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It takes him a few moments to realize, but once he’s sobered up from sleep, Dean notices, with a twang of panic, that he is no longer in the room he had originally fallen asleep in. Clad only in his boxer briefs which, were thankfully the same, he looks around at the eggshell painted walls, the minimalist decor, the ugly, ash brown carpeting… He doesn’t recognize where he is in the least, just knows the bed he’s in is warm on both sides of its California King. He takes in a deep breath, tests the air. Nothing out of the ordinary, aside from the strong smell of something delicious cooking. His immediate thought is to go and investigate, especially after feeling the way his stomach grumbles its yearning, but he debates back and forth if it’s really a good idea. He has no idea where he is, he simply must remember that fact, no matter how hard it is to deny his hunger.
Rubbing his eyes, pushing aside any remaining desire to return to sleep, Dean rises from bed and shuffles toward the dresser and adjacent wardrobe in hopes of finding something more appropriate to wear. He’s more than surprised to find all of his clothes there, plus more. A sense of familiarity scratches at the back of his brain when he sees a tan trench coat and a fresh pressed suit hanging separately from his numerous flannels and leather jackets. Sure, he recognizes them as Cas’s, long lost angel pal’s, but this is simply something else. It’s in a different way that he feels it’s normal, but he can’t quite describe it. More importantly, he isn’t sure what to say when he turns to the sound of said long lost angel pal’s voice in the doorway. What he sees isn’t entirely unpleasant, it’s just fucking weird.
“Dean, you’re awake.” Cas smiles, something of a gentle, warm sort. It’s oddly comforting. “I made you breakfast in bed, but if you’re up, you might as well join me in the kitchen.” Come to think of it, he definitely was holding a tray of what looked to be the perfect thing to sate his angry stomach: pancakes slathered in maple syrup and an abundantly sized side of bacon.
Perhaps even stranger still was that Cas only wore an oversized t-shirt. An oversized t-shirt that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be Dean’s. Surely he’s hallucinating, at this point. Since when is he wearing anything other than the coat and suit he saw in the closet?
Numbly, and without further thought on the matter, Dean suspiciously follows Cas to what he assumes will be the kitchen, where the scent of food is much, much stronger, and much, much more convincing. He can practically feel his stomach eating itself now, so he pulls out a cedar wood chair and plops down in front of the plate Cas had originally intended to serve him in bed. Cas leans against the counter and sips from a mug of coffee that reads, “God’s Favorite Angel”, and for a moment, Dean wonders if maybe he still is from Heaven after all. Cas seems to notice the staring, however, and tilts his head with a grin. “What, you forgot you got me this for my birthday already? Really, Dean, your memory has really been lacking lately. You should go get that checked out.” He wanders over, and oh, is he swinging his hips like that on purpose? and leans down to press a chaste kiss to his forehead. That alone stuns Dean. He has no idea how to react, capable only of watching him walk toward the fridge with eyes blown wide in shock.
“Go on, Dean. Eat. Your pancakes are going to get cold, and I’m not going to heat them up for you,” Cas laughs, not looking over his shoulder as he rummages through shelves, “Is everything okay? You have a funny dream or something? You’re acting strange already and it’s only 8 AM.”
Dean splutters as he turns back around to look at the plate of food before him, slowly taking a piece of bacon between his fingers. “Uh, sorry Cas. No, I’m fine. Just a little tired still, I guess.” Hungover, maybe? He hasn’t seen any liquor in the house yet, though. Weird. Out of place, too, it would seem. Besides that, he didn’t want to potentially suggest anything that could give his confusion away. Cas didn’t seem to be aware of the bizarre twist of events, so he reasons he’s probably a part of it. Dreamworld, that is.
He munches away on the food he’s been so graciously served as Cas goes through the fridge, heading back to the counter to retrieve a pen and paper so he can write down what Dean presumes to be a grocery list. He watches, carefully, and it’s when he notices Cas’s finger. His ring finger, more specifically, wrapped in a plain, yet flawless band of gold. He swallows hard and looks down at his own ring finger, possessing, of course, its own matching ring. They were engaged? Married? In his reality, he and Cas had no sort of romantic relationship, and sure, being confined in a bunker or a motel room on more than one occasion had led to brief fantasies, but nothing had ever became of them. Besides, he’d only ever really displayed an interest in women; this just wasn’t making any sense.
