Angels do not purr. Castiel is adamant about that. That sound he makes when he is drifting off to sleep, warm and content, while Sam rubs slow circles into the small of his back and kisses his shoulder? It’s called resonating. It’s the sound of his grace as it vibrates in harmony with the music of the spheres, the sound of galaxies being born at the dawn of time. It’s a sound so powerful and beautiful his vessel can’t contain it, which is why his vocal chords vibrate. He is not purring, he insists, voice muffled by sleepiness.
Sam smiles. He knows that angels don’t purr; he’s heard it many, many times. But as Cas sinks into the mattress with a sigh, resonating quietly, Sam knows it means the same thing.
rosworms asked: Can you write Castiel washing Sam’s hair? But not cutesy fluff… more subtle fluff that keeps them in character. hell, if you can make it angsty fluff, i might die from happiness.
A/N: fluff that isn’t cutesy is my jam. Heck yes.
Sam’s body is strong and capable and healthy. He knows that. But it has also been sick and damaged and fragile, and after years of being inhabited by things other than himself, he struggles sometimes to feel like his body is his. Instead it feels like something outside of himself, something heavy and tired, something that he looks after but that is hard for him to love.
He sits between Cas’s legs in a warm bath, and he lets his mind drift while Cas runs his fingers through his wet hair, rinsing out the shampoo and occasionally pressing his cheek against Sam’s head to breathe him in. The fondness in Cas’s touch grounds him. He feels like himself here.
“Dean told me I should make you get a haircut,” Cas mused.
Sam jumped at the deep voice, looking up from where he sat under a tree on the quad to see a silhouetted figure towering over him.
“Uh, yeah, well, I guess…” Jessica had left him with the sign while she went for coffee, but he was nursing a paper-writing hangover and had been very close to falling asleep on the job. “It was my friend’s idea, she kinda roped me in.”
The other student just looked down at him. He had dark hair, and he was wearing a suit and trench coat that had to be too warm this late in spring, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable, just kind of confused.
“So, you're not giving away hugs?”
“I’m supposed to be,” Sam answered, scrambling to his feet. He was weirdly relieved to find that he was a little taller than the stranger. It made him feel steadier. “Do you, uh, want one?”
Hannah, Queen of Heaven, and Abaddon, Queen of Hell, fight for the souls of humanity. But as the cost of war rises on Earth, humanity begins to resist, fighting against Hell and Heaven in the name of free will.
Starring Erica Carroll, Alaina Huffman, Rachel Miner, Julie McNiven, Loretta Devine, Kim Rhodes, Alona Tal, Lauren Tom, and Osric Chau.
Jane and Sif lying in bed together, using Jane’s knowledge of physics and Sif’s understanding of battle to design new kinds of weapons, and Jane lunges over the side of the bed to grab a notebook because she’s so excited about their ideas, and Sif catches her so she doesn’t fall. Which of course leads to Jane scribbling furiously to get their ideas on paper and Sif trying to distract her with kisses and nibbles, and every time Jane asks her a question, Sif answers with innuendos like “the point of the sword should be curved like my tongue, so it can effectively penetrate the enemy” and “a knife the length of my finger would pierce the enemy’s body like this.”
They’re all worried about Bucky. For Steve’s sake, yes, but also because how can you not be worried about the guy? He looks like a trapped animal all the time. Or at least he would, if he ever came out of his room.
Sam found Dean in the shooting range, pacing and tugging at his bow tie.
“Dude, where have you been? We’re supposed to be at the church in ten minutes.”
“And that doesn’t strike you as a little weird, Sam? Angels don’t get married in churches. Angels don’t get married. They’re freaking angels. What was Cas thinking? What was I thinking? Is it hot in here?”
Sam tried and failed to restrain his bitchface as Dean leaned over, gripping his knees and breathing hard.
“Okay, come on. Sit down. God, you’re such a cliché.” He pulled Dean over into a chair against the wall and took over untying his bow tie, which Dean was failing spectacularly at. “Everybody gets cold feet before they get married. You love Cas, he loves you, and it’s not even legal, Dean. The ID he used to get the marriage license was completely fake. This is not a big deal.”
Dean undid the top button of his shirt, closing his eyes and resting his head against the wall.
“Okay, yeah, not a big deal. It’s not like we aren’t already mostly married, right? This is just, you know, throwing a party about it.”
“Exactly. Just saying stuff out loud that you’ve probably already said to each other lots of times, so your friends can hear you and hold you to it,” Sam said with a smirk. Dean didn’t open his eyes.
