This is my first stab at the Supernatural fandom. I've only been here for a month, kiddies, and I'm a little worried about it. Assume it takes place somewhere in S4-5.

It started with her. Dean hadn't wanted to do it at first; he was his father's son, he was A Man, he didn't wear frilly pink satin panties with black grosgrain ribbon bows, he didn't even know what those words were at the time.

He stepped into them.

Cool, whispering slide up his skin. The tightness around his hips and thighs, the harsh bite into his skin, these were things he didn't like but wanted to change next time—next time, yes, but his heart pounded in his chest and he wanted to bolt like a rabbit from a hunter.

They did it again, and she joked about him reclaiming his masculinity before passing out on her bed. Dean looked through her drawers until he found the most innocuous item of clothing he could take—a pair of smooth black cotton boy shorts, elastic at the hips that scalloped like lace and was branded with the words 'Victoria's Secret', but the secret was his.

It took him months to work up the guts to wear them, soaking them and stretching them carefully whenever he was alone until he was certain that they would fit.

It wasn't pink satin; the playful, innocent drag of cotton weave over his muscular thighs wasn't the same, but it felt good.

He formed a habit, a plan, an airtight routine that got him what he wanted.

When he could, he snuck out with a fifty and walked to a mall, telling the sales clerk that they were a gift for his girlfriend as he ran his hands along the racks.

When he couldn't, he would wait until the latest girl fell asleep to take a pair from her drawers.

He learned their names; silk, satin, velvet, lace, chiffon, organdie, organza, grosgrain, jacquard. They learned his, whispering as his fingers played with them under harsh fluorescent lights, Dean Dean Dean.

He learned that he liked showy, arrogant, ostentatious pieces when Sam and Dad fought; he would spend hours in Victoria's Secret and Anne Summers looking at sequinned garter skirts in hot pink and teal, eventually buying a black mesh panty with long, fluffy ostrich plumes blossoming out like a tail when Sam decided that he would leave for Stanford and they could fuck all and die.

He liked the sweeter, frillier ones when he felt—loss, sadness, glee—deeply; white and pink damask-patterned panties with pale pink lace ruffles covering his butt, deep grey with large roses and ruffled openings with a soft pink ribbon tying bown up and down his hips.

He learned what he liked—together, alone, colours and fabrics and decorations, styles and fits.

He tucked them into the lining of his duffel, neatly folded and wrapped in pale yellow tissue paper that smelled like vanilla and protected in Glad sandwich bags, so nobody would ever find them.

When he was alone, he tried them on. He walked around hotel rooms and looked at his ass in satin, in silk, in cotton, in lace. He saw what he had made, his own little secret Elysium of soft caressing cloth, and thought it good.

It was a balm; when he had to leave someone he might have loved, given time enough, he slid on a red satin thong with mother-of-pearl buttons up the front and a keyhole in the back and let the Impala take him away, and the touch of the fabric was enough to soothe any hint of a savage beast curled up in his chest.

He wore blue, green, and red plaid panties with black lace detailing when he told Sam that their father was missing. His heart pounded in his chest, but he let the synthetic-slick fabric calm his frayed nerves and he carried on.

He was in Hell.

Thirty years went by, creeping and crawling like the sea over sand, and he toyed with believing that he deserved it. He ran through his mind a litany of sins—cheated on a math test in third grade kissed Evelyn Meyers in Oklahoma even though she was dating someone didn't pay all those bar tabs wore all those panties—but decided it wasn't worth the stress.

He didn't want to remember what was done to him, but he did.

He didn't want to remember what he did, but he did.

And when he felt that hand sear into his shoulder, marking him and claiming ownership and responsibility, he felt that same whisper-soft caress sliding up his thighs and over his ass, the same faint bite of a waistband just snug enough.

Later, he would be horrified and incensed with fury that an angel had taken it upon him/itself to see his mind, his happiness, and replicate it, but his first thought when he saw what had found its way up over his legs—deep, rich blue silk, black lace overlay, white ribbons, yes, yes—was a quiet hum of pleasure.

