Castiel loves many things about Dean. He loves the soft, silkiness of his lighter hair, and the smoothness of his brow. He loves his voice; gruff and authoritative when on a hunt, and soft and warm when they’re alone, whispering sweetness into his skin. Cas loves Dean’s bravery and generosity, his protectiveness, kindness, and grace. His righteousness.
Castiel loves Dean’s mouth. He loves it when demanding and pliable; when it sears his skin with fire, and soothes him with chaste kisses. Cas loves the green of Dean’s eyes and the 159 freckles on his cheeks and nose. He loves his strong, perfect arms and his graceful, gentle fingers. His bowlegs. His toes. His perfectly round, pink nipples.
His cock.
Castiel loves Dean aggressively, with heated stares and displays of dominance and possession up against the bedroom door. He loves him with angry, impassioned arguments about safety and stupidity, and rough, rushed kisses in the shower. With the way he jumps in front of that vamp and dares that demon to so much as breathe on his charge. Cas loves Dean like a hurricane.
And he loves Dean softly. He loves him with gentle touches and shy smiles; with meager and abundant eye contact, with the soft roll of his hips as they move and pant and breathe together, hearts separate but beating, impossibly, as one. Cas loves Dean with whispered words: important, beautiful, cherished, so much more, pressed into golden skin like a prayer begging to be heard. He loves him slowly and all at once: hard and fast and painfully sloth-like, creeping kisses as their love drags on and on and on…
Castiel loves Dean’s tummy.
He loves the softness of it; that, unlike the rest of him, it’s pudgy and sweet and gentle. It’s the only part of Dean’s outside that truly represents what the hunter is like underneath; underneath all the joking and gruffness and self-loathing. Cas loves dipping his tongue into Dean’s navel and worshipping the soft hairs at his treasure trail. He loves licking and breathing his name into the faint beauty marks near the hunter’s ribs, coaxing soft laughs from Dean’s mouth because he’s ticklish there.
“Cas, stop,” he huffs, playfully pushing at the darker head. But Cas knows Dean, and he knows that, underneath the tickling and laughing, there is truth to those words. Insecurity. Because Cas knows that Dean’s belly; his wonderful, soft, little pudgy tummy, is the physical thing he hates most about himself. More than his freckles. More than his girly lips. More than his pretty face and his bowlegs.
So Castiel doesn’t stop. He keeps going, words tumbling from his mouth in a waterfall of warmth as they soak into Dean’s skin, colouring his cheeks and chest and neck: love, beautiful, gorgeous, handsome, rugged, strong, perfect so perfect, kind, generous, importantimportantimportant, cherished, loved, so much more; how could you think, even for a second, that you are not so much more?
Your faults make you perfect. You are perfect.
Dean throws his arm over his face, covering the blush of his skin and the wetness at his eyes. He bites his lip and takes shaky, full breaths.
For the anon who was having a really bad day. This was supposed to be a quick and short April Fools fic, and turned into something a little out of control. Feel better <3
Inspired by @thekingslover's April Fools fic.
If you ask Dean Winchester what his favourite holiday of the year is, he’ll probably say April Fools. Of course, Sam will then bitch about how it isn’t even a real holiday, and Cas with chime in about its inaccuracies with relation to the historical dates of the holiday, and start spewing academic shit about Chaucer and the Canterbury Tales, but all in all, it’s still Dean’s favourite.
Because if there’s one thing the eldest Winchester is good at, it’s pranking people.
Dean wakes up the next morning because his back is on fire. He rolls his shoulders against the odd and increasing heaviness there and runs to the bathroom, steps thundering. He’s going to be sick.
Dean only barely hears Castiel’s door swing open and the crash and yell that follow.
Gagging, the green-eyed man leans over the toilet bowel, sweating and shaking and feeling like he’s going to crawl out of skin as his bare back burns hot against the cool morning air.
“Dean?! De-”
Cas looks like a drowned rat. Which would have been funny, would have been really fuckin hilarious, if Dean wasn’t dying.
