Chapter Text
Last days of the semester were always harsh on professors, especially those who had taken on leadership roles in their departments. Grading papers and essays and projects, muddling through student presentations, and answering last panicked questions about finals tended to spill over from usual office hours for even adjunct professors. For those like Castiel, who had departmental workings to deal with, budgets to plan, red tape to cut through, all on top of a full teaching courseload, it was exhausting. It was even worse that particular semester, with the department’s professor emeritus, who often picked up much of the administrative slack from the harried department chair, on sabbatical until the fall.
Students at least had their summer break to look forward to, or, at the least, an exceptionally light class schedule, if they decided to remain on campus for the summer semester. All that Castiel had to look forward to was finishing all that he could of his day’s work and heading home for a few hours of sleep, before returning to do it all again the following day.
Wednesdays were particularly light for Castiel, teaching only his morning class and an early afternoon graduate seminar on Dickens. Even though his last class ended just before two o’clock, he still didn’t pull out of the parking lot until well after six, and he was actually leaving early for a change. There had been a few disagreements between some adjuncts about sharing office space, and a fairly major plagiarism case to look over involving the son of a board trustee, and on top of all of that, the confrontation with Dean that morning. There was no way he was going to stick around until eight or nine that evening, like he had been doing for the two weeks prior. He was tired and hungry, and Castiel was just done for the day.
Opening the front door to his house, Castiel paused a moment to close his eyes and take a long deep breath. Even on the worst days, the safe and comfortable sounds and scents of his home helped the tension ease out of his mind, giving him the first step towards finally relaxing, if only for a few hours.
He was hit immediately with the scent of garlic, onion, and rich tomato simmering somewhere in the kitchen. Castiel’s stomach gave a half-hearted growl, though he knew well enough to know that it wouldn’t be ready for some time; he was home earlier than planned, and supper would not be ready until at least nine that evening. It left him with some time to kill, and he thought perhaps a brief nap would be in order. Cooking aromas aside, the scent of home was heady and inviting on its own: leather from the armchair, a hint of lemon from the furniture polish, lingering wisps of coffee from that morning, and of course the dry papery scent of books tucked neatly into the shelves that lined the living room. Home.
Castiel rested his briefcase in the armchair and tucked his umbrella into the stand near the door. He heaved a deep yawn and stretched, rolling each shoulder and his neck in turn before slipping out of his tan overcoat. He tossed it over the back of the couch, breaking a small smile at the responding, “C’mon, man, really? There is a closet, you know.”
“Don’t like it, go sleep at home,” Castiel responded with a low chuckle. He slipped off his shoes, kicking them onto a mat by the door, and padded in his mismatched socks towards his bedroom, loosening the knot of his tie as he went.
The bedroom door was open a crack and Castiel reached out with one hand to push it open, surprising Dean as he sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over to unlace the one boot he still wore; the other was sitting abandoned not far from the bed. Dean glanced up in surprise, the startled expression quickly softening to a fond but timid smile.
“Hey Cas,” he called quietly, mindful of his younger brother snoozing on the living room couch just down the hall.
Castiel gave a tired smile. “Hello Dean,” he replied.
Dean kicked his remaining boot off, leaving it to rest beside its companion, and walked slowly towards Castiel, watching with clear uncertainty pooling in his eyes.
“Didn’t expect you back for a few hours,” Dean told him honestly, hooking his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans, stopping just short of where Castiel stood. “Didn’t expect to even see you tonight.”
With a short sigh, Castiel reached forward and slid his arms through Dean’s, drawing the other man in close and resting his head on Dean’s shoulder. He closed his eyes and sighed, inhaling a deep breath, realizing almost instantly that he had been wrong when he stepped in the door. The living room carried with it no scent of home, no… this was it, this here, in Dean’s arms. Leather from the jacket he always wore. The hint of peppermint from the red and white mints he kept in the glovebox and the tea he swore up and down he didn’t drink but Castiel still had to restock every grocery day. Faint scent of motor oil and engine grease, because not a day went by that he didn’t pop the hood of his baby and tinker with her, just making sure everything was still perfect.
