Dean knew the rhythm of Casâ footsteps from the kitchen all the way to their bedroom. Knew it better than the pulse of his own heart; as familiar to him as the scent of the warm coffee that carried with his husband every morning like clockwork. He found himself smiling against his pillow, feeling the early sunshine through the lake house window heat the frosty February air.
So the routine goes; any minute now Cas would pause to bump the door open with his pajama-clad butt, scooting backward into their bedroom, two coffees in hand. Dean would fake the grouchy attitude as if the gentle interruption had pulled him from sleep. As if, minutes earlier, Cas hadnât waited until his spidey senses told him Deanâs REM sleep was done and he was ready for his daily stubbled kiss at the back of his neck. For the arm that tightened around his waist, sinking suggestively lower until Dean cracked open an eyelid. Falling for the same old trick every day, before Cas would rise his heavenly ass out of bed to start on coffee. Leaving Dean tethered between the land of sleep and this world of dreams.
Same old, same old.
And wasnât that a hell of a thing.
Dean scooched over to Casâ 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 husbandâs 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 Deanâs 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.
Deanâs husband paused, breakfast tray in hand and a look of genuine surprise on his face that quickly morphed into a feigned innocence.
âSweetheart,â Dean managed to say with a tongue that now weighed an ACME ton. âAre you wearing leather pants?â 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.Â
But Cas ignored the question, setting the breakfast tray safely on the bedside table. When he turned to find Deanâs gaze still locked on his broad thighs, mouth hanging open like it didnât know where to start, he placed his hands on his hips.
âThe third wedding anniversary gift is leather, is it not?â
Dean glanced up from his stupor, feeling his heart swell like a damn balloon at his husbandâs 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. Didnât mean to, but he did.
Heâd tell Cas about the new leather couch heâd secretly set up in the Cas Cave later. Right nowâŠ
âThe salesperson insisted this was the perfect gift,â Cas frowned down at himself. âPerhaps this was a mistake.â
âWhuaa-â Dean started, tangling in the sheets as he struggled to sit upright. âNo, no, theyâre â hell of a â gotta tip the guy⊠god, Cas.â Only the need to defend these pants with his life gave Dean the strength to tear his gaze from them a second time.
Heâd expected to find that frown he loved so much â the one that crinkled Casâ 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 Deanâs life.
Son of a bitch. He played him.
âHappy anniversary, Dean,â 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 Casâ hair. Three years of this. Already three. Only three.
And he could never have enough.
âHappy anniversary, Cas.â The words were a whisper against his husbandâs lips.
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he. he thought they were going to die together. he said sheâs gonna kill you and then sheâs gonna kill me. he thought they were going to die together
For day 4 of @sobernatural' celebration and the free space prompt, have some softness with a little silliness thrown in too. Read below or on ao3 (1.4k)
âHey, Cas, can I ask you something?â Â
Dean watches as Cas pauses by the door of the bunker, his arms by his sides, the set of his back painfully familiar as he walks away. Â
He turns back to Dean now, one eyebrow raised. âOf course. What do you need?â Â
And all of a sudden Dean feels like an idiot. This is a stupid idea. Itâs embarrassing. Itâs childish. Itâs completely ridiculous.
âDean?â Cas prompts gently. Â
But he has to make himself say it anyway. He needs this. Â
âA hug,â Dean mumbles, unable to keep his eyes from sliding to the floor as his face heats up. "I need a hug."
âWhat?â Â
Oh God, heâs really going to make Dean repeat that, isnât he? Maybe itâs not too late for him to get out of this. Maybe Dean can pretend he was saying âhogâ instead of âhugâ. But then again, how is that any less weird? Â
âIt doesnât matter, forget it.â Â
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.