“Not helping, Sam.”
Sam sighed and crouched beside his brother.
“Listen. It’s you and Cas. Forget the rest of it, Dean. That’s what matters. And, for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you, and I’m happy for you. This is all a good thing, I promise.”
Dean took a deep breath and opened his eyes, nodding.
“Thanks, Sammy. I just…it’s not me, you know? The church and the tux and all of it, it just feels like I’m acting, and I’m not. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than marry Cas, but this whole dog and pony show is freaking me out.”
“I know,” came a deep voice from the doorway, making them both jump.
“Cas?” Dean stood up, worried about what, exactly, Cas had heard.
“It’s okay, Dean,” he said with a small smile. “I was waiting at the church, and it smelled like incense. It was kind of nice, actually, but all I could think about was how much you were going to hate it. And the pews and the high ceilings, and did you know there was a stained glass window depicting Michael at the gates of Paradise in the narthex?” He shook his head, pulling his own tie loose as he walked toward Dean, who had the dopiest smile on his face Sam had ever seen. “So I made a unilateral decision, and I brought everybody here. They’re upstairs waiting for us, but I let them start on the champagne, so we can take as long as we want.”
“I’ll just, uh, go see if they need cups,” Sam excused himself but paused for a moment to look behind him as Cas took Dean’s hands in his own. Yes, this is a very good thing, Sam thought, and he made his way upstairs.
“Did you…” Dean stared in disbelief, still grinning. “Did you zap the minister here, too? Because I’m pretty sure that’s grounds for refusing to marry us.” Cas shook his head.
“No, Dean. I have learned to anticipate how much truth people can handle. Did you know that Garth is an ordained minister? He showed me the certificate on his phone. I know it’s not what we planned, but…”
“It’s perfect. It couldn’t be more perfect,” Dean held Cas’s hands tightly and leaned forward to touch his forehead to the angel’s. “You’re perfect,” he whispered.
“No,” Cas answered. “I’m not. But we are.”
They tried not to keep everyone waiting too long, but by the time they got upstairs, the party was well under way, and their arrival necessitated much toasting and many celebratory hugs, and they had to have a drink or two with their friends, so that by the time they actually got around to saying their vows, everyone was happily drunk and draped over the furniture and each other. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world for Garth to call them to order, hiccuping a little on the “Dearly Beloved” and unable to refrain from giving the newlyweds their first hug as a married couple.
At least he waited until they finished their first kiss, Sam thought with a grin, raising a glass to give a very embarrassing toast he’d been working on for weeks.
Cas had a way of looking at Sam as if he was inspecting something under a microscope, squinting slightly and tilting his head, sometimes leaning in for a better look. Although he seemed to understand that it made Sam uncomfortable, and he mostly did it when Sam was engrossed in a book or napping, he wasn’t exactly subtle.
Sam finally confronted him about it one night after a few beers and a documentary about volcanoes (Cas was fascinated by the human spirit of scientific inquiry), when he turned away from the TV and caught Cas apparently trying to count his eyelashes.
“Dude, what are you doing?”
Cas blinked at him and did that head-tilting thing. Sam could see him working through a slight haze of alcohol–although it took a lot to get him really drunk now that he had his grace back, a few beers could make Cas just mellow enough to be almost like a normal person–to put together a sentence. But what came out wasn’t what Sam expected.
“There were two moons. No, wait. I have to start with when, right? Before humans, before there were humans to name things and describe things and put things in boxes, there were two moons in a solar system very far from here. Very, very far according to human reckoning.”
Sam raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt as Cas got into the groove of the story. He was actually a very good storyteller, Sam thought. It must come from knowing scriptures so well. Or from living them, he supposed. Cas’s whole life was scripture, in a way.
“These moons, they were absolutely wrong. Made of entirely different materials, and there was no good reason for them to orbit the same planet. One was dense, made up of layer upon layer of shining white and pink stone. The other was… it was ice, but not like ice as you know it. It was all crystalline and delicate, or as delicate as a thing can be that hurtles through space at breathtaking speeds, and shot through with gold and other metals. They were beautiful. Some of my Father’s best work.
"Over time,” Cas continued, turning himself on the couch to face Sam, raising his hands to demonstrate as he spoke, “the two moons passed each other over and over and over, never touching, just glimpsing each other on their different orbits. For millennia they danced, coming face to face only to pass one another by just as they always had. Until one day, crash.” He brought his fists together to demonstrate, one grazing the other just enough to break both their orbits, Cas’s fingers flying apart in a drunken blur. “It destroyed them both.”
