#offbeattraxx

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.

“What?”  

Oh God, he’s really going to make Dean repeat that, isn’t he? Maybe it’s not too late for him to get out of this. Maybe Dean can pretend he was saying “hog” instead of “hug”. But then again, how is that any less weird?  

“It doesn’t matter, forget it.”  

But Cas is already walking towards him, concern etched into his handsome features. Not that Dean has noticed how devastatingly handsome Cas is. He definitely hasn't. Really.

“Dean, what's wrong?”  

“Nothing.”  

He feels Cas’ arm land on his shoulder, the fingers gently gripping the fabric of his shirt. “Dean, please tell me you haven't made a stupid deal with a powerful force that wants us dead.”  

“What,” he replies, his eyes shooting up to meet Cas’. And are they even more blue then they were yesterday? “Cas, what are you talking about?”  

Cas shakes his head slowly, a sadness creeping into his eyes as Dean watches him. “We don’t- I mean... you and I don’t hug unless something really bad is about to happen. Or unless something bad has already happened. Hugs are reserved for disaster or the aftermath, and that's it.”  

Dean scoffs, sadness pricking its way along his own heart as he stares back at the angel. “That’s the problem, Cas. We only ever hug because we’re in danger, or we’ve come back from the dead, or the world is ending, or we’re about to be killed for the millionth time.” He shrugs beneath Cas’ hand. “I don’t want it to be like that. You’re my best friend, Cas, and I don’t know, I thought it might be nice to hug sometimes, just because we feel like it.”  

This is so stupid. Cas probably thinks he’s the biggest idiot in the world right now. Why did he have to open his big mouth?  

But Cas looks at him, and then he smiles at him, a genuine smile he wishes he could bottle up and wear around his neck for the rest of his life.  

“I’d like that,” Cas replies. “Our fleeting moments of intimacy mean a lot to me.”  

Okay, intimacy, sure. Dean is definitely not  going to think about how that sounds.  

He blinks and clears his throat. “So, how do you want to do this?” And then he mentally kicks himself for making a hug sound like they’re trying to assemble an Ikea bookcase. Although, building a bookcase with Cas doesn’t sound half bad. A bookcase goes in a room. A room goes in a home. A home has people in it. Sometimes even people who live together because they’re in lo-  

“How about one arm over, one arm under?”  

Shit. Pay attention, Winchester.  

“Uh, yeah, sure.”  

Cas drops his hand from Dean’s shoulder, something he feels irrationally sad about, and takes a step closer. Dean can feel Cas’ breath on his cheek as he leans in and a small part of his idiot brain thinks about kissing him.  

Then he feels Cas’ arms swing around him, one over his shoulder and the other under. They’re draped loosely over Dean’s back. Chastely.  

Dean lifts his own arms up, trying to copy Cas with some difficulty.  

Once the hug has been fully assembled, he stands stock still trying to figure out what the hell to do next. How long is a platonic, totally-not-in-love-with-your-best-friend hug supposed to last? Should he say something? Should he squeeze Cas a little bit with his body?  

Before he can spiral any further, Cas breaks the hug, stepping back slightly as his arms drop back down to his sides. His face is serious as he asks “How was that for you?”  

If Dean had a drink he would choke on it.

“Oh, uh, yeah. It was good.”  

Cas nods, and Dean can tell he’s making a mental note of that. “I see.”  

“What?”  

“Nothing.”  

“Cas, what?”  

Cas scratches at the back of his neck for a moment before he speaks. “It’s just... I didn’t quite feel satisfied, if I’m being completely honest.”  

Dean glances around for cameras because there’s no way Cas can keep phrasing things like that and not realize how it sounds.  

“So, what? You’re saying it wasn’t a good hug.”  

“It was fine.”  

“Fine?” Dean feels mildly insulted. Actually, scratch that, he feels very insulted. “My hugs aren’t just fine! My hugs are legendary. They write ballads about my hugs! People kill each other to get one of these, and you say it’s fine?”  

“Six out of ten. It’s not a terrible score, Dean.”  

“I’m sorry, hugs have a score system now? Is there a judging panel too? Is Simon Cowel here?”  

Cas raises an eyebrow at him. “I don’t know who that is, and why would there be a judging panel inside a private dwelling?”  

