It’s a rare lazy evening in the bunker and Dean is determined to take advantage of it as he pulls Castiel into the bedroom and locks the door behind them. Cas gives an easy smile, the same idea apparent when he pushes Dean against the door with just enough force to make him suck a quick breath. Dean’s hands slide down Castiel’s sides to rest on his hips, pulling him closer until their bodies fit snugly together.
"I missed you," Dean says. Castiel’s lips are making a wet trail down the curve of Dean’s jaw, his fingers claiming the goosebumped skin under Dean’s t-shirt.
"I was only gone for a day and a half," Cas replies. He scrapes his stubbled cheek against Dean’s, nuzzling as little sounds of pleasure bubble up from his chest.
Castiel studies himself in the mirror, head tilted as he lets his gaze slide down over the green t-shirt that clings across his chest and the faded blue jeans that showcase his powerful thighs. Hand-me-downs, Dean had called them. (“Just until we have time to go shopping, Cas.”) The shirt is soft, almost the same color as Dean’s eyes in the sunlight; the jeans are.. comfortable. Definitely better than the suits he wore for years.
He fiddles with the collar of his shirt, unaccustomed to the way it rubs across his collarbones, then turns sideways to trail his hand down over the softness of his belly and back up, intrigued by how much softer the t-shirt is on his skin than his previous dress shirts. He decides he likes it; nods to himself; turns his back to the mirror and looks over his shoulder as he shoves his hands into the back pockets of his new hand-me-down jeans.
His shoulders are broad, he thinks, as he flexes the muscles across them and watches the green fabric pull tight. As broad as Dean’s certainly; more muscular, too. For all the tightness of the shirt across his shoulders, it clings like thin gauze where it pools at the top of his ass. He can’t help smiling when he wriggles his ass - just a little - to watch it shake in the mirror. There’s something particularly pleasing about the way that feels, so he does it again.
He is so busy craning around to look at his own thighs and calves from the back in the mirror that he doesn’t notice anything until he feels someone’s hands on his hips. The touch is familiar, intimate, gentle. He knows instantly it’s Dean. No one else has ever touched him in quite the same way.
"Like what you see?" Dean asks teasingly.
"Yeah," Castiel answers before he has time to think about it. Dean is smirking when Cas tears his eyes away from the mirror and turns to face him. He blushes, maybe, just a little, when Dean gives an exaggerated wink.
"Yeah," Dean parrots, pressing closer until Castiel can feel the heat of his body through the soft green shirt though they’re still not quite touching. The back pockets Castiel’s jeans will barely fit both their hands, but that doesn’t stop Dean from shoving his in. His lips brush Castiel’s with every sound when he murmurs, “Yeah, me, too.”
In Castiel’s opinion, the worst thing about being human is the heat. It makes him sluggish and lethargic no matter how few clothes he’s wearing, it shortens his temper and it makes Dean downright grouchy. The summer sun beating down on the Nevada desert and the Impala’s ancient air conditioning system have only multiplied the irritability in the confined space and both men have been pressed against the door on their own side of the car for the last fifty miles in sullen silence.
"We’ll be in Fernley soon," Dean says out of the blue.
"Okay," Castiel answers because he’s learned that Dean wants an answer to the information he gives and ‘okay’ is apparently better than ‘so?"
"I thought we’d stop for the night," Dean continues, his tone slightly clipped. "If that’s all right with you.”
Castiel frowns and looks at Dean, who is staring at the ribbon of black laid out in front of them. He doesn’t even remember now what caused this particular spat, but he’s pretty sure it wasn’t worth it. Now that he thinks about it, he’d be a lot less miserable if they were talking. Cas shrugs his shoulders and tries for a neutral tone when he says, “That sounds good.”
"Good," Dean says, still staring at the road.
"Good," Castiel echoes, slumping back against the passenger side door. He suddenly misses summers in Heaven where the temperature was always perfect.
Dean is standing at the stove, putting the finishing touches on a big pot of homemade chili when Castiel pounces. He tries to focus on adding the last of the chili powder and garlic as Castiel’s body presses against his back, warm and soft and with a flurry of kisses across the back of his neck. Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, tucking his fingertips casually into the waistband of his jeans.
"Hello, Dean," Castiel says, his body pressing more firmly into Dean’s as he leans up to kiss the curve of Dean’s ear.
"Hey, Cas," Dean answers, his voice stretched thin as he desperately tries to concentrate on stirring the pot of thick, simmering chili. Castiel kisses his earlobe, then the side of his neck, then the sweet spot beneath his earlobe. Dean shivers and clears his throat, trying to ignore the warmth of Castiel’s breath and the teasing circles being rubbed into the softness of his stomach.
"I came to ask you a question," Castiel murmurs hoarsely.
Sometimes Castiel is awakened in the middle of the night by the restless press of Dean’s body against his own. Though he’s still soundly asleep Dean reaches for his bedmate; he wraps his arms tight and presses his face into the curve of Castiel’s neck; he mumbles and sighs and clings like he never would when he’s awake.
Castiel’s sleepy fingers trip down Dean’s spine, slow and clumsy and as soothing as he can muster when the bright green numbers on the clock are screaming three o’clock and his eyes feel full of grit. Dean presses closer in his sleep, plasters himself against Castiel’s side even in the middle of a sweaty midsummer night. He gasps a deep breath; it hisses back out to tickle Castiel’s skin on the heels of another restless grumble.
"Shh," Cas coos, his tongue thick in his mouth and uncooperative when he follows it up with, "I’m here. I’ve got you."
Dean sighs again - long and slow - his body relaxing, sagging against Castiel’s as though they’re the words he’s been waiting to hear. A moment later his breath evens out, warm and welcome where it caresses Castiel’s skin. Cas smiles contentedly, his fingers slowing, then curling loosely against Dean’s hip as the haze of sleep creeps back in and makes it impossible to keep his eyes open.
