Born on Wings of Steel

Rolling over onto his back, Dean stretched out under the sheets.  He felt good, really good.  And then he remembered what happened last night.  He let his left arm fall to the bed beside him, the back of his hand resting on the empty spot without even a hint of lingering body heat.  He turned his head.  No one was beside him.  Sitting up, he looked around the small, dingy hotel room, but it was empty.  Cas was gone.

It wasn't totally unexpected.  Cas literally disappeared all the time without a good-bye or smell you later.  So Dean wasn't exactly sure why it bothered him this time.

"I'm turning into a fricking chick," he muttered to himself.

Throwing back the sheet, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.  Pulling a clean pair of underwear and jeans out of the duffel bag, he pulled them on, not bothering buttoning up the fly.  Kicking the pile of sweats and towels in the general direction of the dirty clothes from his adventures in marsh land yesterday, he shuffled into the bathroom.  As he went through his morning routine, he replayed last night's events.  He couldn't believe he had let things go so far.  But it had been great, freaking amazing.  It had been a long time since he had been intimate with anyone he'd known longer than a few hours of superficial conversation in a bar and even longer with anyone he actually expected to see again.

Cas had been incredible; his reactions to every small thing super-hot.  When he was younger, Dean used to have a thing for virgins.  Something about being the first one kind of meant they'd be sure to remember him, even if he was only the guy that popped the cherry.  Still, they'd remember him.  Considering he was only in one place a few weeks or maybe a month or so at a time, it was something to be remembered at all.  But, as he grew older, he learned to appreciate experienced partners.  Sex became less about trying to imprint himself on some young girl, and more about the release, just having something good after going through something bad.

Last night had brought back some of that virgin kink.  Dean had a difficult time restraining himself; even now he was hard just thinking about it.  Oh well.  It might not go any farther than it did last night.  Cas might have fooled around out of curiosity, and now that the itch had been scratched, he might not want to do anything like that again.  Dean had seen it happen with Cas before.

Slapping on some Old Spice after-shave, Dean dried his hands on the towel and turned around to leave the bathroom.  He took one step and froze.  Castiel was standing in his trenchcoat by the table, holding a plate of pancakes and a glass of orange juice.

"I brought breakfast," he said.

Dean smiled.  "I can see that."

He tried to ignore the little flutter of happiness at the sight of Castiel.  He tried to convince himself he was reacting to the sight of a fluffy stack of flapjacks.  Reaching out, Dean tried to take the plate of hot cakes and OJ, but Castiel held on, making the juice slosh a little.  Dean looked at him questioningly.

"Dean," he said seriously.  "May I enter your personal space?"

Dean's eyebrow went up.  This was a guy who, without hesitation, had stepped inside his personal space on numerous occasions, once to Etch-a-Sketch his ribs.  What kind of thing would Castiel think he had to ask permission for?  Dean took a deep breath.

"Okay," he said, bracing himself.

Castiel leaned in and kissed him on the lips, then straightened.  Dean looked at him in confusion for a minute.  That was it?  With a snort, Dean took the plate and glass, setting them on the table.  Then, he gripped Castiel by the back of the neck and kissed him back more firmly.

"Yeah," he said.  "You don't really have to ask me for permission to do that.  But, you do know you can't go around swapping spit with anyone, right?  Just me."

"I understand," Castiel said.

"Good."

They sat down together at the table, and Dean started to tuck into the pancakes.  Mm, buttermilk, and drizzled with just the right amount of butter and syrup.  They were even still hot.

"And, you shouldn't say anything to Sam or Bobby about it."  He took a swig of orange juice.  "They don't exactly know that sometimes I sleep with guys, and they definitely wouldn't get you."  He snorted, imagining their reactions.

He finished the rest of the pancakes in silence, the metal feather on the table catching his eye.  As much as he hated teleporting around, he figured that was probably going to be the easiest way to move around the marsh.  Castiel could find the bird, beam him over to where it was, and then he could finish this job and get the hell out of Dodge.

 

Shouldering the crossbow, Dean slipped Ruby's knife under the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back.  Gripping the edge of the Impala's raised trunk lid, he glanced at Castiel and hesitated.  Should he offer him a weapon?  Even doubled over with the agony of instantaneous stomach cancer, Dean had seen Castiel slice and dice with his angel killing sword like a lethal ballet dancer.  Even cut off from Heaven, Cas was still packing some angelic heat.  Castiel himself was a weapon.  God's weapon.  Dean slammed the trunk closed.