“Why would hugs have a ranking system?”  

Cas shrugs, his hand coming up to rest on Dean’s shoulder once more. “It’s not important, Dean.”  

“Nah, screw that,” Dean mutters, his jaw clenching as he shakes Cas’ hand off and jolts forward. He wraps his arms around Cas, one slipping around his waist and landing on his lower back, the other arm reaching up for his head, Dean’s fingers pushing through Cas’ hair as he pulls the angel’s face towards his shoulder.  

Cas reacts, slowly at first, one arm rising hesitantly before joining the other and lacing around Dean’s back. Dean can feel Cas’ hands, palms flat against his lower back, strong and warm. But oh no, he’s not gonna let Cas win this one, no way.  

Dean pulls Cas even closer, their bodies crushed together as Cas leans into him. And if a certain body part reacts embarrassingly in a certain way, well, maybe he’s not the only one.  

He rubs slow circles into Cas’ back, his fingers carding through the angel’s surprisingly soft hair as he sways a little and holds on tight. He can feel Cas’ cheek pressed again his shoulder, his breath warm against his neck, and hey this is what friends do isn’t it? They hug. Just guys being dudes. But then Cas sighs, content and achingly earnest and fuck it, Dean finds himself planting a completely unplanned kiss on the top of his head.  

Cas pulls back slightly, tilting his head to look up at Dean, and as those blue eyes stare back at him, Dean realizes he’s never seen him look quite so relaxed. “What was that for?” He asks, his voice filled with warmth and something else Dean is too afraid to identify.

“I don’t know. I just wanted to.”  

“You just wanted to kiss me?”  

Dean feels his heart skip a beat. “Yeah.”  

Cas considers this for a moment. “Do you want to do it again?”  

He feels his heart stutter and race, and there’s no way in hell Cas can’t feel that with their bodies pressed together like this.  

This is insane.  

“Uh, yeah. I do.”  

Completely insane.  

“Then do it,” Cas replies, his eyes locked on Dean’s, and it’s a dare and a wish and a need all rolled up in one.  

So, Dean does.  

He leans forward and he kisses that angel stupid. Slow and chaste at first, their lips unaccustomed to each other. And then more eager, teeth and tongues connecting as they kiss and lick and nip at each other's mouths, hunger and desire drowning out every out thought.  

And it’s good. It's so goddamn good Dean can’t believe he didn’t do this years ago.  

When they finally break apart, Dean is convinced they must have set some kind of world record. His breathing is ragged and his lips are tender and swollen, but he feels more alive than he ever has in his entire life.  

He looks at Cas, utterly disheveled, his tie crooked, his shirt rucked up, and his hair sticking up at wild angles, and he knows that he will never love anyone as much as he loves him in this moment.  

“How was that?” he grins, breaking out his cockiest smile.  

Cas nods, his eyes blinking rapidly as he tries to fix his hair. “Um, yeah. Much better. Forty-seven out of ten.”  

Dean laughs. “That doesn’t make any sense.”  

Cas shrugs, already leaning in for another kiss. “Let’s try and make it fifty.”

----

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There was a time when Castiel would have been strong enough to refuse the request of a human. But that time is long past, and this isn’t just any human—this is Dean. So he goes, against his better judgment, and sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed.

“Hello, Dean,” he says.

Dean smiles, but it’s the smile he puts on when he’s worried about someone. “Hey, man.”

Castiel looks down at the bedspread. The pattern is floral, and he traces each flower with a fingertip, recalling their scientific names as he looks at them. Centaurea cyanus, Myosotis sylvatica, Gypsophila elegans—

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong with you?” Dean nudges Castiel’s thigh with a socked foot. He’s out from under the blankets now, sitting perpendicular to Castiel, and he bends his head in an attempt to catch Castiel’s eye. “C’mon, what’s up?”

“I’m…” Castiel speaks slowly. It’s been a long time since human language felt foreign to him, but this is difficult to translate. Difficult to say. “Are you… are you scared, Dean?”

“Me?” Dean laughs, the sound tumbling out of him in surprise. “Uh, why?”

“Are you?”

