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Yeah, okay, he can admit it, if only to himself in the safety of his own head, that he’s stared at a guy or two for a moment too long. And maybe – just maybe, he’s done it a little too often to his sort-of human/former angel best friend. But hey, Cas is easy on the eyes… even Sam would admit that. It doesn’t mean anything, if he looks into his blue (Dean isn’t so far gone that he’ll start to wax poetic about them, he’s not) eyes a little longer than socially appropriate, or an involuntary shiver dances its way down his spine whenever he hears the low, gravelly growl that supposedly is simply my voice, Dean, excuse you. He’s pretty sure that it’s just a natural thing, you know, and not his fault that he wants to run his fingers through the perpetually sexed-up hair or run his knuckles against the permanent stubble, and – oh god, part those puffed out lips and see if he can taste the holiness and righteousness of an angel on them.
All right, fine, maybe he’s exaggerating and not everyone wants to jump the former angel’s bones. Maybe, it really is just Dean… doesn’t mean he’ll do it. God, Cas just lost his Grace and Dean isn’t an animal who’ll just pounce the guy.
But Cas sure makes it goddamn hard.
Either Cas is laughing up a storm as he watches Dean’s self-restraint crumble like the Berlin Wall or, well, he’s just being Cas, which honestly isn’t all that much better.
Cas, for some inexplicable reason, doesn’t wear his own clothes. No, really. Even now, after the numerous shopping trips committed by Dean, Sam and Cas, himself. The closet is filled with Cas’ untouched clothes, donned only once – when Cas had first tried them on. His wardrobe is larger than that of the brothers’ combined. It’s not even a matter of the other man mixing them up, which Dean had assumed for the longest time, seeing how; one, Dean’s clothes end up in Cas’ closet but never vice-versa; and two, Cas seems to only wear clothes Dean has recently worn. Sam, the frigging annoying little brother, thinks it’s hilarious, although he does wonder if they really do laundry all that often and who the hell pays for it – not that it really matters – and if not, is that sanitary?
Dean, on the other hand, finds it kind of weird, although there’s a part of him that feels excited and possessive seeing Cas in his clothes. Nonetheless, he brings it up.
“They’re comfier,” Cas says, plainly.
“That’s just ‘cause they’re older than Death. You just got to break yours in, Cas.”
Cas looks down to the ground, and picks at a stray thread on the sleeve of – surprise – one of Dean’s flannels, and looks up at him through his thick lashes.
“Those don’t smell like you.”
Dean’s brain stops functioning and he freezes, mouth gaping in such a way his mother would have smacked him on the head for letting the flies fly in. A small voice argues that what Cas said is pretty creepy and he should be concerned, but another -- a larger part -- can't process more than the fact that Cas is currently fluttering his stupidly long eyelashes and wanting Dean's scent all over him and -- Jesus, what the fuck.
Cas, the little shit, having realized he won, sneaks away, revelling his victory in the clothes war.
Dean, the sap he is, doesn’t buy Cas anymore new clothes, nor, do they talk about it ever again.
Again, with the clothes.
Cas never remembers to bring a change of clothes into the showers. And it drives Dean crazy. Really, he’s made a habit of hiding in his room when Cas is showering to avoid the inevitability of seeing Cas walk down the bunker’s corridor in nothing but a towel, casually slung around his waist, precariously snug around jutting hip bones. Today, he has the (mis)fortune of just returning from a hunt, and is making his way towards the shower room when he sees Cas turn the corner. He swallows, and tries to keep his eyes on Cas’ face, and not at how the towel looks suspiciously close to unravelling. Lucky him, Cas decides that right now is the best time for a conversation.
“Hello, Dean,” he says, voice level.
Dean forces out a smile, hoping that he sounds half as calm as his friend, “Hey, Cas, how’s it going?”
“I’m good,” Cas replies, “How was the hunt?”
“Uh, good.”