Mindful of the alligator he'd flirted with yesterday, Dean stepped up to the edge of the gravel road by the ditch.

"Ok.  So, this is the plan," he began.  "First-"

With a fluttering sound and a popping in Dean's ears, Cas vanished.

"You take off," Dean finished to himself.

Swatting a bug off his arm, Dean wondered if he should just bite the bullet and wade into the tall grass.  He squinted up at the overcast sky.  At least today he didn't feel like he was roasting inside a Shake-n-Bake bag.  Castiel suddenly appeared in front of him, and Dean jerked back reflexively.

"Geez, Cas," he muttered.

"I found her," Castiel announced.

Before Dean could respond, Castiel gripped his elbow.  There was a brief lurch of vertigo, then Dean and Castiel were standing on a small, sandy enclave surrounded by clumps of reeds and tall grass.  A naked woman was laying on her back, waist-length black hair spread out beneath her.  The sun shifted out from behind the clouds, and her skin shimmered like gold metallic paint.  Her shallow breathing was labored and she looked sunken in on herself.  She was pressing a mud pack to her shoulder, which was seeping blood.  It was the same place he had wounded the bird yesterday.  Dean's gut clenched.

The woman's eyes opened, and they weren't human; they were large and round like a bird's.  She spoke in a language Dean didn't recognize.  Castiel responded briefly, and she laughed, then spat at him before saying something else.

"Cas?" Dean prompted.

"She asked who we are.  I said you were a human hunter and I was an angel of the lord."  Castiel glanced at him.  "She wished us both painful deaths."

"Awesome," Dean sighed.

He slowly pulled the knife out.  She appeared half-dead already, but he had no experience with this type of monster and it was possible she could heal herself.  Hell, he hadn't even known she could shape-shift.  Her round eyes followed his movements, but she lay still as he approached.  Dean's gut twist became a hard cramp latching onto the base of his spine.  He hated killing like this.  Quick was better.  There was less time for thinking.

In one smooth motion, Dean dropped to his right knee, using the momentum to bury the knife hilt-deep in the center of her chest.  The ribcage parted easily.  Dean gave the knife a hard twist for maximum damage, then jerked it out as he rose.  He took a step back, unsure how this creature would react to Ruby's knife.

She screamed.  A bird screech blended with a woman's cry of sheer agony.

Lines of light zigzagged all over her body, creating a feather pattern.  Then, her scream was abruptly cut-off as she imploded.  Dean reflexively covered his face in the crook of his elbow, and half-turned away.  When it seemed like what was going to happen had happened, he lowered his arm, and all that was left of her was a pile of metal feathers.

Walking over, Dean kicked at the feathers, scattering them in the grass, hearing plopping sounds as some of them went into the water.  Squatting on his haunches, he cleaned the knife in the brackish marsh water at the edge of the small sandbar.  He wiped the blade dry on his jeans before tucking it back into his waistband.  As he stood up, Dean noticed a trail in the sand from where the bird-woman had been laying, and a dense cluster of reeds.  He frowned.  It looked like she had actually dragged herself out into the open; the exact opposite behavior of a wounded animal.  Most seriously injured creatures would crawl off somewhere to hide while they recovered or died.

An image flashed through Dean's mind from a TV nature show Sam had made him watch when they were kids.  A mother bird, pretending to be injured, had fluttered around on the ground to draw the predators away from her nest.  He thought about how the bird woman had watched him, making no effort to defend herself or try to fight back.  Drawing the knife again, Dean followed the trail to the reeds and parted them.  There was something that looked almost like a basket woven from grass and mud.  Kneeling, Dean slit open the top of the basket with the knife.  Inside, nestled in moss and grass, were two large eggs.  Dean's lips pressed together and he closed the basket-nest.  Standing up, he stomped on the eggs without looking down, feeling them crunch and break beneath his boots.

Then he turned to Castiel, who had stood there watching him silently this entire time.

"Let's go," Dean said.

Without a word, Castiel reached out and touched his shoulder and the marsh disappeared.

Dean found himself sitting behind the wheel of the Impala, Castiel in the passenger seat beside him.  Unshouldering the crossbow, Dean tossed it in the back on top of his leather jacket, then leaned forward to stash the knife under the driver's seat.  He started the car and began navigating his way out of the Anahuac National Wildlife Refuge.

