#angelscas

Dean scooched over to Cas’ side of the bed. The warmth had faded but it was the scent he chased; like rich earth pounded by the heavy rain of a thunderstorm, the charged promise of lightning still to come. Like honey and ether and so like home, Dean could drown himself in it. Smother himself in his husband’s pillow with a smile on his face and a bulge in his pants.

And so, it began.

The gentle clink of the spoon dropped into the sink. The ceramic scuffling on the kitchen countertop. The first bare footstep on the warm wooden floor.

Three years of this, Dean thought, and he knew he could go a thousand more.

A squeaking sound broke the routine, and Dean perked up his bedhead to listen to the audible eye roll and soft sigh that accompanied it. The footsteps and squeaking drew nearer, and Dean propped himself up on an arm to watch the regularly scheduled show.

The ass that greeted him was familiar, but Dean’s eyes bulged out of his head like Donald Duck at the first sight of Daisy. Cas backed into the room, letting the door swing softly shut behind him.

Dean’s husband paused, breakfast tray in hand and a look of genuine surprise on his face that quickly morphed into a feigned innocence.

“Sweetheart,” Dean managed to say with a tongue that now weighed an ACME ton. “Are you wearing leather pants?” He was dreaming, right? Had to be. If the next words out of Cas' mouth were "tell me about it, stud" in Olivia Newton-John's voice that would surely confirm it. A laugh threatened to burst all the way from his belly, born of shock more than anything, because this was Cas. His Cas. In tight leather pants. Like he was Jon Bon fucking Jovi and Dean was eighteen, alone in his motel room and realising some shit. 

But Cas ignored the question, setting the breakfast tray safely on the bedside table. When he turned to find Dean’s gaze still locked on his broad thighs, mouth hanging open like it didn’t know where to start, he placed his hands on his hips.

“The third wedding anniversary gift is leather, is it not?”

Dean glanced up from his stupor, feeling his heart swell like a damn balloon at his husband’s words.

Leather. Anniversary. Right.

How Cas heard "leather" and thought "pants"... actually, he didn't need to know how or why, because this was happening. Somehow this was real life.

Dean licked his lips. Didn’t mean to, but he did.

He’d tell Cas about the new leather couch he’d secretly set up in the Cas Cave later. Right now…

“The salesperson insisted this was the perfect gift,” Cas frowned down at himself. “Perhaps this was a mistake.”

“Whuaa-“ Dean started, tangling in the sheets as he struggled to sit upright. “No, no, they’re – hell of a – gotta tip the guy… god, Cas.” Only the need to defend these pants with his life gave Dean the strength to tear his gaze from them a second time.

He’d expected to find that frown he loved so much – the one that crinkled Cas’ brow, and tugged his soft lips into a flat line. Instead, his husband grinned at him, eyes blazing with that smugness that was the bane of Dean’s life.

Son of a bitch. He played him.

“Happy anniversary, Dean,” Cas said, stepping forward to crawl on his knees across the mattress, caging Dean in between his thighs.

Dean pulled him closer, sunlight glinting on the band of his wedding ring as he ran a hand through Cas’ hair. Three years of this. Already three. Only three.

And he could never have enough.

“Happy anniversary, Cas.” The words were a whisper against his husband’s lips.