For a minute, Cas was silent, and Sam wondered if that was all the explanation he was ever going to get.
“That’s, uh, fascinating Cas, but what does it have to do with the staring thing?”
“Oh, right, yes. This all happened eons before humanity, long before anyone but the angels had a chance to see. Those beautiful moons danced for ages, and no human remembers. It’s not in your myths or stories or art.” He edged closer to Sam, bringing one hand up gently alongside his cheek and drawing a careful line just above his cheekbone.
“It’s…it’s here. They’re here. Sam, your molecules carry fragments of the most spectacular sights in all of creation. Here, fragments of gold. And here,” he said, his voice full of wonder, as he passed his fingers over Sam’s eyes, “water that was once the ice of the crystal moon. And here, in your lips, that shimmering pink stone. And no one else can see it. How is that possible?”
“Cas,” Sam asked quietly, his lips brushing against Castiel’s fingers, “how can you see that? How do you know?”
“Because you are beautiful, Sam. Because I like to look at you. I like to find the moons and the stars in every inch of you. You are made of Heaven.”
And it didn’t matter that they were drunk, sitting on an ordinary couch under a hill in Kansas. When Castiel kissed him, Sam saw stars.
The first time Sam takes Cas into a photo booth, Cas doesn’t quite understand the point, and they end up with four pictures of the angel squinting at and interrogating Sam instead of looking at the camera, while Sam tries to hold a smile and not laugh too much.
When they get the little strip of photos, Sam loves it. He says it’s his favorite version of Cas, intense and questioning and not just accepting “this is a thing people do.” And suddenly, Cas gets it.
He pulls Sam back into the booth for another go, and they get four more photos: one of Cas whispering in Sam’s ear, one of Sam looking down while Cas leans against him, one of him looking at Cas with a smile, and one of the moment just before their lips meet. This one, Cas decides to keep.
“This is my favorite version of you, Sam. Your face when I say that I’m in love with you is the most beautiful thing in the world.”
Cas has this habit of never being more than a room or two away from Sam, so much so that Dean thinks of it as Cas’s “orbit,” and it actually makes life easier; if you’ve found one of them, the other can’t be far away. So, although Castiel has patiently explained that there is no relationship between angels and stars, or planets, or any other inanimate celestial objects, Dean insists on calling him Sam’s “moon.” “Sam, your moon left the peanut butter open again.” “Sam, your moon mopped himself into a corner in the kitchen and needs to be rescued.” “Dude, did you piss off your moon? He’s, like, three rooms away from you.”
Although it aggravates Cas, Sam thinks it’s cute. And, being the massive nerd that he is, he gets Cas to read Game of Thrones so he’ll get the reference when Sam calls him “moon of my life.”
It makes his heart skip a beat when Cas starts calling him, “my sun and stars.”
“Cas, baby, it’s like 2 in the morning. Come to bed.” Sam is only half-awake, stumbling into the library in his pjs with terrible bedhead. He always finds it hard to sleep without his angel beside him.
“Sam, what is Pinterest?”
“It’s a website where people post, I dunno, stuff they like or want to do something. Are you coming to bed or not?”
“I’ll be there shortly, Sam,” Castiel answers, squinting at the laptop.
“Okay,” Sam sighs and heads back to their room, starting to regret showing Cas how the internet works.
In the morning, he finds Cas in much the same position, with the laptop glowing in front of him, except that he’s fallen asleep with his head on his arm. Sam shakes his head and smiles, walking over to wake him up, when he catches a glimpse of the computer screen and leans over to get a better look.
Cas has spent the entire night making a Pinterest board full of…well, of him. Of them. Photos of the two of them together, blurry phone selfies and more careful ones taken by Charlie or Dean, sketches from Cas’s own notebook. And other things, pictures of libraries and constellations, poems that they recite to one another in the dark and guinea pigs and people holding hands and…
…and rings. Two platinum rings on two men’s hands. And as Sam tries to catch his breath, he realizes that Cas has woken up and is watching his face, and he suddenly feels awful for prying but also there’s an incredible warmth filling him, and he can’t remember the last time he felt so happy.
“Are those wedding rings, Cas?
"You… you said this was for things people like and things people want to do, and… I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable, Sam, I don’t want to pressure you–”
And then he stops, because Sam is kneeling now, and he’s taking Cas’s hand, and Cas knows what this means. He knows because they’ve watched so many romantic movies, and because he’s wondered which of them will do it, and suddenly he’s having a hard time breathing. Sam looks like he’s trying to say something, but no words are coming out, so Cas reaches forward to kiss him, to kiss him like it’s their first and last chance, and one of them murmurs, “will you?” and the other answers, “yes,” and it doesn’t matter which, because they’re still kissing, passing the words back and forth between their lips and savoring them like the first strawberries of summer.