"So, what language was that?" Dean asked.

He really didn't want to talk about it, but he also couldn't stop himself; it was like picking at a fresh scab.

"Greek," Castiel replied.

"I didn't know you spoke Greek," Dean said.

"I speak everything," Castiel said plainly.

Dean glanced over at Castiel to see if he was joking, then remembered it was Cas he was talking to.  Dean's cell phone rang.  Pulling it out of his pocket, he glanced at the caller ID before flipping it open.

"You didn't tell me the bird could shape-shift into a chick," Dean paused.  "I mean, woman."

Bobby sighed.  "That part was only an unconfirmed side-note and wasn't included in the accepted mythology."

"Was it some kind of shape-shifter we haven't seen before?" Dean asked.  

"Not exactly.  There's a version of the story that says these women refused to show Hercules hospitality-"

"You mean, they refused to have sex with him ," Dean interjected.

"Yeah," Bobby agreed.  "And they were turned into birds as punishment."

"Great."

Dean tucked the phone against his shoulder as he used both hands to make a turn.

"Well," he said, reclaiming the phone with his left hand as he continued driving one-handed.  "The side-note is now a pile of feathers."

"Good," Bobby said.  "You coming back here, now?"

"Yeah.  I'll call you when I head out," Dean said.

"Be careful, kid," Bobby said before hanging up.

Dean flipped the phone closed and slipped it back into his pocket.  Basically, he'd just ganked a chick who'd been cursed because she didn't want to be raped.

"Awesome," Dean muttered.

"You feel guilty," Castiel noted.

"Always," Dean said without looking over.

"Why?  We're soldiers.  Killing is necessary," Castiel sounded genuinely puzzled.

"It doesn't mean I have to like it," Dean said.

The image of the mother bird fluttering in the dirt, dragging her wing, flashed through Dean's head.  His hands white-knuckled the steering wheel.

"I need a drink," he announced.

 

---

It didn't take Dean long to find what he wanted.  He had a radar for these kinds of places.  Parking the Impala, Dean shut off the engine and pulled out the keys.  Jostling them in his hand, he looked over at Castiel.

"You won't like this place, Cas," he said.

Castiel looked over at the little hole-in-the-wall bar with several men hanging around outside.  It was between a pawn shop and a sex store.  He turned back to Dean with a frown.

"Is it a den of inequity?" he asked.

"Not exactly," Dean replied.  "But I'm sure there's a whole lot of sinning going on."

"Then why would you choose this establishment to drink, Dean?" Castiel asked.

"Because I need to do a little sinning myself," Dean answered honestly.

The thought of sin reminded him, and Dean pulled out his wallet to make sure he had condoms.  One foil square glinted amount the folded bills.  Damn.  Oh well, he'd just have to make do with a single time.  He pulled it out and slid into his front jeans pocket.

"I don't understand," Castiel said.

Dean returned the wallet, feeling a stab of guilt at the confusion on Castiel's face.  He didn't know how to explain what he was doing.  Hell, Sam didn't understand Dean's "drunk fucks"; there was no way Castiel would ever understand.  Dean just needed to lose himself, do something purely physical with enough intensity that his brain could shut down and he could drop the guilt for a short while.  At least until he sobered up.  Dean rubbed his temples, closing his eyes.

"Cas, it would be better if you took off.  Sometimes a guy just needs-"  Dean opened his eyes and realized he was talking to himself in an empty car.  "Privacy," he finished.

Frowning, Dean rubbed his ear.  He couldn't figure out why sometimes his ears popped when Castiel poofed and sometimes they didn't.  Maybe it had something to do with velocity?  Angel air dynamics?  With a sigh, Dean took off the plaid shirt he was wearing over his T-shirt.  Reaching behind him, he snagged the brown leather jacket and shrugged it on.  A quick check in the rearview mirror, he ran his hands through his short hair, and he was ready.

Walking up to the entrance, Dean got a few looks, so he knew it was going to be fairly easy to score some action.  The inside of the bar was dim, filled with low, throbbing music.  It was early, so there weren't that many patrons yet, but that was fine with him.  More time to build up a good buzz.