Castiel.

An angel; The Angel; Dean's Angel.

He is the sum of his parts; he is every language that falls from his lips, he is a voice that could turn Rushmore to dust and has turned Dean's bones to jelly, he is blue eyes and stubble and tired-workaday-everyman clothes on a body to match with all the power of a million million supernovas borne within, he is wings expanding and fluttering with colour like a night-black oil slick, he is bulletproof, and he is the one who gripped Dean tight and raised him from perdition, quote unquote.

The word want is too childish, too mundane, to describe the feeling inside Dean when he sees his angel. Something hungry and pitiful and powerful claws at Dean's ribs and snarls Cas' name; aching, longing to get out and into the angel's arms. He thinks of the gifts Castiel has given him, his life and his body and his soul and them.

The perfect panties. They look magnificent against Dean's skin, highlighting the plush swell of his butt proudly, and they're just tight enough, and when Castiel looks at him, Dean could swear Cas zaps them onto him and takes in the sight before switching them back to whatever boring boxers he wore that day.

So Dean makes it a game; he teases an Angel of the Lord.

The first pair are green and gold embroidered shorts that lace up the back like a corset—he won't let himself go there, not yet, not when he can barely stand the thought of people knowing about his panties—and he's matched them to his eyes and eyelashes perfectly.

Castiel's body in his space, too close and too far all at once, radiating heat like the sun, smelling so human and visceral and real, makes Dean want to cry. He wants to strip bare but for his panties and kneel at Cas' feet, praying filthy things to him with his head bowed.

Cas leaves, but Dean smells the angel on his shirt, and when Sam leaves, he breathes deep and ruts against the mattress until he stains his shorts with come, flushed and exhilarated.

Once you start, you cannot stop. You want more and more, and the old amounts don't provide the old results.

Dean has evolved from nicking panties from one night stands to buying his own extensive collection to humping grotty motel mattresses in extravagant lingerie while sniffing an angel's remnants on his shirt.

Soon, this is not enough.

He fights his imagination, but the tidal wave of images—begging pleading yessir I've been so good won't you please let me touch my cock—floods him and he is swept away, cocooned in his Cas-soaked shirt and stoking himself through the panties.

He constantly fantasises about it, about Cas seeing him prostrate and in panties, maybe the grey pair with ruffled hems and big pink roses that makes my ass look so utterly fuckable, wondering what pair he'd like best. He's sure it's a tie between the tailfeathers pair and the pair he'd given the eldest living Winchester, but he's aching to pray the question to Cas; Cas, please watch as I try on these different pairs of panties and tell me what you think?

By now, after more than eight years to work on understanding this aspect of himself, Dean knew that the slip and slide of soft, delicate fabric over his thighs and the bite of elastic as it clung to his body and the way they looked calmed him when he was stressed, anchored him when he was lost, and, to be honest, turned him on more than he could possibly have believed before he'd done it.

Castiel did all these things and more. Cas protected him and rescued him, and he shouldn't find that hot, he shouldn't, he's A Man and Men Take Care Of Their Own. Angels need not apply.

Dean did. The idea of Cas taking him and caring for him, accepting every part of him, is all the things he never had. He was his role: Daddy's soldier, Sammy's big brother, trainee hunter, Michael sword. He wasn't a person, but something to serve a purpose; he wasn't someone to nurture, but someone who had to nurture.

It would be a nice change to be the one cared for.

The love of an angel is like the love of a child. Temporaneal and justified and all-encompassing, it is precious.

Sam was gone, some old college friend with a garden-variety poltergeist. Dean, alone in a Hygene, Colorado motel room, does what he always does.

They're yellow lace, the colour of butter. He's never been a fan of thongs, as principal, but it was too pretty to resist. The lace clings, properly clings, like some sort of mutually beneficial leech, outlining and emphasising every curve and dip and swell of his cock; the thin strip up the back isn't the most comfortable thing, but it looks fantastic against his tanned skin.