He’s suddenly not very hungry anymore. Cas finally turns away from his list and looks at Dean, and he can detect the shift from blankness to concern, the way his forehead and brows crease in unison, the way he tilts his head. It’s good to know he at least maintains some of the same, more mundane habits he had collected over the years he spent on Earth.
“Is something wrong? You don’t look well. I can go get you some medicine, if you’d like---”
“Cas, no. I’m okay, I promise. Just not too hungry. My stomach hasn’t quite woken up yet.” And really, it’s a bold faced lie, which Cas is able to pick up without much effort at all. He’s used to it. Dean’s never been particularly honest with his feelings. Even with the smile he shares, Cas is fully aware of the panic behind it. Dean just wants to know what’s going on; he’s been through lucid dreams thousands of times, but he’s always been able to wake up from them. This one was far different, and he wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it. Did he play along? Run? Fight?
“I’m just… Having some trouble remembering things, I think,” Dean starts, finally, after a very pregnant pause, “Would you mind, uh, refreshing my memory?”
Cas blinks, uncertain, but still grabs the seat across the table from him and leans forward a bit. “Of course.”
“Right, uh… How long have we been… You know,” and he lifts up his hand, for emphasis, flashing him the ring.
“Married? Just two years,” Cas responds, although it’s easy to hear the sadness hidden behind his smile. Dean understands that amnesia isn’t easy to deal with. He’s seen it more than once within their dysfunctional little family, and never had it been a pleasant experience.
Two years? The last two years certainly yielded nothing as domestic as a marriage for him in his universe, so he could certainly scratch some alteration of his present timeline from his thoughts.
“Okay, so this next question might be weird, in a ‘lock me up in a nuthouse’ kinda way. So, I guess, don’t think I’m too crazy for it?” he says, pensively, brows arching with his voice as he smiles, perhaps trying to convince him. “Uh, so… Are you an actual angel? You know, like, wings, the halo, the harp… or whatever, the whole nine?”
Cas stares at him without much regard of how intense his confusion becomes. After a moment, he cracks a smile, holding back a chuckle with the palm of his hand. “Angel has always been your pet name for me. Nothing more. Last time I checked, anyway, I didn’t have any of those, no.” He intertwines his fingers, resting his chin upon them as his grin grows just a little wider. “Since when did you become a religious man, Dean Winchester? I didn’t know you legitimately believed in angels.”
“I’m not,” Dean shoots back, indignant and immediate, catching himself before he flushes in embarrassment, “I didn’t, I don’t---” He scrubs his face with his hands, shaking his head.
Cas nods, solemn, yet maintains the smile, standing and pushing the chair in behind him. “You’ve gotten too intricate with your flirting, then. I can tell you that much.” He hums, swinging his way around the edge of the table to cup Dean’s cheek in his palm. He doesn’t miss the way the man startles, but he chuckles nonetheless, leaning down to kiss him affectionately on the lips. “Why don’t I refresh your memory in a different way?”
Dean swallows at that. What exactly does he mean? It’s implied rather thickly, he knows, and he supposes that he’ll find out either way. It doesn’t stop the heat from pooling in his gut and the anxiety from building in his chest, however, and Cas back pedals for a moment. Just to remind Dean he knows. “Only if you want to. No pressure. It just seems like something you need… To blow off steam, that is.” He smiles, again with that warm, comforting, engulfing expression of his. Maybe Dean understands after all, after all these years, how he’s become so deeply entangled in Castiel’s rapture.
So Dean smiles after a moment, standing from his place and forgetting about the food entirely. “No, no, you’re right.” He chuckles, leaning into Cas’s warmth and trailing curious fingers up the outside of his thighs, hiking up his stolen shirt only to find that, well, there wasn’t anything underneath. Dean almost gawks at that, but catches himself, grinning broadly as his lips latch on to the crook of his neck. “You always walk around the house with no underwear on, angel? That’s dangerous, y’know,” he purrs, cupping his ass not just to prove his point. He can feel the shiver that runs down Cas’s spine, almost as if he’s nervous. It’s positively scintillating, even if Dean isn’t entirely sure where this side of him is coming from. Instinct, perhaps? A healthy interest in the goings on of this unexpected dream of his?
“Either way,” Cas retorts, after a moment, sounding only half defiant, “What’s the point of wearing them if you always end up taking them off for me anyway?”