This was the scent of home. Dean was home.
“I had to,” Castiel finally spoke softly. “You pushed, and pushed, and I knew it was a game, I knew, but it got bad, it got so bad, and I had to Dean, I couldn’t let it go anymore. People were noticing.”
Dean heaved a sigh of his own and slid his arms around Castiel’s waist. “I know, angel,” he agreed, using the pet name that only seemed to slip into his speech when they were alone. “I took it too far.”
Castiel was never sure what it was exactly that made Dean think everything was his fault, all of the time, but he tried to curb it as often as he could. He had a hell of a temper and did his best to keep it in check, but no one could push his buttons quite like Dean, no one. The game had gone a little too far and when he’d heard the whispers beginning among staff and students, Castiel had known there would need to be some sort of public confrontation, but he hadn’t counted on his ire getting the best of him.
He hadn’t counted on Dean believing it. On thinking that Castiel wouldn’t come home.
They just stood there quietly for a long moment, each drinking in the other’s presence. Dean closed his eyes and tucked his head into the crook of Castiel’s neck, holding tightly as though he was afraid the other man would flutter off and disappear. He gripped tighter when he felt Castiel moving in his arms, and sucked in a deep breath, waiting for the angry words he was certain were coming. Castiel’s hands drifted up to rest on either side of Dean’s face, gently rubbing against his five o’clock shadow and turning the taller man’s gaze to meet his own.
“I think we both took it a little too far,” he told Dean, the ghost of mirth surfacing in his blue eyes; the same began to echo onto Dean’s features.
“You wore my shirt to class, man,” Dean agreed with a nod, the seriousness of the conversation drifting away easily as a smile slid to his face and he remembered a particularly rain-soaked morning. “You know what it does to me, seein’ you in my clothes.”
“You hid my umbrella.”
“Not on purpose.”
“You sure about that?”
“…Maybe.”
They dissolved into laughter then, the tension that had built in the room quickly dissipating into nothing, and their embrace became relaxed, warm and comfortably familiar. Realizing he was still dressed for the classroom, Castiel move to pull off his tie and found Dean’s helpful fingers just as quickly pulling at the buttons on his waistcoat. When Dean’s searching hands made quick work of the waistcoat, they moved on to Castiel’s dress shirt and then the thin t-shirt underneath; Castiel arched an eyebrow, gliding his hands to rest over Dean’s where they had crept to the black leather belt at Castiel’s waist.
“Your brother is here,” Castiel said.
“He’s sleeping,” Dean pointed out.
“What about dinner?”
“Needs to simmer for a couple more hours. You know I’d never have it ready until after you’d usually get back.”
They still had much to talk about but the fight, for what it was, was over. Castiel had often marveled at how easily Dean could switch from angry to hurt to something else entirely. Perhaps, he thought, this was best; perhaps they just needed that physical reminder of the bond they shared, something to allay the secret fears Dean so rarely spoke and to give Castiel himself something tangible to hold on to.
Castiel ran his thumb slowly across Dean’s lower lip, tracing the path he had so often kissed and smiling faintly when he felt the other man’s mouth pull into a grin. He leaned gently forward to press a line of soft kisses to Dean’s jaw, feeling as the other man sighed contentedly, his hands settling on Castiel’s hips, thumbs rubbing gentle circles into the jut of his hipbones.
It was clear to Dean when Castiel made the decision to agree with his idea by the way he found himself suddenly disrobed down to a too-tight pair of dark blue boxer briefs, flat on his back on the bed, while Castiel still wore half-undone slacks and an open belt. The door had somehow gotten closed and Dean didn’t find any need to figure out when that had happened, too caught up in the sensation of Castiel’s soft lips pressing against the angry red marks on his skin where the elastic band of the boxers had dug in, product of reaching into the wrong side of a dresser drawer on a dark morning and being too tired to bother going back for another pair.