âDean, what's wrong?â Â
âNothing.â Â
He feels Casâ arm land on his shoulder, the fingers gently gripping the fabric of his shirt. âDean, please tell me you haven't made a stupid deal with a powerful force that wants us dead.â Â
âWhat,â he replies, his eyes shooting up to meet Casâ. And are they even more blue then they were yesterday? âCas, what are you talking about?â Â
Cas shakes his head slowly, a sadness creeping into his eyes as Dean watches him. âWe donât- I mean... you and I donât 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.â Â
Dean scoffs, sadness pricking its way along his own heart as he stares back at the angel. âThatâs the problem, Cas. We only ever hug because weâre in danger, or weâve come back from the dead, or the world is ending, or weâre about to be killed for the millionth time.â He shrugs beneath Casâ hand. âI donât want it to be like that. Youâre my best friend, Cas, and I donât know, I thought it might be nice to hug sometimes, just because we feel like it.â Â
This is so stupid. Cas probably thinks heâs the biggest idiot in the world right now. Why did he have to open his big mouth? Â
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. Â
âIâd like that,â Cas replies. âOur fleeting moments of intimacy mean a lot to me.â Â
Okay, intimacy, sure. Dean is definitely not  going to think about how that sounds. Â
He blinks and clears his throat. âSo, how do you want to do this?â And then he mentally kicks himself for making a hug sound like theyâre trying to assemble an Ikea bookcase. Although, building a bookcase with Cas doesnât 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 theyâre in lo- Â
âHow about one arm over, one arm under?â Â
Shit. Pay attention, Winchester. Â
âUh, yeah, sure.â Â
Cas drops his hand from Deanâs shoulder, something he feels irrationally sad about, and takes a step closer. Dean can feel Casâ breath on his cheek as he leans in and a small part of his idiot brain thinks about kissing him. Â
Then he feels Casâ arms swing around him, one over his shoulder and the other under. Theyâre draped loosely over Deanâs back. Chastely. Â
Dean lifts his own arms up, trying to copy Cas with some difficulty. Â
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? Â
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 âHow was that for you?â Â
If Dean had a drink he would choke on it.
âOh, uh, yeah. It was good.â Â
Cas nods, and Dean can tell heâs making a mental note of that. âI see.â Â
âWhat?â Â
âNothing.â Â
âCas, what?â Â
Cas scratches at the back of his neck for a moment before he speaks. âItâs just... I didnât quite feel satisfied, if Iâm being completely honest.â Â
Dean glances around for cameras because thereâs no way Cas can keep phrasing things like that and not realize how it sounds. Â
âSo, what? Youâre saying it wasnât a good hug.â Â
âIt was fine.â Â
âFine?â Dean feels mildly insulted. Actually, scratch that, he feels very insulted. âMy hugs arenât just fine! My hugs are legendary. They write ballads about my hugs! People kill each other to get one of these, and you say itâs fine?â Â
âSix out of ten. Itâs not a terrible score, Dean.â Â
âIâm sorry, hugs have a score system now? Is there a judging panel too? Is Simon Cowel here?â Â
Cas raises an eyebrow at him. âI donât know who that is, and why would there be a judging panel inside a private dwelling?â Â
âWhy would hugs have a ranking system?â Â
Cas shrugs, his hand coming up to rest on Deanâs shoulder once more. âItâs not important, Dean.â Â
âNah, screw that,â Dean mutters, his jaw clenching as he shakes Casâ 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, Deanâs fingers pushing through Casâ hair as he pulls the angelâs face towards his shoulder. Â
Cas reacts, slowly at first, one arm rising hesitantly before joining the other and lacing around Deanâs back. Dean can feel Casâ hands, palms flat against his lower back, strong and warm. But oh no, heâs not gonna let Cas win this one, no way. Â
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 heâs not the only one. Â
He rubs slow circles into Casâ back, his fingers carding through the angelâs surprisingly soft hair as he sways a little and holds on tight. He can feel Casâ cheek pressed again his shoulder, his breath warm against his neck, and hey this is what friends do isnât 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. Â
Cas pulls back slightly, tilting his head to look up at Dean, and as those blue eyes stare back at him, Dean realizes heâs never seen him look quite so relaxed. âWhat was that for?â He asks, his voice filled with warmth and something else Dean is too afraid to identify.