Dean bites his lips. He can see a freaking hipbone peeking out from under the towel and he swears that more is showing and that the damn cotton piece of crap is sliding its way down.
“Cas,” he stammers, “You might want to retie that. It’s already slipping off.”
‘Hand in hand with my sanity,' he thinks, inwardly sobbing.
Cas looks down, and frowns, as if he’s just noticed. His hands reach towards and instead of tightening the thing, he begins to undo it and –
“What the – Cas!”
Dean grabs his wrist, and before he knows it, launches himself against the other man until their hips are flushed together, Dean’s jeans the only thing keeping Cas decent. Dean’s well aware of the heat emanating from Cas, still warm from his freakishly hot showers. He tries to keep calm, but any deep breaths he takes result in him inhaling Cas’ scent, a mix of soap, shampoo and well, Cas. Gritting his teeth, he tries to talk, hoping Cas doesn’t notice how his voice has raised its pitch by a semi-octave.
“I didn’t mean to fix it like that,” he half-whines.
Cas frowns, looking up at Dean.
Dean continues, face flushing, “Just meant to adjust it a little, not flash your goods to everyone.”
Cas looks around, “It’s only you and me in the hallway, presently.”
Dean’s blush deepens, and he’s suddenly really aware of the warmth pooling at the pit of his stomach.
“Yeah, well, nothing I needed to see, Cas.”
“I apologize. However, I believe that I will need to readjust my towel now and it is difficult to do so with your body against mine, Dean.”
“I… uh … “ Dean’s brain fumbles to come up with a proper sentence, weighing his options. Biting his lips, he finally settles on looking anywhere but at his friend, and dropping his hands onto his hips.
“Just… don’t move, Cas.”
Without waiting for a response, he skims his fingers along the soft material, searching for the lost edges, tugging them when he locates them. Willing himself not to react, he brings the two together, tying them tightly, before rolling the top into Cas’ body, securing it.
“Thank you, Dean,” Cas breathes, warm breath and all.
Dean returns his gaze and almost lets out a groan when he takes in Cas, hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks rosy and eyes soft. Giving his friend a lopsided-grin, he reaches up to pat him on the shoulder, careful of putting distance between them.
“Anytime, Cas. Or well, not. Bring clothes with you, next time.”
“Of course, Dean.”
With that, Dean scampers off to the bathroom, and if he spends a little longer than he needs, well, that’s between him, his hands, and the shower walls.
Cas still forgets to bring clothes the next time, too.
God-fricking damn it.
They’re watching Tangled on Netflix because Sam thought it would be hilarious to introduce Cas to Disney movies, thanks so much, bitch. And now, Dean’s stuck listening to cheesy singing and glowing hair (“I’m horrified and intrigued about the length of her hair, Dean. At that length, the weight should be dragging her scalp off of her skull,”) and a predictable plot. Cas, on the other hand, is enraptured, hands on his knees, leaning so forward on the couch that Dean wonders if he’s about to topple over. Glancing at the remote between them, an idea pops in his mind, and he smiles mischievously.
As quietly as he can, he sneaks his hand over and grabs onto the remote, closing the movie and begins to surf for a different film.
Beside him, Cas’ eyes blink slowly, as if processing what has just occurred.
After a moment, he turns his eyes and slowly enunciates, “Dean. Turn it back.”
Dean just snorts, leaning back onto the cushions, “Fat chance. Let’s watch something else, Cas.”
“I would like to finish the movie, Dean.”
“No.”