With a weird rustle, Dean is suddenly in peak health. He sags against the toilet bowl, a little tired, while waving off any potential are you okays from Cas. But Cas isn’t talking. Dean frowns. He forces himself up from the floor, regarding the former angel with a raised brow.
Castiel is looking at him like he’s sprouted a pair of wings.
Which is fairly accurate, Dean thinks as he rolls his eyes and turns to wash his face, catching his reflection in the mirror. Because there, barely peeking out from behind his arms, are wings. Powder pink, fluffy wings. With gold flecks in them. And judging by the way they flutter, panicked against Dean’s skin, they are attached to his shoulder blades.
Dean blushes furiously.
“Did you do this?!” he asks angrily, rounding on Castiel with a snarl.
Cas raises an unimpressed brow. A droplet of water falls from the tip of his nose. “I am human, Dean,” he shoots back, crossing his arms. “How am I to find the power required to manifest wings? Even as an angel, that would take in incredible amount of-”
“Then who. the fuck. did it?”
“I have no idea,” Cas murmurs, eyeing the pink offenders curiously. “But whoever it is, they’re very powerful.” He reaches out a long, graceful finger to run along a feathery arch. Dean’s flesh goosebumps and the hunter feels his chest flush. Castiel either doesn’t notice, or ignores that particular physical response. The former angel does, however, notice that once he pulls his hand away, the pink wing reaches as far as it can to seek his touch. Dean is relieved that Cas doesn’t comment on that. Instead, the dark-haired man says something else: “Either way, you deserve it.”
Hold the goddamn banana phone.
“WHAT?!” Dean shrieks. “In what fucking universe do I deserve this?!”
Castiel; smug, stupid bastard that he is, purses his lips in an act so human, Dean might just strangle him. “The one where your bucket doused me with ice water this morning.”
Dean didn’t think he’d ever actually miss clueless, annoying, rigid and angelic Cas… but he does. So much.
“You were better as an angel.”
“My wings were also more impressive.”
The bitch face Cas gives him before stalking off is scarily reminiscent of Sam’s.
Dean briefly wonders when the hell his life became such a clusterfuck of weirdness.
...And the day only gets worse.
Sam laughs his ass off when he sees the wings, and the only reason he sees them is that Dean can’t wear a shirt. He’d tried, but all his t-shirts are too small for the puffy bulkiness at his back, and using a hoodie to press them down is uncomfortable.
So, Dean is forced to remain shirtless. And yeah, it's not ideal, because Sam giggles every time he sees them and Cas is still being a pissy brat, but Dean can deal.
What he can't deal with is the way his stupid wings flutter every time Cas looks at him. It would have been fine if it was just a weird wing thing, but Dean knows they're fluttering in time with his stupid heart. Which is fine the first time—it's only once, and Cas is really hot when he's angry—but when it keeps happening? Castiel starts to notice. And so does Sam.
Neither say anything, but the curious glances and raised brows are more than enough to have Dean heading for the proverbial hills. Which, in this case, ends up being his bedroom.
When the hunter enters the room, his bed is perfectly made (the complete opposite of how he’d left it), and there’s a snicker bar sitting delicately atop his pillow.
Dean is going to kill Gabriel.
“FUCKING DICK ASSHOLE BITCHFACE!” he yells. “HAPPY FUCKING APRIL FOOLS YOU JERK!” He whips the candy bar towards the door, only narrowly missing Sam’s head as the younger hunter and Cas burst into the room to see what’s wrong.
Dean doesn’t pay any attention to them. Instead, he looks up at the ceiling: “VERY FUNNY, ASSMUNCH! FUCKING HILARIOUS! JOKES OVER. GET YOUR ASS-”
“Woah woah woah,” Gabriel murmurs from the side of the room. “Keep your feathers on, Angelboy.”
Sam only barely restrains Dean from ripping Gabriel’s throat out.
