution had fled the bunker to be replaced by a new type of protection that could only be classified as adoration; his wings transformed from being chained back to hovering around your body as fluttering shields. The walls of light and feathers moved to protect you from harm during hunts, gravitating to match your every flinch, floating alongside you to mimic your every step, Castiel only seconds behind, his eyes burning holes into the back of your head as he dissected your movements. His wings curled around you with ease if ever a threat approached, preparing for the possible attack, Castiel’s body stitched to your hip whenever he believed you were in a great deal of danger, abandoning his distance to further guard you. The humming of his wings went eerily silent as he concentrated on your protection, his sapphire eyes glimmering to reflect the steely light his wings produced, the shrill sound they made when rubbing against each other a darker, terror-tainted noise that exhibited his emotions beyond his composed features. In regards to the possibility of losing you, he was agitated and afraid; just when you had begun to accept (and appreciate) your fate as his soul-mate, you could be torn from his arms. He safeguarded you like the Hope Diamond against jewel thieves, presenting the heavenly extension of his body as unlikely armour, though he could, and would, bleed when your armour was effective in terminating a bullet’s arc. They didn’t appear to be bullet-proof, and they certainly weren’t. His wings screamed in unadulterated agony, blood seeping through the feathers, staining the glorious, indescribable colour with a familiar crimson only you could see. He hid his pain alarmingly well, his face breaking for a split second into the shattered mask of searing pain before fazing back to the warrior’s stoicism that struck fear into the hearts of your enemies, his lust for their lives strengthened by the fact that they had threatened yours. Passion held hands with justice in his ocean eyes, his wings trembling from the pain and the fury that the attacks provoked. Thus was your newly-adopted way of hunting. You were not a fan of anything that caused Castiel harm, but his protective measures seemed as instinctual as they were premeditated.

After a particularly gruesome hunt, after the brothers had retired to their separate bedrooms, you found yourself sitting with Castiel on the library’s wooden floorboards, your legs crossed beneath you as you assessed the damages to his trembling feathers. His wings deflated around his shoulders, suctioning to every corner and disturbance in the room like an exhausted liquid, his blood flowing from various wounds he had accepted while protecting you from harm. You gingerly reached for the masses sprouting from his shoulder blades, the individual feather tips reaching to meet your touch magnetically, subconsciously, a reflex you were both obliged by nature to react to, as your fingers pressed against the wounds. Castiel’s face changed from the relaxed and practiced mask of self control to the crumpled face of an injured soldier, his fingers gripping tighter to your thigh as his wings shimmered a darker hue. His features contorted to reflect the dulling ache his wings carried, his eyes flashing to yours with a sorrowful, fatigued glow burning dimly behind his irises. In his state of disrepair, he didn’t possess the energy to heal himself… or perhaps he did, merely choosing to enjoy your touch and attention as you tended to his wounds in the human fashion. This portion of your relationship was as close to normal as you could manage, if you disregarded the presence of wings and the fact that most normal couples never had to stitch each other shut. You found yourself adhering bandages to his feathers, wrapping clusters in gauze, parting the quills to extend towards the flesh beneath, stroking over the impeccable shine each plume had harnessed from the lamps. As you moved, the angel beneath your fingertips shuddered, caught between contentment and injury, his features frozen in the dying phases of a healing grimace. As you worked, Castiel’s hands toyed with the laces of your boots, fiddling with the hemline of your jeans as you smeared antibiotics over the open wound, his breath hissing lowly through his teeth whenever the pads of your fingertips rushed over his battered feathers. You sighed, wiping the remaining cream on the thighs of your denim, Castiel’s wings shuddering in thanks, his jaw unclenching as he shot you another weary grin.

“Thank you, Y/n. I believe that should suffice,” he whispered, mindful of his volume with the Winchesters slumbering around the corner, his wings beating once to test the wounds, his face twitching just slightly as he did so. He was quick to conceal his discomfort around you. An angel thing.

“Next time, let me take the bullet, alright? I don’t enjoy patching you up,” you returned, your voice equally wary of the bunker’s thin doors. Castiel’s ocean eyes locked on yours, a tender smile gracing his lips as your hand trailed along his forearm to his shoulder, your knuckles brushing absentmindedly through the softer (if that was possible) down they found at the origin of his wings. He shook his head, his eyes closing briefly as he relished in the warmth of your touch, his defiance clear even in such a blissful moment.