Dean searches Castiel’s face, and Castiel tries his best not to look away again, tries to bear the weight of the Righteous Man’s gaze. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m scared. All the fucking time.” Dean’s eyes glitter in the white light of the parking lot outside. “Are you scared?”

“I—” His voice falters; that’s never happened to him before. Castiel takes a long breath. Feels Dean’s soul, glowing warmly within him. “I can’t—I’ve never felt this way. Afraid, like this.”

“About the apocalypse?”

“About everything. All of it,” Cas says, voice beginning to shake. “I’m afraid for your safety, and Sam’s, and I’m afraid about losing my powers and leaving you without my help, and I’m afraid of what will happen if we fail, and I’m—”

“Woah, Cas, hey,” Dean cuts in. He reaches out and takes hold of Cas’s wrist where he’s still tracing the bedspread, Centaurea cyanus, Myosotis sylvatica, Gypsophila elegans. “It’s okay.”

“But it’s not.” Cas thinks there is another name for this feeling: despair. Hopeless, terrible despair. “I can’t save us. I can’t keep you safe. And I’m terrified.”

Dean looks at him for a long moment, his thumb feathering back and forth across the softest pulse point on Castiel’s wrist. And then, carefully, slowly, he gets down on his knees in front of him. 

Castiel watches with hungry, disbelieving eyes. Dean slips off Castiel’s shoes, peels off black socks to reveal pale skin Castiel has never seen before. Then, he reaches up, hands hovering over the crotch of the pants Jimmy picked out one morning a million years ago. There’s a question in Dean’s eyes; Castiel nods, and Dean unbuttons and unzips and then slides the pants down Castiel’s legs. He squeezes Castiel’s knees with warm hands.

“Stand up.”

So Castiel stands. He’s the weakest he’s ever been, and despite that, he knows he could overpower Dean without much effort. But he allows Dean this, allows him to remove the coat and the tie, allows him to unbutton the shirt and reveal the white tank top beneath. He allows Dean’s hands to skim up his sides, raising goosebumps that feel like the thrum of grace through a vessel.

“Let’s lay down,” Dean’s voice is so soft, so quiet. Castiel wants to curl up in it.

Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever laid in a bed before. The mattress creaks as they settle side by side, and it appears to dip in the middle, forcing them closer. The sheets scratch against his skin. The floral bedspread is thinner than he expected. And Dean’s face and Dean’s soul and Dean’s skin is here in front of him.

“I know you don’t sleep,” Dean says, leaving it unsaid that Castiel might soon require it if he continues to lose his powers, “but sometimes it’s nice to lay with somebody you, uh. You care about. Sometimes it makes you feel better about things when they’re shitty.” Dean grins wryly. “And they’re pretty shitty right now.”

“They are,” Castiel agrees. “Thank you. For sharing this with me.”

Dean turns pink, right at the top of his cheeks. Castiel watches with fascination. “You’re welcome,” he says awkwardly.

And something about that, the color, the closeness, makes Castiel terribly honest. “I love you.”

Dean doesn’t seem surprised, not really, but his soul is flaring a bright, brilliant gold, something like fear and adoration and hope. “Cas, you don’t—”

“I know what I’m saying.”

“I…” Dean lets out a breath like he’s been punched, and Castiel doesn’t miss the sudden shimmering tears in his eyes. “Cas, this is really bad timing, man. It’s—the world is ending.”

Castiel reaches out and touches the warm pinkness of Dean’s face; his thumb traces the path of a tear, and Dean leans into it. “I know.”

“I—fuck.” Dean chokes out. “Cas, what are we gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel whispers. The edge of terror is close, still, but Dean is with him. They’re together. “I don’t know.”

There’s nothing more to say. Dean eventually reaches out and pulls Castiel flush with his body, tucks Castiel under his chin, runs calloused, gentle hands up and down Castiel’s back. Presses a kiss to the top of Castiel’s head. 

And against the skin of Dean’s neck, the smell of motel soap and deodorant and human sweat, Castiel prays. His Father isn’t listening anymore, but maybe someone will hear it. Maybe someone will hear it, and answer. Castiel prays for safety, for victory, for love. He prays until the dawn light creeps up in the sky, turning the room into grey shadow. Then, he watches Dean breathe. That’s something to be grateful for: Dean, beside him, breathing and warm.