Dean is a hair’s breadth from moaning at that, the way Cas whispers it to him in that gravelly rasp of his, opting instead to kiss all over his throat. “Good point.” He chuckles, guiding him toward the counter and hoisting him up onto it when he hears Cas’s telltale grunt. He’s still smiling, but perhaps it’s more devilish now, and Dean thinks maybe he likes this atmosphere a bit better. He allows his hands to roam free, ghosting over his partner’s skin with enthusiastic fervor, as they lean into each other to clash lips and teeth and tongues, and suddenly Dean has become hyper aware of the fact that there is no lube anywhere nearby. He sinks his teeth into Cas’s lower lip, already red and kiss-bitten, and pulls away slowly, wondering how exactly a man could become so damn beautiful in mere minutes. He stares, for what seems like a long time (too long, that is), until Cas finally gives him a bewildered look to snap him out of his reverie.
“Uh, right. Hey… um, lube?” he breathes, and Cas almost laughs back, “Bedside table. Top drawer,” sending Dean rushing back to the bedroom without a second thought. He returns in record time and reclaims Cas’s mouth with his own, tugging the hem of his shirt up so he can give his cock some well-deserved attention. He can feel the fight he puts up to bite back a moan, so naturally, Dean begins pumping his fist faster, twisting his wrist and sending Cas into a flurry of desperate, choked groans, some form of vengeance for denying him the experience. Realistically, it would have made more sense for him to follow him to the bedroom for them to finish what they’d started, but Dean was all for the change of traditional scenery, and Cas certainly didn’t seem to be picky with their location, either. So he takes the time to squeeze a bit of lube onto his fingers, circling Cas’s puckered rim as he buries his face in the crook of his neck, the juncture between throat and shoulder, teeth grazing the warm flesh as he eventually presses in. Cas lets out the smallest of hisses in response, hips twitching. More friction. Friction that Dean is happy to create. He still isn’t quite sure what he’s gotten himself into, how he’s fallen so quickly into the reality of this fantasy he’s made up in his sleep, but in retrospect, he’s decided it’s better to enjoy the good things while they last.
Cas looks considerably unhappy despite the finger curling expertly inside of him (a skill he didn’t know he had until now), but Dean isn’t sure how to address it. He takes a guess, assuming it to be impatience, and slips another finger passed the tight ring of muscle; Cas moans, lips parting and jaw hanging loose, but aside from that, he still wears the same expression. How troubling. What is he doing wrong?
“Hey, Cas,” he starts, removing his fingers and earning an even more disappointed look, “Is something wrong?”
He looks surprised, as if the question takes him aback. Really, he’d been the one wearing the face of a man unsatisfied. It’s Dean that should be looking perplexed.
“I just… Want to touch you,” Cas answers after a brief silence, which manages to leave Dean flushed, if not a little more turned on than before. Cas certainly is something, a perfect mix of many things all together in one pretty package, which has quickly dawned on him in the past hour or so he’s spent in his presence. It’s funny, in a way, because Dean has no idea how he knows what he’s doing, how he knows what exactly he must do with a man in order to prepare him. He’s never messed around with guys before, and no one has messed around with his backside either. In fact, he considered his ass to be an off limits topic. An exit, not an entrance. In the end, he supposes he can chalk it up to dream logic. He tries to ignore the fact that said dream is about the angel who dragged him out of Hell.
“Dean?” Cas, once again, manages to drag him out of his thoughts by his throat, and he’s immediately stammering, an utter mess of his usual mask of confidence.
“Y-Yeah baby, of course. Touch all you want, I’m yours,” he grounds out, after a moment, lips curling back into a smile. The poster boy of false poise. Cas doesn’t seem to mind regardless, mirroring Dean’s smile back at him as he slides to the edge of the counter to deliver a firm kiss. Eventually, Dean’s fingers find his nape yet again, brushing over the shorter hairs as Cas reaches down to slip his briefs down his thighs and properly tend to his dick. Now that he’s sighing out his relief into Cas’s mouth, he realizes just how much he’d been throbbing with neglect before. Cas sure is his savior this morning. He tugs with gentle, long strokes, drawing a desperate moan from Dean as he screws his eyes shut and moves to deepen their kiss. He faces no objections as he prods the seam of his lips with his tongue, easily granted access, and tips his head to change the angle.