A couple of hours and five beers later, the place was packed.  Dean scanned the crowd over the rim of his beer mug.  He'd already declined a few offers; he was looking for something fairly specific.  Finally, he spotted someone with some potential.  About his height, dark blonde, clean-cut looking, wearing a snug t-shirt that showed a slimly muscular physique.  More importantly, the body language was right.  He was leaning against the wall with one shoulder, beer in hand, hips thrust slightly forward, steady gaze moving over the crowd.  Waiting until that gaze moved to him, Dean caught and held it, raising his beer mug slightly.  Blonde boy tilted his head to get a better look at him, then smiled and made his way over to the bar.

"I haven't seen you here before," Blonde Boy said, leaning on the bar between Dean and the occupied stool next to him.  "I'm Jason."

"Dean.  Just passing through town,"he responded.

"Buy you a beer, Dean?" Jason asked.

"Actually," Dean said, looking directly into his eyes.  "I was thinking this would be my last one."

"So, want to go shoot some pool in the back, then?" Jason murmured.

"Yeah."

Taking a last swig of beer, Dean tossed a twenty on the counter and followed the other man through the bar.  To Dean's mild surprise, there actually were a couple of threadbare pool tables in the back room, which was even dimmer than the front since the only light was from the two low-hanging lights under green shades.  However, no one in the room was actually playing pool.   Dean kept his eyes averted as Jason went to a doorway covered with a black curtain and knocked on the door frame with the back of his hand.  When there was no answer, he parted the curtain and glanced back over his shoulder at Dean to follow.

Dean ducked inside, letting the curtain close behind him.  He stood still for a moment to let his eyes adjust.  The only illumination in the small room was a red light bulb.  In a former life, it was probably an over-sized janitor's closet.  It had a cement floor with a drain, unpainted walls and a sink, wooden chair, folding cot, and a trash can.  Dean had been in worse.

Turning around, Jason put his hands on Dean's waist and bent his head down.  An image of Castiel's mouth flashed through his mind, and Dean turned his face away.

"No kissing," he said.

Jason raised his eyebrows, but shrugged.  No kissing wasn't unusual for these types of hook-ups.

"No problem," he said.

Snagging his fingers in Jason's belt loops, Dean pushed him back against the wall and dropped to his knees.  He quickly unbuttoned Jason's jeans and unzipped the fly.  There was a good-sized mound under the white cotton briefs.  He pulled down the briefs enough to free Jason's balls and half-erect cock.  This was his least favorite part, but Dean needed a hard cock to get the job done, and after a few guys at the beginning had tried to sneak in barebacked, he always put the condom on himself.  Holding the cock in one hand, Dean leaned forward and opened his mouth.

Someone grabbed the neck of Dean's jacket and jerked him to his feet, spinning him around.  Dean's hand automatically went to the back of his jeans for the knife that wasn't there before it registered that he was facing Cas.  A scowling Cas, his blue eyes narrowed and glinting dangerously.

"This is not drinking, Dean," Castiel said, his low voice flat with anger.

"Hey, I don't get involved in boyfriend drama," Jason said.  "I'm taking off."

"Taking off would be wise," Castiel said shortly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Jason hastily tuck himself back in and zip up his jeans before beating a retreat through the curtain.  Dean felt a flash of anger at Castiel's interference, fueled by alcohol and his embarrassment at being caught on his knees about to suck dick.

"What the hell are you doing, Cas?" Dean demanded.

"You should not be in this place," Castiel said, stepping inside Dean's personal space.

"Where I go and what I do is none of your business," Dean snapped.

They were standing practically toe to toe, Castiel's unwavering stare locked onto him.  Dean reached out and pushed at Castiel's chest.  And nothing happened.  It was like pushing against an oak tree; he didn't budge a centimeter.  Suddenly, Dean realized all the times he had bumped into Cas, shoved and pushed him, it was because Castiel had permitted himself to be moved.  

Without warning, Castiel grabbed a fistful of Dean's shirt and spun him around in a half-circle.  Dean winced in anticipation of being slammed into the cement wall.  He felt a lurch in his stomach, then the air was knocked out of his lungs as his back contacted with the wall and the hotel room appeared around them.  The picture by the door fell to the floor with a crash of breaking glass.  They were standing so close, Dean could feel Castiel's breath on his face.

"After everything, you can say that to me?" Castiel growled.

"You don't understand."  The anger, frustration and guilt balled up into a hard knot in the base of Dean's throat; he felt like he was choking on it.  "You're such a fucking child."

---

Note:  Song Lyrics from "Icarus" and "Wheels" by Kansas.