“To do so would cause me unbearable pain. Your safety comes before my own, and will always come before my own. Y/n,” he paused, his palm pressing against the backside of your hand on his shoulder, his fingers twinging through yours as he brought your hands between your bodies. “I’m afraid my love for you is strong enough to negate thoughts of self-preservation when you could be in danger, makes it impossible to watch you risk your life. It rebels against my every instinct to stand aside and allow you to be hurt,” he concluded, his index finger calmly tracing what you had learned to be Enochian letters into your open palm. You smiled sadly, returning your attention to the battered masses, your mind wandering to the magic they possessed, torn as they were. Your eyes raked over the miracles hovering above you, tips occasionally brushing a stray hair from your cheek, lingering on your temple. The urge for the feathers to reach out for your skin was lessened some by Castiel’s contact; when he held your hand, the song was diluted. His wings could settle for a more human embrace without ripping themselves out at the roots to stroke your face. Castiel’s hand shifted to cover your kneecap, abandoning his invisible writing to press his palm against the exposed skin peeking from beneath tattered denim. A soft glow warmed against your knee as stolen sunbeams healed the slight sting of a shallow gash until the pain had dissipated completely. All that remained was the gentle heat of his touch.

“Mmm, thank you,” you breathed, Castiel beaming at your reaction. At one point, Castiel had taken to healing you without attracting attention to his intentions, as you would surely berate him for mending a scrape over the Hell his wings had seen, but you had moved beyond his secrecy, Nothing he did slipped under your radar anymore; the curve of his wings was a dead giveaway for any action he planned to take. Besides you assumed he appreciated your thanks over your complaints. He nodded his head, the wing that had managed to escape a casualty trailing along your spine, a delectable wave of security flooding your body as his feathers fluttered down your back. The scent of honey filtered through the air, a signature of Castiel’s aura, the aroma radiating from his chest as if he had doused himself in an unmistakable cologne. You inhaled deeply, attempting to be subtle, but the angel’s smile grew wider, his arms welcoming you to his embrace. You smiled, thoroughly content, as you crawled into his lap, his wings blocking out the expanse of the library, surrounding you completely in their shimmering cocoon, their airy melody tugging you away from reality and into a world completely your own. No composer, no matter the status or talent, would ever be able to replicate the lullaby that tempted your exhaustion now, the sweet tones that clung to your every heartstrings. Castiel’s canopy glimmered warmly, shattering pigment across the skin at his throat, which you pressed your lips against, your eyes opening to new colours. The angel blushed above you, the delicate glow deepening when you chuckled, his arms holding you closer to his body. You nuzzled your face into his shoulder, inhaling the intoxicating scent that clung to his very being, his lips pressing warmly to your forehead, returning your affections quite wonderfully. His hands snaked further around your back and beneath your knees, clutching you to his chest. You sighed, incandescently at peace. “Cas?” you mumbled, his wings shivering to acknowledge your voice, his face turning to bury his lips in your hair, his breath tickling against your scalp. “I love you too,” you mumbled, fading from your reality to a dream world that could never compete. His wings went silent with his shock, his chest expanding with his slow inhale, his radiant smile present even in the kiss he planted on the top of your head.

Life in the bunker wasn’t supposed to be this… secretive, for lack of a better word. This was your safe haven, yet you found yourself stalking through shadows to conceal an unknown fact from the men you’d told everything. Neither Sam nor Dean knew of your predicament with the angel thus far. Castiel’s feathers danced around their bodies in a magnetized ballet each day, but they remained oblivious. And somewhere, deep within the billowing curtain of colour and light, Castiel’s eyes watched you. His exterior never deviated from the same unwavering composure. You found his attempts to delay the inevitable curiosity from the brothers rather chivalrous. It was as if you barely existed on his radar, but his wings told a different story. You were a magnet for the tips of the plumes; if you were to walk by him, a shrill chorus of excitable bells tinkled in your ears, your eyes catching the straining feathers reaching desperately for you. Castiel adopted a habit of upholding military-level posture, his wings pressed together behind him in a tight cluster of shivering feathers, keeping out of your way as much as he possibly could. It was almost as if he was embarrassed by his instinctual reaction of your very presence. No matter how he pretended, his wings betrayed his true emotions. The limbs of light and feathers would unfurl when you walked into a room he occupied, his cheeks glowing bright like dying embers, his eyes restrained as he wordlessly apologized before averting his gaze. For him, the attraction had been instantaneous, and his affections seemed to deepen in intensity with each new day. You were following suit, but not nearly as quickly. The way he guarded himself around you, and the way his beautiful wings expressed what his words would not, were drawing you close like a moth to candlelight.

Despite his effort, even an angel’s composure could fade. Little by little, Castiel’s adoration began to poke through his facade, his mask producing cracks large enough for the Winchesters to pick apart and form assumptions from. He worked beyond the desire to remain distant from you and began to dote on you, if subtly. You would be researching for a hunt in the dead of night, your body failing in different degrees each hour, but your savior would arrive with a trilling hum and a steaming mug of sweet caffeination. Castiel took to sitting with you at the library’s elongated oak table, sitting a respectful seat away, conscious that he was larger to you than to anyone else; his wings tacked an additional five feet to either side of his body, at the least. If you so much as voiced displeasure with the temperature, he would take his leave and, on his way to another room, fiddle with the thermostat, his wings fluttering lightly with satisfaction. He once broke his own rule of extreme personal space, leaning his abdomen against your back as he brought your attention to a piece of crucial information in the lore you were studying. Dean’s eyes had flickered to the contact, squinting at the angel’s near-human gestures, gears clicking audibly in his head.