He returns to stretching his partner’s (his husband’s, he reminds himself) hole, scissoring his fingers within the tight heat. Honestly, he’s tempted to try rimming, but he’s not sure how far his expertise in the field extends. He doesn’t want anything unpleasant to arise; he’s not too fond of ruining the moment when he’s found himself so deeply invested in continuing it. Besides, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t immensely enjoying their kiss. He adds a third finger before long, curling the trio of them into Cas’s sensitive prostate.
“Jesus, Dean,” Cas gasps, breaking their mouths apart, and amusing him unknowingly in the process. He never thought he’d hear those two names used so tightly together in the same sentence.
He’s grinning, and Cas offers something crooked and blissed out like it back, even if he’s not quite sure why. His hips jut upwards, just a bit, as if asking (politely, of course) for his husband to just go ahead and fuck him already. Dean won’t complain, and he gets the idea fairly quickly despite being secretly new to this whole thing. He’s pretty easy to read, he decides after a moment, bringing him down from the countertop and pressing his back into it. He carefully removes his fingers, moving to slick up his cock and lean in to scatter kisses over the expanse of Cas’s neck. “You ready for me, baby?” Dean asks, softly, voice surprisingly tender despite his labored breaths.
All Cas really manages to offer in response is a shuddered sigh and an enthused nod, which Dean’s smile grows at. He never thought he’d get to the point of considering the man cute, but here he is, marveling at his expressions and even the noises he makes. The little things.
With the precision of a man experienced, Dean lines himself up with Cas’s entrance and breaches beyond the ring of muscle, biting his lip as his cock is gradually enveloped in his husband’s tight heat. It’s certainly unlike sex with a woman; he’d even venture to claim it better. Then again, sex with someone he held feelings for was bound to be different. He pays close attention to the way Cas’s teeth clench, his jaw tightening, knuckles blanching as his fingers curl harshly over the edge of the countertop he balances himself on. As he adjusts, the muscles in Cas’s neck relax, head lolling to the side, lips parted just barely as a pleased sigh escapes from between them. Dean lifts his eyes to meet his baby blues, a silent question, and once again, Cas nods his consent.
He lets out a low moan as Dean begins to move, hips rolling in a steady, almost uncertain pace, feeling good but not as good as he knows it can. Before long, the soreness in his arms becomes too painful to ignore, and Cas slouches, lowering himself to the floor with a brief grunt of pain and an admonishing look at his triceps for betraying him. Dean pulls away, just briefly, before grazing his hip with his thumb and smiling through his nerves. “You okay?”
Cas hums, thoughtfully, and turns, leaning over the counter and exposing his ass. He can hear Dean swallow, hard. “I will be once you’re back inside me, Dean.”
“Of course, angel.”
He really loves it when Dean calls him that. Something about it just sets his heart off, and he can’t help but whimper in retaliation; to that, Dean seems to label it as unfair, and tightly grips Cas’s hips in his hands. When he pushes back in, it’s less gentle, far more lustful, and God, if he didn’t know any better, Cas would comment on how downright salacious the grin his husband wears is. But that would lead to teasing, and Cas can’t possibly have that. He leans back into the rhythmic rutting of Dean’s hips, subtly requesting a tad more force, and he gets what he wants soon enough. It surprisingly doesn’t take long for Dean to take these cues, after all. He suspected having to spell it out, but he’s been pleasantly proven wrong, rather consistently, in fact. He groans, biting his lip and gripping the countertop like a vice.
“How are we feeling, baby? You like that?” Dean asks, voice low and positively sinful as he leans over Cas’s back and roughly snaps his hips forward. The smack of skin is enough to screw Cas’s eyes shut, his heart fluttering with some odd, euphoric grace.
“Faster,” Cas growls, eventually, though it takes a lot of effort and clenched teeth.
Dean chuckles, and if it weren’t for self control, Cas swears the heat coiling in his belly would have released with that. It’s miraculous he’s survived as long as he has, really; Dean is utterly lascivious by every definition, and it simply isn’t fair. Though Cas may not realize it, however, Dean is absolutely infatuated with the way Cas looks at this moment, hair disheveled, blue eyes blown wide with desire, lips bruised from their earlier kissing, skin flushed, ass overall perfect. The way he bends when Dean snaps into him, the way he keens when he hits that sweet spot just right, it’s addicting. Admittedly, he could get used to this. Definitely.