Dean hitched in a breath when Castiel’s quick tongue flicked out to sooth his reddened skin, letting out a low-pitched groan when the blue-eyed man paused to scrape his teeth against the taut flesh. That was Dean’s own fault; his overzealous worship of Castiel’s hip had been on display for an entire classroom to witness, and Castiel had responded by making a point to mark Dean up just as much ever since.
Not that Dean minded. Castiel could have branded his own name or his handprint into Dean’s skin, and Dean would be happy for the claiming.
Dean’s hair was still mussed and wet from the shower, sending droplets of water cascading down his bare back, when he made his way out of the bedroom hours later. Sam stood in the kitchen, stirring a pot of boiling water filled to the brim with half-cooked angel hair pasta to keep the noodles from sticking to the pan. He glanced up at his brother, barely dressed in a pair of sweatpants, and glared.
“I’m not deaf, you know,” Sam said grumpily.
Dean snickered. “You’re a big boy, Sam. Don’t tell me I have to explain the birds and the bees to you now.”
“Seriously, Dean?” Sam replied, frown deepening. “You knew I was here, you could at least have… I don’t know, kept the volume to a minimum or something.”
Dean grinned at his younger brother. “No can do, Sammy,” he responded. “Me and Cas are…”
“Nope, don’t wanna know!” Sam cut him off quickly, hands up in a gesture of surrender, causing Dean to practically cackle with glee. It was good to know that he could still catch his gargantuan little brother off guard and make him uncomfortable – if not entirely squeamish.
Castiel was still drying off and with Sam seemingly taking over finishing up the night’s meal, Dean decided to take a moment and check on his little pet obsession, one last time. His laptop had been idling on the kitchen table and he swiveled a chair backwards to sit with his chin resting on the back, quickly opening the laptop to pull up a browser.
Sam glared. “Yeah okay, I guess I’ll finish making your dinner then,” he said, stripping off the grey jacket of his rumpled suit and slinging over the back of a kitchen chair.
“Wouldn’t kill you, bitch,” Dean replied, eyes glued to the laptop screen. “Feed you enough as it is, you can help out around here once in a while.”
“Jerk,” Sam grumbled in reply, pulling a colander out from a cabinet and setting it in the sink to wait for the pasta to finish cooking.
Dean had just pulled up his page on the professor rating site he had been obsessing over for months when he heard the door to his bedroom open and close. He quickly pulled up his university email in a second tab, pretending to be browsing through a few desperate last minute pleas from his students when Castiel walked in, clad only in the university track pants he had purchased after getting caught in the rain some months before.
“Hello Sam,” he called, earning only a disgruntled huff in reply. Castiel couldn’t help but smile softly to himself, having expected as much from Dean’s brother. He had been concerned about the other man’s presence in the house to begin with, but thought better of it when he remembered how often Sam had been couch-surfing there as of late. Par for the course, after all.
Castiel leaned against Dean’s back, unconsciously lining the tattoos that ran down their sides up against one another. Both in black ink, set in the same script, each had half the finishing couplet of a favorite poem etched into their skin.
So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, Dean’s ink read.
So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep, Castiel’s seemed to reply.
It had been two years since they had made the trip to a small but well-loved tattoo parlor a few hours outside of the university town, finalizing their union as two halves of the same whole with the last words of a poem they had read together during many a long night. Neither regretted the decision in the least, knowing that the words of the poet tied them together forever, no matter what the outside world might think.
“I didn’t know you had Meg Masters in one of your classes,” Castiel spoke, catching the familiar name of his more overtly affectionate student in Dean’s email inbox.
“Yeah, World Lit,” Dean replied. “She stopped showing up a month ago but’s been offering to double the length of her term paper for a better grade.”
Castiel smirked. “That’s not what she offered me,” he said with a snort.
Dean glowered. “Yeah, I know what she offered you,” he grumbled. Castiel had been damn near insufferable for a week after Meg’s invitation; at least, Dean had reasoned, it helped him put a name and face to the more risqué entry on Castiel’s rating page.