At least your interactions with the angel were merely physical, if any. At your request, he minded only to his own thoughts, but you had caught sight of him on the outskirts of your dreamscapes more than once, his face never apologetic or embarrassed. Perhaps these appearances were purely fictional, and your mind had been hardwired to conjure the angel’s Heavenly features in an environment where you could memorize his face without fear of startling him. You could never fully capture the song of his sparkling wings, nor their texture, but as close as you had managed was breathtaking. When you woke, you would skirt around him, his ocean eyes warm on your face, drilling into your back, his shoulders straightening as he pulled his wings in line to leave space for you to walk without smacking face-first into a wall of glowing fluff. The multifaceted feathers whined for your touch, a distant pealing somewhere in the bunker or close enough to ring in your head, impatient to welcome you to their owner’s arms. You tried your best to ignore the massive features and their soundtrack, your own longing to feel the indescribable softness just once more growing unbearable. Your predicament grew more severe the longer you spent locked away in the bunker with your so-called soul mate.

You occupied your time with extensive research, forcing feathers from your mind to make room for myth. Thus, you found yourself invested in another all-nighter, your nose buried deep in the parchment of an ancient book of lore. Sam and Dean had retired to bed at least an hour ago, back when you were ruling out a vetala and an aracne, their own personal experience destroying all hope for a solution piece by agonizing piece. You weren’t even sure the beast was of Greek origin anymore, but you were painstakingly dragging your rakes through the beasts and legends, hoping to snag something from the water and arrive at a conclusion. The familiar aroma of fabricated energy tingled in your nose as the scent wafted through the bunker’s stagnant air, your eyes rising from the time stained parchment to see that Castiel was once more delivering a cup of scalding coffee, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment as he handed you the mug before his stare shifting with practiced politeness to the text in the process of dissection, his brow knotting as he focused. You wrapped your fingers around the porcelain to capture it’s warmth, taking note of the lack of contact between your fingers as you received the cup (an action that was surely intentional), the heat of the beverage calling attention to the frigid state of your fingers. Castiel bent over you as he had done before, his body pressing into your shoulder, the wall of hardened muscle spreading warmth to your body as if he his skin was a gentle flame. As he read, a single feather broke free of his control, most likely due to his split focus, reaching downward to tentatively graze your cheek. You unconsciously sighed toward the contact, a gentle tone flowing from the feather and into your ear. Castiel stiffening suddenly, his breathing stopping short. The angel forced his shoulders further back, tearing the feather away from you. You could have imagined it, in the wave of peace and song that overtook your body, but you could have sworn he had sighed in time with you. He straightened himself, clearing his throat in the process, and reasserted himself by your side, careful to keep his wings glittering just out of reach. His finger fell on the menacing sketch of a murky monster with horns the size of plastic water bottles protruding from its skull. Castiel’s lips were pursed in gated concern. You tore your eyes from his mouth before your fantasies could run rampant. He had such beautiful lips…

“You intend to hunt the Minotaur?” he whispered, anxiety and confusion flooding tenor of his voice with a painful tone, the sapphire of his eyes darkening with his composure. You shrugged, raising your eyebrows in acknowledgement.

“It’s starting to look like it,” you concluded, turning back to your book to find the angel’s hands closing he cover, his abrupt motion startling you. He bit his lip in agitation, exhaling slowly through his nose to steady his breathing, his fingers shoving the book to the other end of the library’s table. Castiel pulled the chair beside you to face your seat, settling himself down directly beside you, his wings hovering mere inches over your body, frozen in the air, their mystical dance held above you like a freeze-frame from a movie. It was as if you’d captured a canon-ball in ice; the feathers dared not move, yet each and every quill was inclined to touch you.

