Rain patters onto the ground steadily, fat drops and frigid droplets, like kamikaze sparrows striking the earth. The scent of ozone and petrichor leeches into the air, giving it a pleasant tingle of aroma and the hint of autumn to come.
Perhaps it's a little ostentatious to call this his, but Lucifer can't help feeling a surge of pride as he studies the heavy clouds, feels the crackle of electricity in their cores, the tug and pull of wind in his every atom. He loves thunderstorms, and that's why he's dragged Sam out here with him, to watch the clouds from and reform, listen to the rain drumming gently on the ground. Sam doesn't care that he's soaked through and through; being there is good enough for him. He feels like he's in a movie.
The world goes black for an instant before becoming so bright he has to shield his eyes. When he can handle the glare enough to take his hand away from his face, Sam sees Lucifer's right set of wings folded around his body like a shield. He can't help smiling.
"Thanks," he mutters and lets the blond nestle his head into the hollow between his neck and his shoulder. Once Lucifer is suitably comfortable, Sam can't help laughing out loud: the angel looks like a bird tucking himself under his wings (and his mate, too, Sam thinks, grinning).
"What's so amusing?" Lucifer asks and glances up through silvery lashes.
"You look like a little bird," Sam explains, running a hand through soft feathers, feathers every colour of a sunrise, feathers that look like the sky at morning and the last moment of night. Wings that look like dawn. Lucifer rumbles in his chest at the touch, the sound careening off into a sigh as Sam fists his fingers together and thumbs over the slightly protruding arch of bone he's closest to. When Sam uses his free hand to trace the bony claw at the top of Lucifer's left upper wing, the batlike anomaly, Lucifer all but moans out loud and lets his weight settle into Sam's side, demanding more.
Raindrops setlle on his wings like pearls, and Sam doesn't know if it's the position of the sun or simply Lucifer, but the water refracts light in a way that makes Lucifer's wings look like they've been dipped in liquid silver.
Slowly, tentatively, Sam lets his right thumb dig beneath two feathers, through soft down to the leathery skin beneath. Lucifer hisses and bucks like a cat whose tail one has stepped on.
Unable to help himself at this point, Sam drags his fingertips through red and gold, across orange, pale pink and dusky blue and purple, through white and silver and the faintest shimmer of black underneath. Every shift in the position of Lucifer's feathers looks like a shift of clouds over the sun, and when Sam finds a patch of green and aqua and pets those feathers, it's like watching a tiny version of the Northern Lights.
He wonders if Lucifer was Created with these wings, or if someone (probably Michael) took his name literally and painted his wings the colour of dawn. Either way, they're beautiful, and surprisingly soft for the wear and tear they've undergone, millenia of fire and smoke and grit and gravity.
Sam removes his hands from within the thicket of feathers, watches Lucifer's face fall at the abscence of touch and comfort. Silvery blue eyes bore into his, demanding he continue, and it's pointless arguing against a being so ancient he could set Sam ablaze in an instant. He threads his fingers back into the multitude of colours, petting feathers and caressing skin and bone.
By degrees, it stops raining, and Lucifer nudges Sam away to stand. He spreads himself out in wet grass, limbs spread-eagled, wings fanned out behind his body. His message is painfully obvious: Touch my wings everywhere. Sam's fairly that's angel jargon for fuck me until I can't stand, and the prospect is an awkward one. He's not used to Lucifer assuming control like this, much less so blatantly, and he doesn't know what to do.
By way of answer, Lucifer sits up, hooks an arm around his ankle and pulls him down into grass. Sam gasps as freezing water soaks his shirt and knees, and further when Lucifer claws a hand into the nape of his neck and kisses him ferociously.
"Cold?" he murmurs, eyes dark and molten, nearly sky-blue at this point. Sam nods breathlessly, and Lucifer's lips curve up into a sardonic grin.
"This is nothing, Sam. You obviously haven't ever experienced cold."
His meaning hits Sam like a brick to the head, and Sam mirrors his smile weakly.
"Go ahead," he offers.
Lucifer goes ahead and way beyond.