“Hey, how come I never get to see your wings? I’ve seen your everything else,” Dean said with a wink. They were lying in bed, Dean on his back reading and Cas on his stomach beside him, and Cas turned his face away before he answered.
“They are nothing special, Dean. You wouldn’t be interested.”
Dean frowned and put his book down.
“Hey. Hey, look at me.” Cas turned back, keeping his face pressed to the pillow but looking Dean in the eyes. “I’m interested,” Dean said, more serious now. He reached over to touch Cas’s shoulder. “I’m always interested in you.”
Castiel closed his eyes, leaning into Dean’s touch and his words and overwhelmed for a moment with gratitude for this man. But his wings were not what they once were, he knew. Faded with hardship and weakened by relying on borrowed grace, they were more a burden to him than anything else. A reminder of what he had been and lost.
But this was Dean asking.
“Come on, man.” Dean curled onto his side and towards Cas until they were sharing the pillow, and Cas opened his eyes. “You’ve seen my soul. Can’t be worse than that, right?” He smiled, but his eyes were sad, and Cas couldn’t say no again. Because no matter how many times he told Dean how beautiful he was, something in the man wouldn’t let him believe it. Cas felt a sudden urge to open his wings and lay them over Dean, to hold and protect him, to love him until he believed he deserved it, even if that took millenia.
"Whoa.” Dean’s eyes went wide as the wings flickered into materiality above them, not completely visible but clearly wings, with a soft blue light defining the edges of the feathers. Cas could see how weak the light was, how it faded in and out and how its color was steady, not the shifting blue-green it was when he was fully himself.
But Dean couldn’t take his eyes off of them, and the way he reached out to touch the one that hovered over him, cautiously, with reverence made Cas shiver. And when Dean’s fingers brushed along the feathers, he gasped; the sensation was intense, and his wings fluttered and pulsed with desire for more.
“Hey, I think we found a kink, Cas,” Dean said with a smirk when he saw Cas’s face.
“Yours or mine?” the angel teased, and in a moment they were kissing, Cas’s tongue forcing Dean’s lips open with sudden, desperate need. Dean twisted his fingers in Cas’s wings, every pull making the angel whimper into the kiss, until he was practically shaking with need. He had no idea his wings were still capable of this, still real enough to feel so much. He was hard and leaking in his boxers, pushing involuntarily against Dean’s thigh, needing the friction. It was too much; he dropped his head into Dean’s shoulder and twisted his hands in the sheets as Dean dug his fingers into the feathers, stroking the ridge of bone underneath.
“You like that, angel?” Dean’s voice was rough with desire. “You’re fucking gorgeous like this, all desperate.” He wrapped one hand around the back of Cas’s neck, dragging his fingers through his hair as his other hand gripped his wing. “I’m gonna make you come like this, baby,” he whispered into Cas’s ear. “Just stroking your wings, I’m gonna make you come so hard.”
All Cas could do was moan Dean’s name over and over against the warm skin of Dean’s shoulder. His voice broke when Dean slid a tight fist over the top edge of the wing, pulling the feathers and sending sparks of pleasure through Cas’s whole body. He felt himself pushing harder into Dean’s grasp, rutting against his thigh, desperate for more contact.
“Fuck, Cas,” Dean whispered, almost to himself. “Look at you. Fucking beautiful.” Cas whined; the sensation was too much, but he needed more, needed something to push him over the edge. And that was when Dean pulled his wing down to drag his teeth across the feathers, nipping and tugging at the edge of one just hard enough to hurt.
If Cas had been looking up, he would have seen how his wings lit up as he came, blue and green and shining as they had before. But he clung to Dean, crying out into his shoulder, sobbing Dean’s name with his eyes tightly closed. He felt it, though, every inch of his wings alive and real and his, like he hadn’t felt in forever.
Dean stroked Cas’s neck and shoulder gently as he caught his breath, turning to kiss Cas’s cheek. He was careful to avoid touching the trembling wings, realizing how oversensitive they must be, until Cas let out a heavy sigh and folded them away. He turned to look at Dean with a sleepy smile on his face.
“Yeah. Didn’t know it would be like that,” Dean said quietly.
“Neither did I,” Cas answered as he drifted off to sleep.