“Your time would be wasted. It is unlikely a full-blooded human can slay the Minotaur. There is a chosen demigod destined to kill the beast. To rival with legend would not be wise.” His sapphire eyes held yours… a comfortable, alluring event. It was as if he no longer feared or struggled with being near you. If you couldn’t see his wings held back like dogs straining against their leashes, you would have assumed him cured of all discomfort. Regardless of his emotions, he couldn’t keep you from this hunt, not unless he could present this divine hybrid love-child within the next four hours. Castiel saw your determination in your face, his eyes ducking as he rearranged his argument. His eyes returned to yours, melting with the severity of his upcoming statement. His hand reached for your fingertips, ignoring the hand twisted around your cooling coffee, the warmth that spread from his palm overpowering the slow burn of the drink easily. Your ears were flooded with delighted humming, a high-pitched tingling erupting from all around as if you’d shattered a strand of crystal bells. You subconsciously leaned forward, his wings fluttering to meet you, held at bay by a fraction of an inch. Your world was enveloped in diamonds of a thousand hues. Had the angel not secured your hand in his, you would have watched the rippling rainbows surrounding you forever. His eyes were sincere, and they were frightened, of all things. His thumb cautiously stroked the backside of your hand, his wings buzzing audibly. “Please do not endanger yourself, Y/n. This hunt is… an impossibility. Doing so makes me… uneasy. I know you can understand why that is,” he paused, his eyes burning into yours. You inhaled slowly, mindful of your breathing, though there was nothing to be done about the racing of your heart. “Because of our… relationship, whether that be romantic or otherwise, I am bound to protect you. Please, do not take my argument as a form of control. You’re about to walk into horrible danger. It is better for neither of us to die than the both of us,” he whispered, his voice a hushed, tender breath, lest the Winchesters make a surprise cameo during your heartfelt moment. You were a hunter. You didn’t need his protection. The last defense mechanism you’d signed up for was a guardian angel… but the flicker of unadulterated terror in regards to your safety burning low in Castiel’s stormy irises flipped a switch within you, his vulnerability breaking you. You were his vulnerability. His wings strained to touch you still, a visual representation of the actions he could not take, the emotions he shielded from you. He and you were similar in that sense, regardless of the intensity of your emotions.

You leaned towards him, his chest expanding with his nervous breath, his eyes widening at your sudden proximity. You released the drink he’d been kind enough to retrieve for you unasked, your hand extending to rest gently against his cheek. His chest collapsed in an extremely human manner, his features relaxing, his cheek angling to better fit your palm. His wings, which had been held at bay for far too long, rushed with such exquisite speed that they ruffled papers with the current of air they left in their wake as they ushered you closer to Castiel’s chest. The feathers fluttered effortlessly against your spine, sighing against every bump of your vertebrae, his eyes sparkling in the reflected light of his wings. His strained, exhausted appearance dissipating as his muscles relaxed, his wings brushing against you like kisses, like whispers. His hands moved upward along your arms, spreading delectable warmth as he went, until his palms cradled your cheeks. Carefully, as if he would shatter you with one wrong movement, he held you at a distance, questioning you with his eyes before he brought his lips to yours. His wings erupted in a choir of victory and peace as soon as your lips touched his, your mouth moving with his as his feathers snuggled you closer to his chest, filling the air with light and sound. He pulled his face away from yours, resting his forehead against yours, his ocean eyes alight with happiness you wouldn’t have been able to explain had you not felt a fragment of it yourself.

“Does this mean you… love me?” he sighed, his breathing uneven, his eyes glimmering with uncertainty and hope. You grinned, laying your head against his chest, your hands winding around his neck as you moved to sit in his lap, his arms and wings encircling you more securely. Your world had been transformed by the masses of glimmering feathers fluttering and roiling around you, painting your sky with colours you coudn’t name.

You shook the recent memory of Dean’s warnings from your head, quieting your assumptions (lest this Castiel sneak a peak inside your head) as you were lead inside the bunker and down the spiral stairs gracing the foyer. Your hand trailed over the wrought iron railing, the smooth, cold surface gliding beneath your skin, your fingers holding to the banister as long as was possible before your arm smacked into your side. Your feet reached ground-level as you progressed towards the library, your eyes falling on the electronic table you had helped Charlie boot up. Well, holding her hair out of her face as she fiddled with copper wires hardly counted as helping, but she insisted you were crucial to the operation, supplying her with conversation as she broke down the hunting communities most highly protected database. The fixture now served as a map of the world, lighting up with every monstrous location known to hunters and civilians alike. Of course, the civilians had no idea they were waltzing around during human open-season, hence the existence of your occupation.

Dean’s hand left your back stranded, your tie broken like the orbit of a moon around a destroyed planet, his eyes cautioning you once more before directing your gaze to the two men huddled by each other, concealed by a brilliant mass of light and feathers. You felt your jaw unhinge and drop, your vision going hazy from the sheer magnificence of the sight before you. God, how did they even fit in here? How overwhelming it must become, to live in such close proximity to these… these… intoxicatingly delicate wings.The shuddering canopy of gray feathers brushed against the bookshelves, the table, the light fixtures… like liquid, they molded themselves around everything, catching the lamplight like dulled gemstones. The feathers bristled when Dean’s footsteps filled the room, his heavy boots alerting the duo of your arrival before you feet could cross the threshold. Then, as if following the complicated choreography to some kind of obscenely organized dance, the two men turned to acknowledge your return. The feathers skirted around anything they may topple, intricate maneuvers keeping stacks of books from falling to the floor, every single plume flowing as if on a wave. When you found the resolve to turn away from the magnificence around you, you saw Sam’s face was bursting with happiness to see you returned unharmed, though you were coated quite generously with blood.