Meanwhile, Cas stays on the sidelines. “Gabriel,” he acknowledges stiffly.
“Lil’ bro,” Gabe nods. “Pretty brilliant, huh?”
Castiel barely hides the quirk of his mouth. “Creative,” he replies.
Gabriel smirks. “See, Dean? Even your boyfriend thinks it’s creative.”
Dean’s entire face turns red with embarrassment. “Oh, you son of a-”
“Relax, Princess, they’ll be gone tomorrow,” the angel says with a wave of his hand. “…Maybe.”
Dean struggles in Sam’s hold with newfound vigor.
“Well, I just came by to wish everyone a happy April Fools day,” Gabe grins. He nods at the occupants of the Bunker in a sort of salute: “Cassie, Sam, Princess… Happy pranking!”
And he’s gone.
Dean is going to fucking kill him.
“Your brother’s a fucking douchebag,” he spits at Cas, shoving Sam off with a glare.
“Yes,” Castiel sighs in agreement. He eyes the eldest Winchester then, tilting his head to the side in that familiar way of his. His eyes swim with… what the fuck is that? Is that mirth? “But he’s a creative douchebag.”
It’s mirth.
“Funny,” Dean mutters, fists clenched. “Cas, you should be a goddamn comedian.”
At his back, Dean's baby pink wings puff up in a pathetic show of dominance. Castiel raises his brow so high Dean asks if he’s trying to lose it in that mop he calls hair. Sam snorts. “Okay, guys, how about lunch? Dean? I’m making burgers.”
As always, food makes everything better.
Or it would, if Sam hadn’t made Dean's patty with motherfucking tofu.
Seriously, this day can’t get any worse.
Except it does, it totally does, because Dean forgets he switched the salt and sugar and drinks his coffee before Cas, and then Cas gives him a doughnut as a peace offering but it turns out it’s stuffed with fucking mayo and Sam informs him that he's not wearing any underwear and just—it’s bad. It’s really bad. It’s actually the worst day ever, because on top of all of this, Dean's wings are still fluttering and moving at his back. The feathers are getting ruffled and itchy, and by five pm, Dean thinks he might just try and pull them from his person himself for all the discomfort they’re causing. He paces his room like a caged lion.
Thankfully, Castiel enters before Dean can try anything stupid.
“Dean?”
“Seriously, Cas, I’ve had enough. Go away.”
Cas snorts, but his voice is gentle. “I’d have to agree with you… I’m not here to fight.”
“Great,” Dean replies dryly. “But unless you can take these pink freakshows off my back, you’re dead to me right now. Bye.”
“You’re upset-”
“Damn fucking right I’m upset! This was supposed to be my day. Sam likes Thanksgiving, and you like Christmas, but I like April Fools. It’s mine. And today was just- today-”
“You ‘got your ass handed to you’?” Castiel supplies helpfully, air quotes and all.
Dean growls. “No. No, this is an anomaly on an otherwise pristine fucking record. I did not get my ass handed to me, I was just… I was caught off-guard okay? These stupid wings fucked everything up!”
“I see.” Carefully, Cas takes a step forward, reaching out a hand to touch Dean’s shoulder. The hunter stills. “Perhaps it would have better it they had been bigger; white, feathery appendages that make you look fierce.”
“Right. Yeah, that would… yeah. Exactly.”
Castiel is completely in Dean’s space now, one hand still clasping his shoulder while the other cups his cheek, forcing eye contact. Dean’s wings flutter excitedly.
What the fuck is going on?
“Yours are very pretty,” Cas smiles, only slightly teasing. “They bring out your eyes.”
And woah. Woah there. This is too close. This is too close and too much because this right here, this is making his damn wings go beserk trying to reach for contact. And fine, maybe Dean has toyed with the idea of him and Cas during every shower he’s had since the not-apocalypse, but fuck no, it’s not happening while he’s Dean The Fairy Princess.
“You need to be groomed,” Castiel informs him. “You’ll feel better after that. May I…?”