âI donât know. I just wanted to.â Â
âYou just wanted to kiss me?â Â
Dean feels his heart skip a beat. âYeah.â Â
Cas considers this for a moment. âDo you want to do it again?â Â
He feels his heart stutter and race, and thereâs no way in hell Cas canât feel that with their bodies pressed together like this. Â
This is insane. Â
âUh, yeah. I do.â Â
Completely insane. Â
âThen do it,â Cas replies, his eyes locked on Deanâs, and itâs a dare and a wish and a need all rolled up in one. Â
So, Dean does. Â
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. Â
And itâs good. It's so goddamn good Dean canât believe he didnât do this years ago. Â
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. Â
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. Â
âHow was that?â he grins, breaking out his cockiest smile. Â
Cas nods, his eyes blinking rapidly as he tries to fix his hair. âUm, yeah. Much better. Forty-seven out of ten.â Â
Dean laughs. âThat doesnât make any sense.â Â
Cas shrugs, already leaning in for another kiss. âLetâs try and make it fifty.â
----
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it happens when cas has dean pressed against the mattress; bodies sweat-slick and gasps huffed out into the small space between them as they move as one. deanâs fingers are pressing trails of heat down casâ back, and cas has his lips against the pulse-point in deanâs throat. itâs good. so so good that cas doesnât want this moment to end.
and thatâs when the angel radio bursts to life. cas slams his eyes shut, trying to drown out the sound that is now ricocheting inside his head. several angels are speaking at once, led by a rather annoying voice that was currently telling cas to âget itâ with a snicker of teasing from the other angels.
âshut up,â cas hisses under his breath, words slipping out before cas could realize heâd uttered the words out loud instead of through the frequency of the angel radio.
âdid you just-â dean breaks off with a soft moan. âjust tell me to shut up?â he huffs with a hint of humor, legs wrapping around casâ waist as he pulls the angel closer. âthought you liked it like this.â
âwasnât talking to you,â cas mutters, fingers gripping tightly against deanâs thighs as he leans in closer.
dean lets out a gasp of pleasure, before he seems to register casâ words and he lets out a groan in frustration; slumping back against the pillows. âseriously? angel radio, right now?â dean sighs, covering his eyes with his arm. âway to ruin the mood.â
âthey were rather loudly and obnoxiously telling me to âget itâ,â cas says, using finger quotations as he looks down at dean in exasperation.
âseriously?â dean grumbles, pushing himself off of the bed. âcanât believe I have to deal with this. friggin angels,â dean says, picking up his shirt from the floor.
cas slumps down against the mattress in defeat. oh, he was going to kill gabriel and his little gang of angels. dean was right. friggin angels and their angel radio.
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The apocalypse is drawing nearer and nearer. Everything hangs in the balance. And in Room 312 of the Harmony Hills Motel, an angel appears in Dean Winchester's bedroom. read under the cut or on ao3 here
Castiel is aware of how late it is. Dean has asked him before not to show up like this, not to just appear in the middle of the night with no warning. He wanted to waitâhe tried to wait. But Castiel is weak, and every day, he grows weaker.
At his arrival, the sudden displacement of air, Dean stirs in bed. Heâs the only one in the motel room tonight; Sam is at a womanâs apartment, sharing an encounter Castiel didnât want to spend too long looking at. Dean and Castiel are alone in this place, Room 312 in Harmony Hills Motel, together.
âCas?â Deanâs voice is rasping, low in the darkness. âThat you?â
âYeah,â Castiel says. âItâs me.â
âWhatâs wrong?â Dean sits up all the way, already sounding more alert. Through the dark, Castiel sees him reach for the knife under his pillow.Â
âNothing. Nothingâs wrong.â
Dean groans. âThen what the hell are you doing here? Itâs, like, three in the morning.â
âIâŠâ Castiel looks at Deanâs form in the bed, the blankets pooling around his waist. His soul is soft in a way Castiel has only seen it in very specific moments: moments of calm and safety, of contentment. âI apologize. I shouldnâtâI donât know why I came.â
âWoah, hey.â Deanâs voice reaches out at the same time his soul does. They both curl around Castiel, imploring and gentle. âWhateverâs wrong, itâs fine. Justâcâmere. Tell me whatâs going on.â
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 isnât just any humanâthis is Dean. So he goes, against his better judgment, and sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed.
âHello, Dean,â he says.