You sorted through the impossible amount of fluttering feathers until your eyes rested upon an unfamiliar face. The angel’s expression was stoic, unfeeling save his eyes, which pooled with crystalline curiosity, his gaze dissecting your every feature. His shoulders straightened, pushing back with rigid formality, his wings flattening as best they could behind him. For such an immense mass as his wings, the extensions were downsized impressively, though the very tips of his wings yearned for freedom, feathers bristling. You clenched your teeth together, fearing you seemed rude, gawking at the angel’s hardware with such unapologetic curiosity. Then again, the angel’s eyes had done the same to your face. It must be another angel thing Dean had forgotten to mention during your ride home. The Winchester in question stepped forward, gesturing to the celestial being nestled into the confines of the library, both brothers seemingly oblivious to the masses that grew from Castiel’s shoulder blades. Were they really that used to it? You didn’t think you’d ever grow accustomed to the intimidating wings.

“Cas, this is Y/n. Y/n, Cas.” Dean grumbled, taking a seat and kicking off his blood-slick boots as he finished his informal introduction. You gave a little wave, moving forward and into the library with intent to shake the angel’s hand. As you drew nearer, the angel’s eyes widened, though the rest of his face and body remained unmoving. He extended his hand, his palm sliding easily into yours. His warmth was unlike anything you’d ever experienced from so cold a demeanor.

“Nice to meet you,” you mumbled, still awe-stricken. Up close, they were even grander; the feathers were singing against each other, humming a sweet, soft tune. It was as if bells were rung as a lullaby, or (you concluded, unimpressed with your slow-moving connection) as if an angel were singing. He released your hand after an extended moment (or were you just too absorbed in his wings to account for time?), your eyes skirting back to the brilliance behind him. Where the artificial light branded them, they shot off every color you could name, and some you couldn’t, shattering spectrums like a faceted diamond. Their dulled reflections were vibrant now. Perhaps it was your proximity? His eyes, you noticed, had followed yours, a genuine expression of confusion and… diluted relaxation painting his chiseled face. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” you complimented, your tone breathy in appreciation. Castiel’s gaze locked on you, a sudden, silent movement of the eye, his wings going silent, completely immobile, not a single feather daring to move. The angel’s face now held the faint contouring of shock. Sam’s brow was pinched, his mouth quizzical.

“Yeah, he’s a looker, we know,” Dean scoffed, coaxing a chuckle from his younger brother at your apparent loss of control. “Jesus, Y/n, pull it together,” Dean whispered, his smile infectious. You shook your head at their idiocy, too invested in the angel’s glorious wings to bother blushing from embarrassment, your eyes locking with Castiel’s, their ocean-esque depth reeling you in. Perhaps this was an angel thing… those eyes. They were hardened sapphires, glowing internally as if each stone had harvested a single flame. His face had yet to shift, his wings yet to move, his form rigid as a plank under your inspection. Maybe it was rude to stare.

“No… I mean, well, yeah, but… his wings,” You stammered, irritated by the brothers’ lack of interest in the beauty they hadn’t warned you of, watching realization and something close to fear burst in the angel’s divine eyes. Dean made a sound of gruff uncertainty, the sound almost missed entirely under the sound of flustered bells… if bells could become flustered. Castiel’s hand had wrapped around your wrist, his skin flooding your arm with heat, the sing of his wings unwinding as if relieved their owner was in contact with you. Castiel began to move then, leading you to the corner of the library, his hands gripping your wrists by your sides, releasing your hands once your fingers had spread against the wall behind you. The murmuring of bells increased, pealing in what sounded, absurdly, to be a whine.

“The Hell is she talking about, Cas?” Sam inquired, the angel rolling his eyes at his comment, his pupils diving into yours, his attention split unwillingly from his scientific analysis of your eyes.

“She was attempting to make a joke of my race,” Castiel explained, his eyes searching yours with complete concentration. You were certain he was joking, only his tone never deviated from a professional, if slightly disconnected, quality. Sam let out a breathy laugh before turning away, his hazel eyes praising your falsified wit. Your back bit into the wall as Castiel inched closer, careful to keep a respectful distance between your body and his. He lowered his voice, bringing his face closer to your own. He was clearly unfazed by the amount of gore painting your body, just as Dean had promised. "Please forgive my explanation. They cannot… humans aren’t supposed to be able to…” he trailed off, his eyes ducking to the floorboards as he fought for words. “What you see is a fragment of my true visage, something neither Sam nor Dean nor anyone else can view. My wings are only visible to one human. I had assumed that human would never come in contact with me. The odds are very slim,” his voice dropped once again, his eyes scanning the molding that tied the wall to the floor, his head shaking slowly. His ocean eyes lifted to meet yours once again, the fire within burning with a serious intensity. “This gift you possess is granted only to those destined to… fall for an angel. Do you understand? You may have heard it referred to as having a soul mate.“ If his proximity hadn’t startled you, his statement surely did the job. This was not merely an angel thing.