Cas makes a face, squinting his eyes like a pissy cat, before swiping at the remote. Dean sees it coming, and swings it out of the way. It only serves to irritate the former angel more. He grits his teeth and gets up, only to fall onto one knee on the couch, reaching again for access to the remote. Dean smirks, backing up until he hits the edge of the couch, holding the item far above over his head. Cas is persistent, and stretches to grab at it. He must have lost his balance, as he tips over, landing against Dean’s chest with an “oomph.” Dean winces as he feels a bony shoulder crash into his collarbone, but manages to keep his grip on the remote. Cas, non-deterred, proceeds to climb all over Dean’s body, unbothered that he’s effectively in the other man’s lap and virtually hugging the hunter as his arms fall around his head in an attempt to get what he wants. Dean’s torn between his pride and his half-hard dick, not sure what to do. Cas, however, seeing how he’s not getting anywhere, suddenly drops to his knees, still sitting between Dean’s legs, and freaking pouts.
“I’m waiting, Dean.”
The hunter mentally groans, because he can’t handle this bazillion years-old being acting “cute.” He starts to get up when strong hands push firmly down on his thighs, and he lets out a yelp when they land a little too close to his groin. He looks up at Cas, whose face somehow magically appeared only two inches away from his own. With a squeak, he drops his outstretched arm back down towards his chest as he tries to bring his legs in, effectively curling himself into a ball. Cas sees it and snatches it out of his grasp. With one last look at Dean, the former angel falls back onto his side of the couch and happily switches the screen back to his stupid chick flick. Dean registers that the singing and glowing shit is back on, but he finds it a bit hard to concentrate as he sneaks glimpses at Cas throughout the film.
For someone who made it a habit of reminding everyone and their grandmothers that climate doesn’t affect him, human Cas is a freaking nuisance when it comes to the cold. The goddamn big baby won’t so much as waddle around the bunker without his ridiculous oversized vomit-coloured parka, or his weird-ass feathery socks he somehow unearthed from who knows where at the thrift store. He’s constantly in a state of misery and wears way too many layers of clothing to be considered socially-acceptable sleepwear. In the mornings, Dean has to oscillate between begging on his knees, bribing with the promise of hot chocolate, or threatening bodily harm and physical removal as the brat (otherwise known as the millennia old warrior of God) glares petulantly from under a mountain of blankets.
Tonight, unfortunately for everyone cohabiting in the bunker, is the coldest night thus far, and even Dean has to admit that he wouldn’t mind if they could figure out how to operate the frigging thermometer to up the temperature by a couple of degrees. Cas, on the other hand, is nowhere to be seen and so the hunter counts his blessings; the absence of a former angels moans of woe is always welcome. Of course, God fucking hates him so his peace doesn’t ever last long… and everything ends up far worse than they would have been if Cas was just a whiny little kid beforehand.
“Cas. Get. Out.”
“No.”
“Cas, I’m serious. I want to sleep.”
“I’m cold, Dean.”
“Yeah, so am I.”
“I want more blankets.”
Dean groans, rolling so his face is smushed into his pillow, “Cas, you took like, all of the extra ones we had lying around. Just wear your parka or something.”
“It’s not comfy, Dean,” he says, as if Dean’s the one keeping him up at night with stupid demands.
“Yeah, well, we don’t have any more so suck it up and deal with it like a big boy.”
There’s a pause, and then Dean hears a huff of annoyance from behind him. A moment later, the sound of feet shuffling out from his door echoes through the corridors. Without opening his eyes, he burrows deeper under his blankets, and lets the silence lull him to sleep. His lids grow heavy, and his breathing slows. Soon, he feels the weight of sleep atop of his limbs.
Sleep, the ever-elusive lover of his, remains far out of his reach, however, when he feels a heavy weight slam into his side, causing him to grunt on impact. Eyes snapping open, he only manages to get a glimpse of a mess of black hair burrowing its way into his blankets before he feels cold appendages against his skin.
"Dude, what the hell, Cas,” he moans, irritated.
Cas doesn’t even dignify him with a response, choosing instead to continue his weird caterpillar dance. Bony elbows and stray feet end up striking against him in less than desirable places, and in the spirit of minimizing bruises, Dean rolls onto his side to stare at the former angel/problem child. He’s about to tell his friend to shove off, when Cas shoots him a pitiful look, which he clearly learnt from Sam (who Dean was so going to kill), making his mouth go dry.
