Dean had never really gotten a good sense of Cas’s true form. Like, he knew it was really big. And weird. Eyes and wings, potentially. But he’d missed the part where there would be tentacles. Fur. Teeth. Tongues. Suckers.
And, oh, Chuck. It was...it was everything. Awe inspiring.
“Is this...are you here? Is this real?”
The figure was hunched down a few feet away. It was vaguely humanoid if you didn’t count all the appendages, and it somehow managed to look embarrassed. It hid its face with some tentacles and feathers and hands.
Yes, it finally said. Sort of. It’s a dream. You said you wanted to see but...I was concerned for your eyes.
Dean took a deep breath. Let it out.
Reds and purples and greens and colors he had no words for curved along smooth lines of muscle, shone like oil slick in some places, were dull in other areas - fur, scales, feathers.
“Can I…” he swallowed. “Can I touch you?”
If you’d like, Cas responded, sounding doubtful even as he sounded like nothing at all. Even as he sounded like an earthquake.
Dean reached out and a tentacle met his outstretched hand, curved around him and stuck in place briefly, making him gasp. Those little cups were...vigorous. Excitable. The tentacle curved around his wrist and forearm, loose enough that he could escape if he wanted to.
It had never occurred to him how foreign he must be, with his two arms and two legs and simple, single head. “Am I...do I look weird to you? Is it...gross?”
There was a strange sort of chuckle in his head, like standing too close to a jet engine. No, of course not. You look human. I must look like a nightmare.
Dean smiled softly. Took a good long look at the tentacles, the limbs, the eyes - more than he could count - that all looked at him sort of squinty and blue-tinged.
“No,” he said finally. “You look like you.”
Mouths he hadn’t noticed before smiled.
He kissed the tentacle still wrapped loosely around his forearm, and licked the faint salt flavor from his lips. “This is a really...vivid dream,” he murmured, looking up through his lashes. A blush rose in the lighter areas of the being that stood before him like a force of nature.
“I can taste you,” Dean said. “Like the ocean.”
There was a sort of pleased hum that filled the air. The tentacle reached out to stroke his cheek and Dean moved forward, into the flesh, the muscle, the fur.
“Cas,” he murmured.
A million mouths responded with a collective sigh.
Feathers brushed across his back, down his hips, his ass, his thighs. He was naked, suddenly. Or maybe he’d just realized. Naked in so many ways, open and willing and ready. Naked before Castiel. Angel of the Lord. Many faced, many eyed, and still so familiar and perfectly himself.
He’d always made Dean feel so much more important than he was. So much more than a creature made for killing and hunting. So much more than a shell for an angelic weapon.
And maybe that was what they had in common. The thing that brought them together, over and over. That bound them like blood. They had both been weapons first, and finally, with each other, they were more.
“Cas,” Dean breathed, and the touches against him were impossible to name. They were purely sensation, and then something deep in his bones. A sound that was his name, but so much more.
Cas touched him. Gentle feather touches, then something smooth and dry and gently scaled. The scrape of something like talons, a scratch against his shoulder and on either side of his spine, that made him shiver with the blade-sharp danger of it. Danger and affection and protection, all wrapped up in one. Then there was the slick feel of the tentacles, more of them, curling around his calves, his hip, his arms, and then something oddly more alien - human skin against his, in and amongst all the unexpected animal textures.
“You know,” Dean breathed, and then his voice caught as something slid high and intimate inside his thigh. “You know I’m yours, don’t you?”
Mine? Cas asked. His voice was no longer a gravel-low sound. It was a rumble in a cavern. The lost, impossible sound of heaving tectonic plates.
“Yes,” Dean managed as limbs moved over him, grazing and then stroking over the most sensitive parts of him - his throat, his chest, his shoulder, his groin. “Yes,” he repeated, choked by the intensity of it all. “Yours.”
A pleased sound vibrated everywhere. The entire dream. Dean’s entire body.
And I am yours, Cas said, and then the limbs were closer, sliding into him, past his lips, and around his wrists, and around his cock, and slowly, carefully, sliding back and into him, slick and cautious.
It was utterly overwhelming. It could have been pain, or pleasure, or heat, or cold. There was so much that all he could do for some time was just give in to it, terrified and overwhelmed and desperately wanting. He couldn’t ask for anything. He couldn’t wish. He could only feel. An angel. An angel’s trueform was using him, serving him, pulling every bit of pleasure from him that was possible, to the point where his nerves were shrieking from it, body spasming and overwhelmed and overjoyed and burning with it.
He writhed and moaned and twitched and then he came and came and came.
Too much, he tried to say, but his mouth was still full of the ocean, his shoulders still blanketed with the embodiment of air, he was still filled with earth and void and fire when he maybe passed out with the enormity of it - the world went completely white and he faded into nothingness.
He wakes and he’s damp, head to toe.
Cas is kissing him gently, holding him like he’s spun glass. “Dean,” he murmurs. “Are you all right?”
There’s something cooling on his chest, lower down, something on the sheets.
“Jesus,” Dean mutters. “What did you do?”
Cas has the grace to sound embarrassed. “I think I may have...overstimulated you.”
“Fuck.” He lifts the sticky sheet, slides his fingers through what he now knows is his own come on his chest, in his pubic hair, on his stomach. “Let me wash up.”
“I’m sorry,” Cas says, abashed.
Dean turns to kiss him gently. “Don’t be. That was...we can do that anytime. You...you’re beautiful, you know?”
Cas kisses him, his cheek, his temple, the junction of neck and shoulder. “Thank you, Dean,” as if somehow Dean is the one giving gifts.
He may never be able to explain how goddamn perfect Cas is. He’s never been good with words.
“Sure,” he says. It comes out dismissive, maybe. “Let me, uh....” he gestures down and then glances at his bed. His ruined sheets. “Meet you in your room?”
Cas grins. “Yes.”
Dean grins back. They’ll get there. He’ll make Cas understand.
He turns at the doorway and raises an eyebrow.
“Thanks.” He means so much more than the orgasm. So much more than the dream. He hopes Cas understands. That he’ll have time to find the words.
Cas looks down, shy, and then up again, smiling. “You’re welcome.”