You inhaled slowly, watching his wings unfurl around you like a shield, blocking the brothers from your view. He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably, clearly in an attempt to wrench his feathers away from you, but the duel masses were having none of his resistance; the quills trilled against each other, tips reaching, stretching toward you. He spoke apologies with his eyes, his cheeks glowing dimly with his embarrassment. You tentatively reached for the feathers at the very bottom of his wings, the billowy plumes that were brushing against your side, your fingertip encountering only cloud. Your touch activating a higher pitched song, as if you had excited them. Your heart as well had been excited; you felt as if you’d recently recovered from a high-voltage shock, the way your pulse was racing. Glancing at his face, you realized you’d made him blush deeper, either by your touch or by your presence, you couldn’t be sure. Your mouth stretched into a shaky, timid smile, though your mind was unable to comprehend how you already felt so close to this stranger… but you were not nearly close enough to fling yourself into his arms and prance (or more appropriately, fly) off into the sunset. The angel nodded, his eyes sympathetic and… disappointed, it seemed, though he obviously meant to hide that emotion.

Dean had done it on a whim which is why he blushes when Cas walks into the room, spots him laid out on the bed and says, “Dean… What?”

Dean looks down at it and wonders the same thing for a moment. Why? And why pink? Well, he knows why pink. It’s just what they had on hand. It’s the ribbon the clerk at the bakery had used to wrap around the pie they got. Wide, silky and pink.

And now it’s wrapped around Dean’s cock.

Dean put it there. He stripped naked and tied it once, undid it, twice, undid it, three times before he got the bow to look okay.

“It’s a gift,” Dean finally says after a too-long pause. “You unwrap those.”

Cas’ eyes widen, his jaw falls open and his grip tightens on the doorknob.

“Forget it.” Dean’s cheeks heat up more, enough that his face matches the ribbon. He moves a hand to (gently) rip the strip of fabric off. “This is stupid, I’m stup-”

A hand catches his wrist and Dean would think Cas flew the few steps from the door to the bed but Cas is licking his lips and staring at his dick so Dean can’t really think at all.

“No.” Cas clears his throat, though it does nothing to keep the rasp out of his already gravely voice, and starts again, “It’s mine to have, right?”

Dean swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and nods his head.

Cas’ eyes are still strained on the bow delicately tied around Dean when his hold on Dean’s wrist tightens. “Right, Dean?”

“Y-yeah, Cas.” Dean all but chokes out and then says, “Yours.”

“Mine to open, Dean?”

“Yes, Cas.” The words are more moan than anything else.

“Good. I’m going to open you up so good, Dean.”

Dean nods agreeing to what’s implied. He’d agree to anything just then as Cas’ eyes flick up to meet his. They aren’t their usual brilliant blue, his pupil are blown and the rim of iris that is there is a dark navy instead.

Cas crawls onto the bed, Dean’s legs falling open instantly so the angel can situate himself between them. He presses Dean’s still trapped wrist into the mattress and, with his other hand, pinches the end of the ribbon. His long fingers tug and pull the bow apart.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice cracks.

Later, after Cas has kept his promise of prepping and fucking Dean and is tucked into Dean’s side, Dean says, “You know the thing about gifts…”

“Yes, Dean?”

Dean pauses the lazy trail of his fingers up and down Cas’ arm. “You get to keep them.”

“I intend to.”

“Hey, Cas?” Dean asks.

“Yes, Dean?”

“The seven day calendar can be traced back to the ancient Babylonians right?”

“Yes, Dean.”

Dean hums and rocks on the hind legs of his chair a little, feet propped on the library table and an open book on his chest but he’d given up reading a while back. Cas on the other hand, had not. The angel is hunched over a scroll, a pen in hand as he transcribes and translates the dead language. He’d been at it for hours.

“Hey, Cas?”

Cas lets out an annoyed huff but when a full minute ticks by and all Dean does is stare, Cas gives in and says, “Yes, Dean?”

“You were born- er made… You were made before them, right? The ancient Babylonians, I mean.”

Cas sighs. The word he’s at in the scroll can have many meanings and he isn’t sure how to get that across in English. “Yes, Dean. I was created hundreds of millennia before the Babylonian Dynasty came to be.”

“See I thought so.” Dean quips and all but snaps his fingers in success.

“Astute as ever, Dean.” Cas deadpans, getting a laugh out of Dean. Cas keeps his head bowed so Dean doesn’t see the small smile his laughter elicits from him.

“Alright smart mouth. You think you’re so clever? Tell me then, if the seven day calendar was created after you how come you’re called the Angel of Thursday?”

Cas looks up and opens his mouth to speak prematurely then closes it again.

“There was no Thursday, that’s why it doesn’t make sen-”

“I know why it doesn’t work, Dean.” Cas snaps.