No no no no no— “Uh, yeah, sure.” Shit.
Cas leads Dean to sit on the bed, the hunter cross-legged and in the ‘V’ of Castiel’s own while the latter’s long, graceful fingers begin to carefully sift through light pink plumage. Dean only barely swallows a relieved moan. “Alright?” Cas asks, straightening a feather.
Dean squeaks a reply.
This isn’t a big deal. This isn’t a big deal because Cas used to have wings, so he knows about this shit. It doesn’t have to mean anything… Except for the part where it does. Because with every drag of Castiel’s fingers, Dean feels warmth bleed into his very core, warming him from the inside out. It’s better than a back massage, and the hunter becomes more and more boneless, until his eyes are closed and he’s swaying so terribly he’s forced to lie down on his stomach. It’s been a while since Dean has been this relaxed, and he sighs at Cas’s weight pressed into his ass; the other man has perched in a location that allows him easier access.
Somewhere is his slowly unraveling mind, Dean doubts he's ever felt so blissed out, post-coital cuddling sessions included.
"Coulda done this for you," he mumbles sometime later, mental filter having dissipated with the tension in his body. "Before. Woulda been fun."
Cas hums distractedly, ever concentrated on his task. He sifts through baby pink feathers and plucks out a broken one.
"What'd they look like?" Dean asks tiredly. "Yours."
Castiel frowns, moving to the other wing. "They were pure, unbridled energy," he replies absently. "An extension of myself. I suppose... On this plane...” Cas pauses, palms flat against the small of Dean’s back. His voice is soft. “I imagine they would have been black. Soft. At least three times my height lengthwise. They were like the fabric of the universe made flesh."
"They sound awesome."
Castiel smiles sadly. "They were."
“You’re still awesome,” Dean murmurs, craning his neck to look back at his friend. “Even without wings.”
“And you’re beautiful with them,” Cas replies, running his hand along a pinion. “Truly.”
Dean might just love him for that.
“Yeah?” the hunter mumbles, goofy smile on his face.
“Yes.”
When Castiel finishes grooming his second wing, Dean mourns the loss of contact for only a moment before the dark-haired man immerses both hands in feathers, working both wings at the same time as he lightly drags his blunt nails down their pink expanse in a final combing.
Dean is left absolutely breathless. When he regains the ability to speak, Cas is carefully rearranging his last few feathers, staring at Dean’s back in utmost concentration while the man in question lazily flips over, the action lumbering and slow. Castiel shouts in surprise, looking at Dean with wide, surprised eyes as the hunter flops half on top of him, their faces inches apart.
“Hey,” Dean murmurs, much too relaxed to be nervous about much of anything. He nuzzles his nose against Castiel’s, their lips brushing uselessly. “Love you,” he mumbles.
Cas becomes rigid and Dean frowns in response, shaking his head once before leaning in. The former angel’s chapped, dry lips are worlds softer than Dean had imagined them to be.
Castiel, if possible, is even more rigid than before, and Dean tries not to panic. The relaxed, fuzzy cloud of delirium he’d been previously inhabiting is quickly dissipating. Working his mouth against Cas’s in soft, light kisses, Dean makes a desperate sound when his friend doesn’t reciprocate.
“Is this a prank?” Castiel pulls just enough for their mouths to brush when he talks. He sounds so small, so unsure, so broken at that possibility that Dean can’t stop himself from kissing his friend again, trying to infuse the contact with as much warmth and heat and love he can muster. “’S not,” he breathes, lips clumsily seeking purchase wherever they can reach. “’S not.”
Castiel makes a choked sound of relief.
He kisses back.
Hesitantly, carefully, the blue-eyed man winds fingers in light hair, tension ebbing from his body with every press of lips. His body works of its own accord then, drawn up by instinct as he presses up into Dean, their legs tangling and as they touch and taste and breathe deliberately in each other’s spaces.
