#mybelovedcas

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.

He glanced around the room. Not like there was any coffee – even that healthy sludge they’d looted had run out days ago. Supplies were getting harder to come by. Dean thought back to the gross lukewarm coffees he’d fuelled himself with at motels over the years. He’d kill for just a drop right about now. Seriously – put the right guy in front of him right now and he’d do it. His stomach growled at the thought of breakfast.

Supply run. Right.

“Face up. Make your stand. Realize you’re living in the golden years.”

Dean snorted. What was that saying? About wishing you knew you were in the good old days when they were still happening? The golden years were dead and gone. It was nothin’ but croats and the misery of a vast unending universe that was quickly depleting in supply of coffee and alcohol and all the good crap that made life bearable.

“So understand. Don’t waste your time always searching for those wasted years.”

Dean turned fully to face the graceless angel rotting away on their bed. Cas’ hair had gotten longer; the dark mess haloing his grouchy head. Dean knew the stubborn bastard was as wide awake as he was.

He peeled off his shirt, chucking it haphazardly on the floor in the general direction of the laundry pile – which honestly took up most of the room at this point. At least that incense crap Cas insisted on burning drowned out the smell of old blood and bad weed.

Dean made his way back to the bed, arms folded as he frowned down at his boyfriend.

Cas mumbled something shaped like “don’t even think about it”, tensing his ass preemptively for another smack. Instead, Dean plopped down on top of him, getting a face full of dirty angel hair and pushing a soft “oof” out of Cas’ lungs. His jeans dug into his hipbones as he squirmed against Cas’ ass.

He was being a shit, but it got the job done. Finally, Cas turned his head to the side, cracking open one eye to squint at the man laying on top of him. Despite the annoyance in his eyes, Cas reached for Dean’s wrists, pulling his boyfriend’s arms tighter around himself in place of a blanket.

Dean hummed contentedly, nuzzling his cheek against Cas’ shoulder blade.

“How long do we have?”

“Hm?” Dean mumbled against the warmth of Cas’ skin. Even despite the crap he’d been smoking, the lack of showers – especially after all that “yoga” they’d been practicing – Cas still smelled like Cas. Like a thunderstorm. Like home.

“Until we head out?” Cas twined his fingers around Dean’s own, turning their hands so he could read Dean’s watch. Going by the deep suffering sigh, Dean had to guess it was soon. Which felt like a damn shame despite his earlier resolve to get the hell out of bed and get this stupid trip over with so he could come home, wash the grime off his skin, fill his belly full of stale pie and warm beer and kiss his best friend until he forgot all about the end of the world. Cas was so warm.

Cas rolled to his side, almost throwing Dean off the bed entirely. The dude may have lost his angel powers, but that unholy strength still lingered. Still stirred something in Dean’s belly with every reminder of how Cas can and has thrown him around like a ragdoll. Cas twisted and grabbed hold of Dean just in time, pulling him close and humming contentedly as his hand fell on Dean’s shoulder. Cas’ fingers slotted perfectly over the handprint he’d once left on Dean when he’d gripped him tight and raised him from perdition.

There was that look again. The same look he’d gotten after accidentally leaving a hickey on Dean’s throat after swearing he was being careful. Like he was both proud and ashamed of it. Mesmerised and awed at how Dean’s body was a trophy collection just for him. Like it could ever be enough to mark him with evidence of how loved he was. To show how wholly Dean belonged to this dork.

But behind it all, there was a sadness that seemed almost ancient.

Shit had been hard, and Dean had taken it a damn sight harder at the start of all this. He’d been angry – stubborn and selfish and ready to kill anything and everything in his path as if it could ever make a dent in undoing his failures. It took a long time to break out of his head and accept that this was it. This was the end, baby. And it wasn’t just Dean that was suffering. It hadn’t been easy on Cas either. Too much of that was on Dean. He’d watched Cas burn himself out until there was next to nothing left. Not even a smile to light those once glowing eyes some days. Dean had lost his brother, but somewhere along the way, Cas had lost himself. Both were unfathomable in ways Dean couldn’t stand to think about.

It'd taken even longer for them to get their crap together and do something about this thing between them. By the time they’d snapped, neither could recall who’d initiated the first brush of lips on whiskey-stained lips. It felt inevitable. Maybe it was. Maybe the world would have been all rainbows and rock ‘n’ roll if it’d happened sooner.

Didn’t matter anyway.

“Face up! Make your stand! Realize you’re living in the golden years, hey.”

The mattress buzzed with the radio’s vibration, but before Dean could scowl at the lyrics, Cas’ lips pressed against his own. He was always gentle at first, like he was giving Dean a chance to back out. And always, Dean’s heart kicked up a storm against his ribs. It didn’t matter if it was the first, the fifth, or the thousandth time – nothing felt like this. In Cas’ arms, in their own bed, nothing outside these walls mattered for that moment.

Dean deepened the kiss, looping one arm around Cas’ back to pull the angel closer, and pressing his other hand to Cas’ cheek. He’d kissed guys before, sure, but something about feeling the prickly beard growing in on Cas’ face made him feel like a damn teenager again. He was still coming to terms with the messed-up situation he and Cas had found themselves in. But any doubt he had slipped away into the recesses of his mind when they were close like this.

They were both breathless as they crawled out of bed, kiss-swollen lips desperately gulping down a shared bottle of water. Cas donned one of Dean’s old Black Sabbath shirts, despite the stink of his sweat still clinging to the fabric. Dean wondered if Cas did it on purpose. He’d noticed Cas always wore Dean’s clothes when the day ahead held a little more risk than usual. When the chances of getting separated weren’t exactly slim to none. Sure, it was only a supply run. But they’d lost good people before for easier crap. A lot of good people.

It was hard to believe it was only a year or so ago that Cas would appear to him sometimes in the ungodly hours of the night, when Dean couldn’t sleep. Didn’t matter where he was, or what fresh hell the world was spinning out just for him, if Dean stepped out into the night for a smoke on the hood of his car, Cas would be there. Like clockwork.

“Those things will kill you,” he’d say, in that toneless matter-of-fact voice that used to make Dean want to grab him by his stupid coat and shake him. Didn’t matter if he was on his final drag or if his shaking hands were still struggling to light the cigarette, one snap of Cas’ fingers and the thing would go poof. Gone. The whole pack suddenly empty in his pocket, too.

Now, Cas leaned against the outside of their cabin, eyes closed as he inhaled a drag of whatever was going to get him through the day. Dean tried not to stare – not at the small “o” of Cas’ lips, or the bob of his Adam’s apple. Not at the way his hair curled inward a little at his earlobes, or the way his shirt hugged tight against Cas’ broad shoulders. Not at the lithe hand close to his lips that held a weak imitation of the grace long burnt to cinders, or that small frown between Cas’ brows that always appeared when the hit just wasn’t enough.

It was tacky to say Cas was his whole world when, let’s face it, the world wasn’t exactly up to scratch in comparison. But Dean adored him. He loved Cas more than he could stand it. Hung on every word, every graceless movement, every sly smile and every puff of smoke that blew from Cas’ mouth.

The guys would pull up any second now to pick them up, but Dean couldn’t help it. His heart was hammering as he stepped into Cas’ space, gently lifting the blunt from between his fingers. Cas slowly opened his eyes, curious and patient.

He didn’t protest when Dean stubbed out the blunt against the wood of their cabin.

“Those things’ll kill you,” Dean said, willing a smile on his face that didn’t meet his eyes.