He obliges his husband’s request without complaint, thrusting at a much faster, more confident pace than before, coaxing an array of pleased sounds from Cas’s throat. Cas can hardly breathe, trying and failing to bite back the strangled moans that fall from his lips as Dean fucks into him. The pressure continues to bite into his control, tearing off pieces until there’s hardly any left and God, he doesn’t want to cum. Not yet, and if he can help it, not all over the cabinets and the counter. He looks reluctantly over his shoulder, eyes pleading as they connect with Dean’s vibrant green ones.
“I’m close,” Cas rasps, leaning forward and resting his temple against the countertop in exasperation, in exhaustion. Dean continues to smile, tracing tender circles into the soft skin of his ribs, bending to press a few loving kisses between his shoulder blades.
“Good, baby. That’s good. I’m with you, so cum for me, ‘kay? Let me hear you.”
Those words alone are enough to draw another whimper from him, spine arching in ecstasy as his husband rolls his hips one last time into Cas’s ass. He bites his lip, eyes slamming shut as he cums, hard, digging his nails into his palms and shuddering in relief. He’s amazed at how good it was; it’s been a long time since he’s came virtually untouched, if he’s ever done so at all. He exhales, sharp and labored, but he hasn’t forgotten that Dean still has an orgasm to experience himself. He takes a moment to himself, but doesn’t get much chance to help Dean out before he’s pulling his still-hard cock from the warmth of his hole and begins to stroke himself.
“Wait, Dean---” Cas blinks, lifting himself to stand straight (though his back aches). “What are you doing?”
Dean gives him a look, as if the answer is obvious. He supposes it is, but Cas appears ruffled anyway, turning and dropping to his knees in front of the man. Dean looks fairly starved, at that point, and Cas can’t help but feel mildly satisfied at the way he stares down at him, with that fierce, dirty hunger in his eyes.
“It’s better if you let me help you,” Cas explains, smiling as he inches closer, bracing his palms against Dean’s hips and gently running the roughness of his tongue along the underside of his shaft. He doesn’t miss the way his jaw tightens, holding back his noises, rather hypocritically , Cas thinks. “‘Let me hear you’,” he quotes with a smug, deep laugh, right before he takes him into his mouth. If his plea wasn’t enough to earn Dean’s sounds of graciousness, his throat definitely is. Dean lets out a rumbling groan to accompany the pleasure that burns in his gut, alongside the hidden urge to fuck into his mouth even further. Cas, of course, prevents this from happening, not the largest fan of gagging, and slowly bobs his head, sure to keep looking up at him. Dean doesn’t look away. If he couldn’t love the man more… Honestly.
“Cas, shit, I-I’m…” Dean trails off before he can think straight enough to finish his sentence, the warmth that pools in his stomach and his chest entirely too distracting to ignore. Cas simply progresses in his ministrations, moving his mouth, his tongue, head bobbing rhythmically. He can’t help that he cums then, directly down Cas’s throat, with no more warning provided; he’d venture to blame his husband with that way-too skilled mouth of his, and for a brief moment, Dean can’t avoid wondering how long it would take the Cas of his reality to get good at giving head. Damn.
“Oh, God, angel, I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, quickly kneeling to Cas’s level and wiping the little dribble of white that stripes his chin away. “I didn’t mean to---”
He begins again, but Cas stops him before he can finish.
“Don’t worry so much, Dean. I wanted to swallow it.” He chuckles, ghosting a kiss over Dean’s lips in spite of it. “Now, let’s… get this cleaned up. Sam is coming over in a few hours, after all. We can’t have him seeing, well, this.”
While Cas grabs a damp rag and begins wiping down the counter and cabinets, Dean heads to the bedroom to shower and get into a proper change of clothes. He doubts Sam would want to come over and see his brother looking naked and sweaty with a bad case of sex hair, but then again , he’s seen him in worse shape.
He sighs as he’s finishing up, feeling like a million bucks as he throws open the door of the bathroom, only to find that he’s back in the bunker. The sudden pit in his stomach tells him he’s back home if it’s not obvious enough, and he blinks back the surprise in his eyes, wondering how the Hell it could have been a dream if he’d never been asleep in the first place.
The only thing he does the rest of the day is wish he could go back.