Their middle of the night interludes never last more than a few minutes. Only long enough to make Cas feel warm and needed and loved. He drifts off, falling headfirst into another fanciful dream, safe in the knowledge that he’s still able to guard Dean’s sleep in the ways that matter most.
Some mornings Dean can get Castiel out of bed without much of a fight, but more often he resorts to trickery or flat out bribery. His favorite - and by far the most effective - way to get Cas up and moving is to promise him coffee, then linger in the kitchen until he gives up waiting and comes to find it. That’s exactly the tactic Dean is using this morning after half an hour of pleas and gentle cajoling.
He’s leaned against the counter sipping on his own cup of coffee when Castiel makes it through the doorway twenty minutes later. Cas’ eyes are still half closed, his hair is going every which way, and his shirt is on backwards. Dean hides a smile behind his coffee cup when Castiel’s accusatory half-lidded gaze settles on his face. He has put his cup back on the counter by the time Castiel finishes his sleepy amble across the room and he’s all too ready to welcome his sleepy lover into his arms.
Cas tucks his face against the side of Dean’s neck with a grumble; Dean wraps his arms loosely around Castiel’s waist and kisses his temple. Of all the not-a-morning-person people Dean has ever met, Castiel takes the prize. Dean rubs soothing circles into the small of Castiel’s back and is rewarded with a sighed huff of warm breath.
"Coffee?" Dean asks as though he doesn’t already know the answer.
"Mmfh," Castiel sort of answers, his forehead still pressed to the side of Dean’s neck. Dean chuckles and slides his arms up, hugging around Castiel’s broad shoulders, pulling their bodies closer together. It’s another few minutes before Cas moves again.
When he finally moves it’s only to stand up straight in the middle of a yawn and reach around Dean to steal his cup of coffee. Castiel takes a big drink and then another and Dean can’t help chuckling at how pleased he looks with himself, his eyes finally open as he gives a sleepy smile from behind Dean’s coffee cup. Cas finishes the coffee in two more drinks and carefully replaces the cup on the counter beside Dean’s hip before he leans in for a sleepy, coffee-flavored morning kiss.
Dean never thought of Castiel as the kind of guy who’d like it rough. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Whether it’s Cas pinning Dean’s wrists at the small of his back and fucking him until his cheek is raw from the scrape of cheap motel room sheets or Dean holding Castiel by the hair and fucking his throat while he gags, Cas is up for it.
It never takes much for Dean to get him to the point where he’s grabbing desperately and throwing himself into biting kisses and the drag of blunt nails. Dean can barely hold long enough to growl filthy encouragement in Castiel’s ear, telling him that he’s so good when he’s bad and so gorgeous when he’s well-fucked and he’s going to remember this for days. When the tables are turned, he begs Castiel for more and harder, writhing and whimpering and testing the iron grip on his hips or his shoulders or his wrists until Cas growls a warning and squeezes so hard it hurts.
They wear themselves out to the tune of sweaty skin slapping and unrestrained cries of pleasure. They grab and pinch and squeeze and scratch and bite and leave marks that no one will see. They turn themselves inside out, again and again, pushing to the edge of too much before falling over it together and always just in time.
They end up exhausted and sore and grinning with their foreheads pressed together and their fingers interlaced. They shiver and cling to one another with whispered reassurances and gentle kisses in the ebb of the roughness, smiling until they sleep, peaceful and sound and tangled together under a haphazardly arranged sheet or blanket or nothing at all. Dean never thought of Castiel as the kind of guy who’d like it rough, but he couldn’t be more happy to be wrong.
Castiel has worked in the research and development department of Shurley Industries for two years, which is approximately the same amount of time he’s been nursing a crush on the head of marketing, Dean Winchester. In a remarkable coincidence, it’s also the same amount of time he’s been utterly terrified that he might be asked to work with Dean on a marketing plan for something directly under his supervision.
With a mix of relief and envy, he sees person after person chosen to work with Dean, but he always manages to dodge the bullet. Until, that is, Castiel looks up to see Dean standing in the doorway of his office watching him work.
"It’ll be fun," Misha cajoles, his chin rested on Jensen’s shoulder as he wraps his arms a little tighter around Jensen’s waist.
"Yeah, but, fun for which one of us?" Jensen asks. He turns his head and squints to see Misha’s grinning face; Misha takes the opportunity to kiss his jaw.
"For everyone," Misha answers a moment later. "It’ll be fun for me, the students, and you.”
Jensen snorts and turns in the circle of Misha’s arms, leaning back against the counter as he does. His face is a mask of curiosity and calculation and Misha tries not to smile too enthusiastically at the prospect, instead letting his hands settle on Jensen’s hips, pads of his thumbs rubbing little circles on soft muscle.
"What about.. "
Jensen gestures down his body when his sentence drops off. The curiosity is being edged away by a furrow of brow as the realization that “nude model” means “naked in front of a bunch of strangers” becomes apparent on his face.
No matter what position they go to sleep in, Jensen always seems to wake up with one arm and one leg thrown possessively over Misha’s body. It’s comfortable to know he’s so close, so warm and supple against Jensen’s body.
It’s still mostly dark when he opens his eyes on a lazy Saturday morning; Misha’s breath is still coming slow and even when Jensen yawns and burrows closer. Jensen briefly considers clinging to consciousness and dragging his sleeping bedmate along, but the sleep-warm scent of Misha’s neck and the peaceful softness of his body make convincing arguments for going back to sleep instead. A smile curls Jensen’s lips as he nuzzles into Misha’s warmth and lets himself drift again.