Dean traces his fingertips over the rough swirls of lace, eyes shut and swaying gently, lip caught between his teeth as he does. The feel of it is enough to make the lace tight, and he locks his knees to stop himself from toppling to the ground. One hand slips down the front of the thong, cupping his cock, stroking it through the lace; the other shoots out and presses against the wall, supporting him, barely.

His mind flickers back to Cas' last visit; his eyes burning past his skin and bone and muscle, looking into him deeper than anyone else could, and the smell of him as he crackled into the room inches behind Dean, close enough to touch.

The room smells like him, stronger and stronger the more Dean focuses on it, and the air is thick, and his knees go weak. He slumps over, moaning, and hits something solid and warm.

"Dean."

Every inch of his body is afire, flushed red and angry and proprietary—this is his, his sanctuary, his safe space, and how dare Cas intrude?—but his mind supplies him with the image, those panties, black lace blue satin yes please and thank you, and he stands and looks at Cas. "What are you doing here?"

"You didn't realise, then. You were calling to me. I couldn't tell what was going on, but I saw your residence. I came as fast as I could." Cas' eyes flick down unflinchingly over Dean's body, then back up to his face. "But you're not in trouble; you don't need my assistance?"

Dean does not fuck around. He does not play games; he hates riddles; he says what he means and that's that. And if in that pursuit of honest-to-God straightforwardness he manages to ssound like an asshole or a bad porno, then he can deal.

"You gave me something when you yoinked me out of Hell. You knew something about me that I've never told a soul. How?" And Dean is fully aware of the fact that he's interrogating an angel of the Lord in a lace thong, but that takes the backseat, because if Cas answers right, if he says what Dean's been hoping-wishing-praying he'd say for months—well, then.

"I was tasked with your rescue; I pinpointed your soul and clung to its glow. It's brighter than a million others', Dean, and I followed it. There was so much interference, so many lost souls screaming for attention, for assistance, and I had to hold onto your soul with all my power; I saw parts of you. Your memories, your hopes, your wishes, your fears." Cas' eyes are locked on Dean, and he feels a presence in his chest, like a hand is stroking the surface of his heart, and he melts into it. "I thought you would need something to calm you."

Dean trembles faintly, and grinds out, "So you looked into my heart and soul and decided to give me panties?"

"They soothed you; they set your heart to rights when you're under stress. You seemed to need that."

Dean feels the pressure on his heart, the caress, and he locks his knees again.

"And you didn't think anything was weird about that? I mean, I don't know about you, but I'm pretty sure you're supposed to wait until your anniversary to give someone lingerie." The joke covers the pause, the croak, on the last word, and he tries valiantly to meet Cas' eye.

"I didn't think anything was wrong with what I had done; I fulfilled my purpose and if the frequency with which you wear them is at all telling, I've given you something you enjoy." The blatant honesty in Cas' voice burns through Dean, and it hurts to look him in the eyes.

"They fit perfectly," Dean admits, fingers hooked into the waist of his thong.

"That was intentional."

Dean feels a whisper-soft slide up his thighs and his throat runs dry. He doesn't have to look down, because he knows what Cas has done.

"Thank you," he whispers, and he ducks his head, eyes soft.

Cas' lips are soft under Dean's, and his knees crumble. Dean fists his hands in Cas' trousers and bows his head, pressing it against his thighs with reverence. The ease of it, of bowing before Cas, of submitting to him, is too natural to ignore; and if time froze just then, Dean would be completely happy.

Cas tangles one hand in Dean's hair, the other resting on his burning handprint. Something spikes through Dean and he lets loose a strangled sort of moan, knees spreading wide and mouth hanging open.

He cannot speak. He needs too much to even consider speech.

And so he prays.