Dean’s eyes widen and he shifts so his feet as well as all four legs of the chair are planted in the ground again. “You don’t know, do you?” Dean pulls the biggest shit eating grin the inside of the bunker has ever seen. “You don’t know!” He laughs.

“Yeah, well… What does your name mean, Dean?”

Dean clears his throat and resituates himself. “I was named after my grandmother if you must know.”

“That’s stupid,” Is Cas’ best retaliation but it falls on deaf ears because Dean is laughing again.

A few minutes later, Dean nods to Cas’ work and says, “You know, you probably should be typing that.”

Cas mumbles something Dean doesn’t hear but he laughs anyway.

That night in bed, Dean whispers into the dark.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“You can be the angel of me… or something. You’ve been chirping in my damn ear long enough.” Dean feels silly, he isn’t making a whole lot of sense.

Cas must get it though because he tightens his arm where it lays across Dean’s midsection and says, “I’m yours, Dean,”

Me on ao3

I am attempting to do a drabble a day for this entire week.

Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday.

Dean takes the job at Gabriel’s Bakery to help put Sam through college. Sam gets a full ride though so when Dean keeps the job at Gabriel’s Bakery it’s for the cute blue-eyed employee.

Castiel Milton comes into the shop around four am to prepare pastries and the likes. He leaves after the morning rush, entrusting the shop to Anna, only an hour or so after busboy Dean clocks in. This gives Dean sixty minutes of ogling.

Sixty minutes. Five times a week. For months.

It’s mid afternoon and Dean heads out back to receive the supply van they get on Wednesdays, escaping Anna’s voice yelling into a telephone. Alphie’s calling out again.

Dean unloads the van with the driver’s help- “Until next week brother,” Benny tells him, like always- then starts moving crates from the dock and into the storage room of the small shop. It’s manual labour (and Dean learned two weeks in that lifting with your knees is no joke) but Dean likes it. He likes that he gets a little sweaty and he likes that he’s always just a little sore after work.

He also likes to be efficient, or his backward definition of the word anyway, which is why he often ends up carrying way too many things all at once. He’s on his tenth trek back inside with a crate of apples kept stable on a shoulder with one arm. He hugs a bag of flour to his chest with the other, a massive sack of walnuts hanging from the crook of that elbow.

It’s all a bit much and he wouldn’t mind struggling along but then Castiel appears. Dean stops in the frame of the door, cool air at his back and facing the warmth of a bakery kitchen.

“You’re done for the day,” Dean says almost accusatorily like this isn’t Cas’ family’s shop.

“Alphie,” Cas offers by way of explanation. “Would you like some help?”

Dean isn’t sure but he thinks Cas’ eyes trailing up and down his body are assessing more than the disposition he’s gotten himself into.

“Euh… Yeah sure. Can you take my flour?”

“If you’re offering,” Cas says stepping up into Dean’s personal space. “But I’d like to take my time with that so after closing, maybe.” Cas takes the bag of flour. “I’ll leave you to handle the nuts for now.”

An hour before Dean’s shift ends, long enough after the afternoon rush that there are only a few patrons in the seating area, Dean walks up to the cash register Cas is manning.

“Did you mean it?” Dean blurts because if he doesn’t blurt it he’ll never get the words out.

Cas raises a brow and takes his time to answer. “I did.”

Dean doesn’t pause and rushes through the next part he had planned albeit clumsily. “I’m not- I don’t have a- I’m no blushing virgin.”

“You’re definitely blushing, Dean.”

Dean proceeds to blush more with his mouth hanging open for a moment.

“I didn’t think you would be,” Cas continues.

“Are you calling me a slut?”

“I’m calling you handsome.”

“Me too. I mean- I- I’m attracted to you.” And then: “Too.”

When his shift ends Dean goes home. He takes a shower but still ends up smelling like pie and icing, puts on a nice shirt- okay a nicer shirt than the ratty band tee’s he’s used to which isn’t saying much- and spends no more than five minutes on his hair (he spends an hour, he spends an hour on his hair) before going back to the bakery to meet with Castiel after closing.

That night neither fucks the other but they do argue about whose car to take, settle on walking to the pier, eat hot dogs by the railing and talk through the night. Mostly about family. Cas has a million and one siblings which keeps him going for a long while, but Dean doesn’t mind listening (he loves it actually) and it’s not like he can’t talk about Sammy forever.

At some point, Cas tells Dean that he looks nice and Dean looks away when he says thank you.

They knock shoulders and bump knees and at the very end of the night, in a fit of customary nerves, Dean punches Cas in the face abruptly. Only, it’s with his lips and it feels like a kiss.

Me on ao3

I am attempting to do a drabble a day for this entire week.

Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday.

Relationships: Castiel x Reader Rating: Smut Warnings: Dom/sub, bdsm A/N: Orgasms occur this time!

~8000 words

Summary: You start dating Castiel, a famous physicist, when you get hired at the same university as him. A few months into the relationship, you explore dom/sub dynamics within your sex lives.

