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Dean isn’t nesting. He’s not. He just isn’t. There’s no way that word applies to him. He’s just... the bunker affords him some freedoms that life on the road could never offer. Things he never realized he was yearning for. Comfort and security and luxury and routine. He never imagined he’d have anywhere this stable and now that he does, it turns out there are a lot of things about a solid home-life that have serious appeal to a guy in Dean’s position and he’s not one to pass up an opportunity to indulge in a good thing before it gets unceremoniously snatched out from under his nose.
But he’s not nesting.
He’s just not.
What he is doing, he constantly tells himself, is making up for lost time. He’s putting to good use the first full kitchen that’s ever been his and trying to make up for over thirty years of take-out burgers, diner food, and that terrible excuse for nachos you get at gas stations. Dean shudders to think of all that plastic cheese, the sickly orange sheen of the stuff as it falls in thick, goopy pools in the plastic tray. It’s only food by merit of the fact that it’s not, technically, toxic, and he is not going to miss eating that shit. He’s not going full Sam, of course. No gourmet kale salads or hippie-crunchy granola recipes here. He’s doing pot-roasts. He’s baking whole salmon. There have been a few curries, although Dean regrets those wholeheartedly because he thought Sam was bad after drive-through burritos, but it left him woefully unprepared for the after-effects of that particular dish. He has nearly perfected his burger recipe. There’s a spice blend he’s tweaked and re-tweaked until its borderline heavenly. Fried chicken and biscuits. He’s. Baked. Pies.
And it’s not just kitchen things. The appeal of having a stable and permanent home was never lost on Dean when he was sleeping in the back of his car and washing his clothes in laundromats (or not at all.) Sleeping in the same bed every night is an indulgence he never thought he’d have, but he won’t turn up his nose at it. Like, come on. Memory foam? His aching body, beaten to shit from all the years of fighting things that go bump in the night, nearly sang for joy the first time he lay down on that thing. He hasn’t slept that well in…well, ever. Having a room to put his things in, few though they are, is a nice piece of civility that he could certainly get by without but is glad not to have to. Having an actual closet to hang his shirts in, that’s something Dean never actually dreamed of. He thought he’d always be on the road, living out of a duffel bag. So he’s taking full advantage.
He has a laundry day. Fuck anyone who wants to make fun of the domesticity. He has an actual laundry day. Once a week on Thursdays, he strips his bed and demands that Cas and Sam do the same, gathers all the towels from the shower room, and trucks down to the big-ass industrial washers in the bowels of the bunker to do the washing. There’s like four of them. It’s really excessive. But it does mean that he can get all the towels and bedclothes and denim and flannel washed in the course of an afternoon, and then he gets to fall into bed on his magnificent memory foam mattress on clean sheets and sleep like a fuckin’ baby. He never realized how much motel sheets grossed him out until he realized he had other options. They’re disgusting.
And the other thing about the bunker, with its in-house laundry facilities and spacious rooms and state of the art (for the era it was built in) kitchen, is that there is downtime, and there is privacy. This is not a thing Dean has ever had, with the exception of the time after John disappeared and before Sam left Stanford to hunt with him. And there was no joy in that, and definitely no time to relax.
So the thing is, it was bound to happen.
Dean never told anyone, not a single soul, that the time Rhonda Hurley made him wear pink satin panties may have been the first, but it was most certainly not the last. He always kept them bundled up in the bottom of his duffel, wrapped in an old shirt and hidden beneath jeans and socks and flannel, but when he actually had the chance, he still wore them. Rhonda had taken back her own original pair, of course, but he’d procured others along the way, ones more appropriately sized for his hips, ones with ribbon and satin and bows, soft cotton ones that were nearly plain save for the lacy edging at the legs and fancier ones that were made entirely of lace and ones in every color he could imagine. He wore them infrequently, always hidden beneath his jeans and never when he had plans to let anyone see him in his underwear, but yeah, he still wore them.