Dean smiles, but itâs the smile he puts on when heâs worried about someone. âHey, man.â
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 elegansâ
âYou gonna tell me whatâs wrong with you?â Dean nudges Castielâs thigh with a socked foot. Heâs out from under the blankets now, sitting perpendicular to Castiel, and he bends his head in an attempt to catch Castielâs eye. âCâmon, whatâs up?â
âIâmâŠâ Castiel speaks slowly. Itâs been a long time since human language felt foreign to him, but this is difficult to translate. Difficult to say. âAre you⊠are you scared, Dean?â
âMe?â Dean laughs, the sound tumbling out of him in surprise. âUh, why?â
âAre you?â
Dean searches Castielâs face, and Castiel tries his best not to look away again, tries to bear the weight of the Righteous Manâs gaze. âYeah. Yeah, Iâm scared. All the fucking time.â Deanâs eyes glitter in the white light of the parking lot outside. âAre you scared?â
âIââ His voice falters; thatâs never happened to him before. Castiel takes a long breath. Feels Deanâs soul, glowing warmly within him. âI canâtâIâve never felt this way. Afraid, like this.â
âAbout the apocalypse?â
âAbout everything. All of it,â Cas says, voice beginning to shake. âIâm afraid for your safety, and Samâs, and Iâm afraid about losing my powers and leaving you without my help, and Iâm afraid of what will happen if we fail, and Iâmââ
âWoah, Cas, hey,â Dean cuts in. He reaches out and takes hold of Casâs wrist where heâs still tracing the bedspread, Centaurea cyanus, Myosotis sylvatica, Gypsophila elegans. âItâs okay.â
âBut itâs not.â Cas thinks there is another name for this feeling: despair. Hopeless, terrible despair. âI canât save us. I canât keep you safe. And Iâm terrified.â
Dean looks at him for a long moment, his thumb feathering back and forth across the softest pulse point on Castielâs wrist. And then, carefully, slowly, he gets down on his knees in front of him.Â
Castiel watches with hungry, disbelieving eyes. Dean slips off Castielâs 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. Thereâs a question in Deanâs eyes; Castiel nods, and Dean unbuttons and unzips and then slides the pants down Castielâs legs. He squeezes Castielâs knees with warm hands.
âStand up.â
So Castiel stands. Heâs the weakest heâs 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 Deanâs hands to skim up his sides, raising goosebumps that feel like the thrum of grace through a vessel.
âLetâs lay down,â Deanâs voice is so soft, so quiet. Castiel wants to curl up in it.
Castiel doesnât think heâs 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 Deanâs face and Deanâs soul and Deanâs skin is here in front of him.
âI know you donât sleep,â Dean says, leaving it unsaid that Castiel might soon require it if he continues to lose his powers, âbut sometimes itâs nice to lay with somebody you, uh. You care about. Sometimes it makes you feel better about things when theyâre shitty.â Dean grins wryly. âAnd theyâre pretty shitty right now.â
âThey are,â Castiel agrees. âThank you. For sharing this with me.â
Dean turns pink, right at the top of his cheeks. Castiel watches with fascination. âYouâre welcome,â he says awkwardly.
And something about that, the color, the closeness, makes Castiel terribly honest. âI love you.â
Dean doesnât seem surprised, not really, but his soul is flaring a bright, brilliant gold, something like fear and adoration and hope. âCas, you donâtââ
âI know what Iâm saying.â
âIâŠâ Dean lets out a breath like heâs been punched, and Castiel doesnât miss the sudden shimmering tears in his eyes. âCas, this is really bad timing, man. Itâsâthe world is ending.â
Castiel reaches out and touches the warm pinkness of Deanâs face; his thumb traces the path of a tear, and Dean leans into it. âI know.â
âIâfuck.â Dean chokes out. âCas, what are we gonna do?â
âI donât know,â Castiel whispers. The edge of terror is close, still, but Dean is with him. Theyâre together. âI donât know.â
Thereâs 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 Castielâs back. Presses a kiss to the top of Castielâs head.Â
And against the skin of Deanâs neck, the smell of motel soap and deodorant and human sweat, Castiel prays. His Father isnât 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. Thatâs something to be grateful for: Dean, beside him, breathing and warm.Â
Some prayers are answered. The day is new. And Dean is holding him like something precious. Thatâs enough, Castiel thinks.