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“You sure?” Dean asked, earlier, staring at Castiel, pink-lipped, awed, with the echo of Castiel’s depraved request still in the air between them. “That, uh… you really want… that?”
Castiel nodded, and spread his wings—just for the pleasure of watching Dean’s eyes follow them, the flutter of their softness; no razored battle edges, not here.
(He doesn’t think it’s wrong to preen for his mate.)
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