Castiel moans, and the tide of his blood rushing through his borrowed body is maddening and curious. He strokes Dean's temples and tilts his head up, staring directly into his eyes. "You don't have to pray to me. I'm right here."

Dean musters all the coherence he can and says, simply, "Please."

Cas lifts Dean onto the nearest bed and shucks his trench coat and jacket, kneeling over him with a wild, primal hunger in his eyes. "You are more precious than you know, Dean Winchester, and I wish to instill that belief in you."

Dean manages a scoff, loosening Cas' tie and fumbling his buttons open, pushing his shirt off of his body and grinning like the cat that got the canary. His hands drop to Cas' buckle and he twists, toppling them over and straddling Cas' thighs, ripping his belt out of the loops and casting it aside. Gleeful, a child opening the biggest shiniest present on Christmas, he unzips Cas' trousers and tugs fruitlessly at them. "Up."

Cas, uncomprehending, tries to sit up.

Dean shoves him back down and pushes at his hips. "Up!"

Cas complies, canting his hips up and letting Dean slide them down his legs, thumbing off his socks and shoes as he goes. He yanks Cas' underwear—and even now, he can't help but think white polycotton blend y-front elastic banding at the hems I wouldn't but they're on Cas, so they're beautiful—down and throws them off.

"Cas, Cas, please, whatever you'll give me, I need it now. Just, touch me." Dean moans, scooting up onto Cas' hips, burying his face in his angel's neck and grinding against him, pre-come staining deep blue satin, and he scrapes his teeth along his neck.

Cas growls—growls, like the bear-wolf-bastard child he stole his voice from—and rolls them over, pressing two fingers over Dean's entrance and then, like it's always been there, there's a hole in the panties. "I need something; you're too tight for me to fit."

"Cocky little bastard," Dean says, and Cas locks their eyes, unflinching and terrifying and boiling, burning hot.

"I am giving you what you want, Dean. Accept it." Cas strokes Dean's hair back, a stubborn cowlick clinging to his sweat-drenched forehead, and Dean can't resist the urge to lean up into his palm.

Dean was A Man. He was his father's son, he tried his goddamned hardest to be that, and it killed him. His flatlined little dick of a soul rolled over in its half-dug grave when Cas spoke his name, because the angel said it like a prayer and a plea and that was everything Dean needed—to be precious, to be posessed and owned and loved and worthy of it all.

He buries his face in Cas' neck, arms around his waist, and nodded. "I accept."

Castiel kisses Dean's neck, concentrating briefly and then his fingers are wet and stretching Dean open gently, lovingly. One by one, pausing for little hitches in Dean's breath that could be gasps of pain or pleasure, and Dean is begging before Cas is even halfway done.

"Please, please," and he slides down towards Cas' cock, desperate for it. He's never been this, never been the one begging and pleading, never been the one who wants it so badly. But this is his angel, his, and despite everything, Cas still wants him.

Cas nods, gripping Dean's hips tightly and slowly, slowly, slowly pushing in. Dean's jaw slackens, falling wide open, and he chokes back a croaky pained noise, a heavy sharp ache burning through his entrance. Cas stills, kissing Dean sweetly, licking into his mouth and stroking his hair. "It's alright, it'll pass," he whispers, and Dean melts under him.

"I think I'm good to go, Cas. Do it." He is cool under pressure; he is unflappable; he will stare at a demon down the barrel of a gun without so much as a hard swallow and snark them to death. But here, there is no gun, there is no sarcasm; he is laid bare beneath Cas and his impossibly all-seeing blue eyes and there is nothing to hide behind. His voice shakes, and then Cas is kissing him. He barely notices his angel pushing all the way in.

Dean moans, pushing back on Cas' cock. "Please, Cas, harder!"

Cas gives Dean a Look, and he stills, panting with need but unwilling to move, to disobey silent orders conveyed from blue to green. "I'll move when you're ready, Dean. If I were to move now," and he does, a minute twitch of his hips, and Dean gasps and tightens, pain oozing through him, "it would hurt you. So I'm going to wait until you've adjusted." He kisses Dean hungrily, devouring his mouth, and Dean goes limper than limp and finally, at long last and just before Dean began begging again, Castiel pumps his hips slowly, stroking Dean's cock in time with his thrusts.