“I’m cold, Dean,” he almost whines, and what the hell, no grown man should look as hapless as he did right that instant.
Dean looks up at the ceiling, letting out a quiet but noticeable long-suffering sigh. It’s always him, seriously, that has to deal with this. Sam doesn’t have to deal with having to share his bed with his angelic best friend slash crush. Life really isn’t fair.
“Okay, fine,” Dean mutters, “Just – don’t move. Stay still during the night?”
Cas’ mouth turns up in a small but happy smile, and he shuffles just a little closer, to Dean’s dismay.
“Yes, Dean.”
Rolling his eyes (really, why him), he lets his body fall back so he’s facing the ceiling once more. He feels Cas wiggle around, getting comfy. He listens as Cas’ breaths even out, warm against his shoulder unknowingly raising goosebumps at the exposed skin just above the collar. The former angel falls asleep quickly, without any additional fuss, but Dean lays wide awake despite his fatigue. He chances a glance at his friend, and feels a warmth spread in his chest. Cas’ face is smooth of the frown lines that seem permanently etched to his face while awake, mouth soft when not pulled into a tight line. He watches the slow rise and fall of his chest, wondering if Cas’ heart is beating with the same calm that seems to thrum throughout the other man’s body. He aches to reach over the tiny gap between them, to touch the tanned skin before him. He wants to feel the drag of stubble against his palm, to know if it’ll satisfy the twitch of his fingers.
Instead, he reluctantly turns his head and closes his eyes, focussing instead on the soft sounds of Cas’ breaths, purposely matching the rhythm with his own. Slumber comes slowly, but when it does, Dean falls into a peaceful, dreamless rest. It’s the longest he sleeps in ages.
Of course, he wakes to a raging hardness against his thigh and has to slink off the bed without waking up the other man. He sprints as fast as possible to the bathroom; the cold all but forgotten. He come faster than he’d ever like to admit.
Cas’ new hobby, like everything else wrong in Dean’s life, is Sam’s fault (“you can’t blame everything on me, Dean" -- please, that damn well won't stop him from trying) obviously. The gigantic freak just had to introduce the former angel with not only the wonders of the Internet, but specifically Youtube and its Yogis. Not only is the peppy, enthusiastic girl on-screen annoying as hell, but watching Cas (not that Dean does this) contort his body into provocative positions is distracting as fuck. He tries not to notice as a sliver of skin peeks out from underneath his shirt as Cas' hands reach far above his head, or to make a sound when he abruptly falls forward, glorious ass stuck up into the air. Apparently, yoga is harder than it seems, if the sweat glistening down the former angel’s neck is anything to go by and Dean mentally chastises himself for the sudden urge to lick, and taste and mark the sensitive skin there.
Cas stands, interrupting Dean’s internal dilemma, and walks over to the table where the hunter was “researching” – hey, he did manage to read the preface of some dusty, falling-apart tome – and uncaps his bottle of water. Dean’s instantly mesmerized by how pronounced Cas’ Adam’s apple is, and how strongly it bobs up and down as he drinks. Cas drinks like a man parched, and honestly, he probably is, but Dean’s mind supplies alternate things the former angel could be thirsty for. It includes him, little Dean, and the blue-eyed man on his knees looking utterly debauched.
“Are you okay, Dean?”
He sounds out of breath.
And Dean’s done. He figures, God hates him and fate definitely does (all of them, really), so he simply smiles beatifically at his friend, face so tranquil and zen even Buddha would have been amazed. It was the face of a man who had come to terms with everything, and given up on it, all at once.
“Never better,” he breathes, grabbing the heavy-ass book with him to cover a choice area at the front of his pants as he stands.
Cas’ brows furrow at his probably odd behaviour, but Dean really couldn’t care less anymore. He’s going to go back to his room, and he’s going to get very well-acquainted with his right fist and if that’s wrong, well, he’s already been to hell anyways.