Castiel was still chuckling when he circled his arms over Dean’s, commandeering the touchpad mouse on the laptop and clicking back to the tab Dean had thought the other man wouldn’t notice. Dean was speechless as Castiel clicked the garish button declaring Rate This Professor! and started filling out the form that popped up, giving Dean top scores in all the categories and taking care to make sure Dean saw him click the ‘Hot!’ radial button before tabbing into the comment box.
“Dr. Winchester is a brilliant man whose enthusiasm and passion for his subject is infectious. He is kind and caring, helps his students wherever he can, and takes care to allow them to give voice to their thoughts and opinions during class discussion,” Castiel typed, earning a smile and a gentle pink flush on Dean’s cheeks.
Castiel entered a line break and began to write, “He also gives great hea…”
“Whoa, hey!” Dean spat out, causing the man above him to laugh and backspace over what he had been typing.
Instead of his intended line, Castiel added, “And he does totally have a hard-on for Vonnegut.”
“I never argued that fact,” Dean pointed out.
Castiel entered a line break and wrote, “And his car.”
Dean snorted, but didn’t respond. Another line break, and Castiel’s hands flew quickly over the keyboard.
“And Dr. James,” he added, and punched the ‘Submit’ button before Dean could stop him.
“Cas!” he yelped, quickly reloading his page and gaping to see the new review posted right at the top of his page. He moved to flag the rating for content but Castiel quickly covered Dean’s hand with his own, stopping him before he could click.
“No one will care, Dean,” he intoned against the other man’s ear, pausing a moment to nip at his earlobe. “No one will care and in a few months, no one will be able to do anything, even if they did care. You’ll be tenured and we can stop playing this game.”
“And stop paying rent on an empty apartment to keep up separate addresses,” Sam piped in from where he stood draining the pasta over the sink.
Dean sighed and relaxed back against Castiel. “There’s no guarantee I’ll be tenured,” he said quietly, earning a snort from the man behind him.
“You’ve been published in eight different journals in the last six months, you have a new book coming out in July that will have a blurb from a Harvard dean on the cover, and your student reviews are always glowing,” Castiel told him. “Plus you’re sleeping with someone on the board. I’d say you’re a shoe-in. And then they can’t touch us.”
Faculty relationships weren’t exactly frowned upon at the university, so long as they were kept relatively low-key and unobtrusive. A tenured department chair and a junior professor in the department, however… it could cause problems. Dean and Castiel’s original hesitance to make their relationship known had gone to outright hiding in plain sight when Castiel received the position within the department; they’d been waiting ages for Dean to reach tenure – relatively young as he was – so that they wouldn’t have to worry any longer.
Dean sighed again. “If you say so,” he grumbled, never quite believing he deserved the praise that Castiel heaped upon him.
Castiel clicked his tongue but changed the subject, point out the chili pepper icon on Dean’s page. “Hot enough for you now?” he asked, noting the new glow that had appeared around the image.
“Hey! About damn time I…” Dean began, then trailed off. He narrowed his eyes and glanced over his shoulder at Castiel. “You knew?” he asked.
Castiel grinned and dropped a light kiss on Dean’s forehead. “Of course I knew, Dean. I use your laptop all the time, it didn’t take much to figure out what you were obsessing over.” Sam could be heard snickering just behind them, but they ignored it.
Dean frowned. “So, what, you poke through my browser history?”
With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Castiel leaned over to open a new browser window. All he had to type was the letter “R” – which made sense, given that Castiel was a closet Reddit junkie and would spend hours poring over the site – and the professor rating page popped up in the bar.
“Damn Chrome,” Dean said, shaking his head. Curious suddenly, he clicked over and opened up Castiel’s own page on the site, noting a flurry of new ratings having been posted just that day. The uppermost comment read “Dr. James is a BAMF”, with each line thereafter containing something similar.
At least, Dean reasoned, they had reached some equilibrium on the hotness scale, though his eyes widened when they shot to Castiel’s chili pepper icon. It was no longer just glowing; it was on fire.
“Son of a bitch!”