Dean's gasps aren't out of pain, but of pleasure, burning white-hot under his skin with every single breath Cas makes. "Cas, Cas, please, more! I want you, I want you now—" and Cas locks their lips together once again, silencing Dean's babbling for the sake of the tenants in the next motel room over, and ran his warm, smooth hands over Dean's stretching, twisting body.

Dean sucks on Cas' tongue, moaning around the muscle, and jerked his hips up to meet Cas' thrusts and rut against his stomach. One hand flies up and presses down in its red scar doppelganger, and Dean goes molten and compliant, tossed about by actual waves of pleasure roaring through his body from his ass and his cock.

Cas can feel it; a palpable ripple in Dean, the very essence of him rather than his body, and he let himself sink into it. He is, was, and will always be a creature of pure celestial power, and being chained to the physical, being awash in it, is terrifying and exhilarating. He wants to bury himself in Dean so deeply that a small part of him stays; he wants a shard of his grace to remain lodged in Dean like schrapnel after he comes. The feel of rough lace and smooth satin rubbing against his skin, warmed by Dean's body, is one he wants to carry with him always; he has no desire to wear them himself, but to feel Dean wearing them.

He kneads the mark his blazing hand left, feeling something bright and new flash across Dean's already bright and unique self, and looks into Dean to see if he can actually handle more.

Not only can he, but he's absolutely gasping for it.

Dean might see it coming if not for the fact that he himself is so close to doing just that that he can't make his eyes focus. Cas' hand tightens imperceptibly and in increments, his hips are still longer between thrusts, and there is the most infinitesimal shift in the angle of his back and legs.

And then it is a hurricane lashing the side of a house with rain and debris, and the speed at which Cas moves is magnificent. Dean goes utterly limp and kisses Cas hungrily, chewing his lip and licking him where he bleeds, and the flecks of gold in his eyes brighten and unfurl into blooming suns when he arcs off the mattress and against Cas. His head falls back, neck lolling, and his jaw drops; he breathes in, shaking, and out, Castiel.

There is one moment where he is nothing but a tremor in Cas' arms, a tremor and satin panties, and every muscle clenches and relaxes so many times in that moment that he aches blissfully when he finally falls, limp, to the mattress.

Cas feels him fluttering around his cock, and he knows he won't last, so he decides to make it last. It takes exactly three thrusts; one count of a waltz; the first numbers a child learns in pre-school. And with every one, his voice is darker and deeper and rougher as he grunts, "Dean, Dean,Dean."

He feels Dean beneath him, the pounding of his heart and the sweat of his skin and the puff of his breath, and he feels the soaked and possibly ruined front of both of their favourite pair. The barely-there stubble of his cheek and the softness off his lips and lashes. All of this, foreign but not unknowable, something he cannot bear to part with. He understands the drive, the wars fought and the innocents killed and the songs and poems and plays and books all devoted to it, and now from the inside. He understands the impossible need for this; the touches and kisses and bonding spark that welds two together instantly; suddenly irreplaceable and impossibly precious.

Or maybe it's just Dean.

It takes Dean ages to recover from the white-out orgasm Cas gave, but when he does, he buries his face in Cas' chest, the smooth hairless skin against his cheek like coming home.

"I'm curious about which pair is your favourite," he asks, kissing the satin-soft skin of his chest and smiling against it. If there was a pair as soft as Cas' skin, Dean thinks, I couldn't take it off.

"These," Cas says, simple and utterly obvious, stroking Dean's satin hip happily. "I made them, specifically for you. They're supposed to be special."

And he leans into Dean's ear and whispers, stubble scratching against his cheek and neck, "I'd like the tailfeathers more if they were mine."