It has to be an angel thing, honestly. There’s no way any human being can enjoy sugar the way angels – and former angels – can. If Cas was a cat, ice cream would be his catnip, if the way his eyes glaze over and his face twists into an expression of peer ecstasy is anything to go by. He licks the soft serve with fervor, eyes half-lidded and mouth making the most obnoxious moans ever known to mankind. Dean doesn’t even know whether to feel aroused or disturbed as Cas finishes his cone, and locks onto Dean’s own.
“No, forget it. Don’t even think about it.”
“Just one bite, Dean,” he freaking purrs, licking his lips as he crawls over to him on the couch.
Dean holds a hand out, fending the possessed man from his innocent cone. It doesn’t deserve to be so ferociously and inappropriately devoured.
“Just one bite,” Cas pleads, eyes wide, hands grabby, “it’ll be quick.”
Cas manages to grab onto Dean’s hand, tugging to get the cone close enough to his mouth. Dean pushes his face with his free hand, trying to wrestle control back. Cas, that asshole, darts his tongue out and freaking laps at his palm. For one second, he loses control and panics, crushing the cone in his fist. He hisses as he feels the cold coat his fingers, ice cream dribbling down his fingers. A chunk of the ice cream plops onto his jeans, and he groans.
“Look what you did, you psycho,” he huffs, “You wasted perfectly good ice cream.”
Cas simply, shrugs, “Who says it’ll be wasted?”
He leans over, soft pink tongue peeking out. Sensing what Cas is about to do, the hunter snatches his hand back quickly, glaring at his friend. Cas doesn’t look put out, and instead grins as he bends down into Dean’s lap, as if he’s planning to fucking lick the ice cream off of his crotch. This time, Dean does let out an undignified yelp and holds the other man back by entwining his clean hand into the other’s hair. He swears to god Sam better not walk in right now because it would be impossible to explain why the hell it looks like Cas is in the middle of blowing him on the couch from his vantage point.
In his panicked haze, Dean almost missed the look in Cas’ eyes. There was an amused glint in those usually somber blues, and Dean grips the other’s hair just a bit tighter.
“You’re just fucking with me, aren’t you?” he growls, “All this time, you’ve been fucking with me.”
Cas sits up, face impassive. He has a great poker face, but Dean’s known him long enough to detect the subtle twitch of his lips.
“You are such a dick,” he snaps, trying to – and failing – to sound angry.
Cas’ eyes fall onto his hips – his eyes are up here, damn it, not that he’s rally complaining – and licks his lips non-discretely, “I think I can find a way to make up for that,” and wow, when did they get so close?
Chapped lips find his own, and they meet gently, just a soft touch despite the charged words. They pepper one another with soft pecks, before Dean presses more forcefully, nudging Cas to open up for him. Cas moans into his mouth, as Dean’s tongue explores his own, tasting every part of it. He pulls him closer, until Cas straddles his lap, grinding languidly, sending steady waves of heat into the depths of his stomach. Dean thrusts upwards, but Cas lifts his hips, dampening the friction Dean desired.
“Cas,” he stutters, “You’re killing me here, you frigging tease.”
Cas simply smirks and mouths at his ears, trailing kisses down his neck and body.
When Sam finds them moments later, Dean doesn’t even try to convince him it’s anything but Cas blowing him because, it was goddamn awesome.
“So all this time, you’ve known what you’ve been doing to me?”
Cas smiles innocently. Son of a bitch.
“You know, if you wanted to get laid, you could have asked like a normal freaking person.”
His face lights up, laughing in such a way that Dean wants to imprint this sound into his memory and loop it forever in his mind, “Now, where’s the fun in that?”
Dean punches him, but he can’t keep the grin from spreading across his face, “You’re damn lucky I like you.”
Cas’ eyes soften and he turns to face Dean from his position on his lap, beaming like the fucking sun.
“Yes, I really am.”