Read it on ao3

Chapters on tumblr: ONE  TWO  THREE

Chapter FOUR

You lock the door after him and let out a massive breath. You lean on the wall for a little while, waiting for the shit storm to hit. Waiting for the panic. For the embarrassment. For the What the fuck just happened? It doesn’t come. You wonder if it’s normal that you liked what you and Cas did so much. If it’s normal to enjoy- not just enjoy but relish- following orders as much as you did. But that’s the extent of the ramifications.

You’ve had wilder sex than this. Hell, you’ve had wilder sex than this with Cas. Hell, you didn’t really even get to the sex part. It was freaking frottage at the most. But. But. It was so intense. Every little thing felt massive, felt like the only thing, until the next thing. Then, that became the only thing.

You were nervous (really fucking nervous) in the beginning, but it definitely got easier. You hadn’t been able to get up from your chair when he first asked you to, but by the end you were under his damn thumb. (Your hand drifts to your left breast, then, though you don’t feel it through the thickness of the robe.) When you managed to do what Cas asked of you, it made the next task less daunting. At some point you stopped even thinking about it but you think that had more to do with how much you wanted to come. Probably.

Pair: Dean x Reader (kind of) Warning: none Summary: Dean and the reader have an established relationship… as cuddle buddies.  A small whimper escaped your lips as you stretched your muscles out, waking up. The room was pitch black and cold; the only warmth you got was from the strong body next to you, holding you dangerously close.  Not ready to wake up yet, you turned over in Deans arms and nuzzled closer to him, resting your face in the crook of his neck; smiling when his arms wound tighter around your body.  “Y/N” Dean whispered, lazily dragging his fingers over your skin, causing it to erupt in goosebumps. “Not ready yet” you croaked, your voice a little more hoarse than usual.  “Okay” he whispered, back closing his eyes and enjoying the feeling of your body pressed against his.  You and Dean had been sleeping together for almost two months now. But that was it. You didn’t have sex or kiss or really do anything else, you just slept together. It all started one night, you two had fallen asleep together on the couch, watching some movie, and when you woke up you played it off as nothing until he told you it was the best sleep he had ever had in his life.  “C’mon, Y/n” Dean begged, grabbing your hand and pulling you back to the couch.  “Tell me that wasn’t the best sleep you’ve ever had” he pressed.  “I’ve had… better” you mumbled, leaning back into the couch.  “Y/nnnnnnnn” he taunted, knowing that you were lying through your teeth.  “Fine! It was the best nap I have ever had, so what?!  It’s weird, Dean. We aren’t sleeping together anymore.” But Dean being Dean means he usually gets what he wants, and that started your addiction for sleeping together. 

Imagine: Castiel confessing his love to you.

Castiel lightly kissed the nearly imperceptible heart shaped freckle decorating the point of your hip, plump lips softly ghosting over the tiny mark, unshaven chin tickling the delicate flesh of your lower belly. The patient angel lavished so much unhurried attention on the single minuscule spot that you began to involuntarily squirm and giggle under his ministrations. Quivering fingers tugging adamantly at his tousled brown curls, you implored reprieve from such specific affection between burbling fits of laughter.

He reluctantly acquiesced to your pleas for respite with an amused groan, warm fingertips taking the place of his lips to trace intricate ancient patterns, unspoken promises of devotion, in the pink flushed skin of your abdomen. He moved to recline beside you, shifting his weight to rest upon one elbow, smoothing the hair from your forehead, calloused knuckles gently caressing your cheek as you pressed yourself firmly against him, banishing any distance remaining between your bodies. Sparkling sapphire eyes glassily reflected the pure delight still dancing across your features as he gazed upon you - he knew of nothing more beautiful in all of his father’s creation.

“I love you,” the words flowed husky from his graveled tongue, passing his bowed lips as naturally as the breath of life itself. He was unable to recall what existence was like before his being inextricably intertwined with yours, and he could no longer envisage a future without you. Apart from you, he experienced a longing and emptiness too vast for even an angel to fathom.

Your playful wriggling ceased as his words washed over you, the simple declaration of love sweeping serenely over every inch of your physical body, pouring into your throat as you gasped to flood the empty nooks and alcoves of your swelling soul – never had you felt more complete. Never had you experienced such a profound sense of belonging.

“I love you,” you exhaled his words back into the heady air, tone bursting with adoration. Drowning in the depths of his loving ocean blue regard, you cupped a palm fondly to his prickly jaw, thumb brushing a stray tear winding down his cheek.

Mouth stretching into a rare beaming smile, joy surging to crease the corners of his nose and eyes, wetly brimming eyelids fluttered shut beneath thick dark lashes as he leaned into your tender touch. After eons buffeted about in the raging storms of Heaven and Earth, drifting perpetually as an outsider, enduring loneliness so all-encompassing he had come to stoically accept it with utter indifference, he had finally found his true place and purpose in the universe with you.