Dean can feel his wings flutter wildly at his back, groaning in frustration as they beat relentlessly at his skin. Cas chuckles against his mouth. “Closer,” he mutters, one of his hands moving down to fondle the fluffy, pink appendages while Dean settles clumsily between his legs. The hunter groans in pleasure this time. “Holy sh-”
Castiel shushes him with a gentle kiss, missing his mark just slightly. Dean’s previously open mouth has resulted in the former angel kissing his hunter’s bottom lip. Not that anyone is complaining. In fact, all Castiel’s blood rushes south when Dean nibbles at his mouth, a hand pushing under the small of his back to press their hips together. Cas’s legs automatically move, heels digging into Dean’s ass as they begin to rut against each other—slowly. With a whimper, Dean buries his face into Castiel’s neck, panting and sucking and kissing at damp flesh.
Oooh, it’s awesome. It’s glorious. It’s so fucking hot and it’s—
“DEAN!!!!”
If Cas could have jumped five feet in the air, he probably would have. Dean, on the other hand, is used to the angry call of the Sam Bird, and so continues his ministrations, sucking a mark at the hinge of Cas’s jaw. “Ignore him,” he mutters, laving his tongue over the sensitive area. The noise that tumbles from Castiel’s lips sounds like an aborted moan.
“But, Sam-” Cas is struggling to form words, and Dean smirks.
“Sam is the last thing on my mind right now,” the hunter growls. He rolls his hips once, harder than before and Castiel bites at his lips to keep quiet. Dean presses their mouths together more softly, bringing back the previous rhythm. “Uh uh,” he mumbles. “Wanna hear you.”
Cas whimpers.
“DEAN YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE I SWEAR TO GOD-”
Dean’s wings flutter in annoyance. He only barely falters. Cas pulls away. “Perhaps we should-”
“No,” the hunter insists. “Just-”
“—ARE WE FIVE AGAIN!? WE STILL HAVE TO WORK CASES, YOU IDIOT! I CAN’T FUCKING DO THAT WITH PINK HAIR!”
Dean rolls his eyes. He moves up enough so he doesn’t yell into Cas’s ear, but still keeps the other man tucked to his chest. His wings spread in another show of dominance. “SUCK IT UP, TOFU BURGER! WHO’S THE PRETTIEST GIRL AT THE BALL NOW?!?” Turning back to his prettily flushed and pleasantly warm former angel, Dean wriggles his eyebrows. “Now, where were we-”
“YOU’RE SUCH A FUCKING JERK! FUCK YOU, MY ENTIRE BODY IS FUCKING PINK, YOU ASSHAT! I HOPE YOU KEEP YOUR STUPID, SPARKLY, TINY PRINCESS ANGEL WINGS UNTIL YOU DIE!”
Dean smirks. “AT LEAST MY BALLS AREN’T PINK!”
While the hunter waits for his little brother’s scream of frustration, he can feel Castiel laughing against his chest. At the beginning it’s a soft shake of his shoulders; silent but for the physical response. But then it graduates to muffled sounds, and then a little louder, and then a little louder, until Cas is gripping Dean tightly, laughing hysterically into his shoulder.
It’s contagious.
When their laughter dies down, both sets of cheeks hurting from all the exercise, Dean and Cas keep smiling at each other. It’s Cas who moves first, leaning in to presses bubbly, gorgeously light kisses to his companion’s mouth as they huff and giggle against warm flesh, Dean pulling at Castiel’s shirt while the other drags a hand through pink feathers. They fall back onto the mattress, a tangled mess of limbs and mouths while Sam curses at them in the background.
“I love you,” Castiel mumbles breathlessly against Dean’s lips, laughing loudly when the hunter goes at him with renewed enthusiasm, humming and nipping and licking with an almost painfully wide smile.
If you ask Dean Winchester what his favourite holiday of the year is, he’ll probably say April Fools.
Anybody feel like doing an art/fic exchange with me? I want a new sidebar image (cas?destiel?dean?) and I'll write you anything you want in exchange :)