But really, now that he’s got the bunker, it’s the perfect storm. He’s got a bedroom that’s all his own and an underwear drawer that no one else has any reason to be digging through, so the panties don’t have to live in the bottom of his duffel any more. And he’s got that same private room to dress in, so no one needs to know he’s putting them on in the first place. And they’re not really hunting all that much less but they are doing all their research from the safety of the bunker so there’s a lot more time where he doesn’t have to go anywhere. And he can wash the panties properly on a delicate cycle and then sneak them back to his room to hang them up to dry like you’re supposed to. So naturally, Dean’s started wearing them whenever he gets the chance.
At first, that’s just on days when they’re not doing anything hunting related. Sam goes into town for a supply run and Cas goes with him, so Dean puts on the red ones when he gets out of the shower, and all day he has the smooth slide of satin against his skin. It’s nice. And then it’s weeks before he gets a chance again. But then they end up trekking in to town for a couple beers one night and Dean figures he’s probably not going to get called on to kill anything while they’re at it, so he puts on the black pair with all the lace trim, and he tells himself that no one has to know.
Before long, Dean’s wearing panties almost exclusively, hiding them under his jeans and stealthily making sure no one sees what’s going into the machine on laundry day. Only, he’s not really being that stealth because neither Cas or Sam is paying any attention at all to the laundry other than to thank him when their stuff is returned, deposited outside their bedroom doors in laundry baskets.
Cas offers to help with laundry once. He finds Dean in the kitchen, crouched down to try to reach something in the back of a cupboard, and Dean absolutely freezes when Cas approaches. It’s an offer Dean dismisses, but he plays it off like he doesn’t wanna make Cas help with his chores just so he doesn’t have to explain why he’s hiding scraps of fabric while he teaches the former angel of the Lord how to operate a dryer. Cas accepts his explanation without too much of a fight, though, and Dean is off the hook.
“I’ll just go help Sam organize that storage room, then,” Cas announces, disappearing into the depths of the bunker without another word. Dean checks to make sure the waistband of his jeans isn’t riding low enough that there was anything for Cas to see, then breathes a sigh of relief. He’s wearing the blue pair today, the one he bought because it matches Cas’ eyes. If he’s going to get caught wearing panties, this is probably the last pair he wants to be seen in. He could probably survive a conversation about the panties, and he could probably survive being called out on the little crush he’s been harbouring for Cas’ dad only knows how long, but if he had to deal with both at the same time he’d probably spontaneously combust and these are kinda his favorite panties so he’d really rather not singe them.
It’s possible he’s being stupid.
He could totally just be imagining it.
But he could swear Cas knows what he’s hiding. Both things.
And he could swear that Cas is flirting with him.
It’s not like he’s got all that much experience flirting with guys, but logic dictates it’s fairly similar to flirting with girls. Compliment them. Physical contact. Laugh at their jokes. Find common interests to discuss. Make eye contact. It’s all very textbook. But Cas is new at this human thing, right? So there’s no reason to believe he’s got a handle on that shit, and even less reason to think that now, after all these years, he’s decided that he’s got eyes for Dean.
But like, all the things that make Dean comfortable about the bunker also leave more time for Cas to be doing whatever he wants. He’s not an angel anymore, so Heaven can’t call on him to go smite things. He’s got a room of his own and Dean would imagine, after the close quarters of his garrison for millennia, he’d be pretty keen on some alone time. But any time Dean isn’t in his own room with the door shut, it seems like Cas is right there with him. He doesn’t know how to cook so it’s not like he’s trying to help Dean make pies or anything, and he only offered to help with laundry that one time so it’s not about chores. He just seems to end up coincidentally occupying whatever room Dean is in.
And he loves Dean’s cooking. Can’t get enough of it. Sings praises from upon high every time Dean sets a plate in front of him regardless of what he’s made. It’s possible Cas just doesn’t know good food from bad, Dean supposes, seeing as he’s spent only the smallest amount of time in the very recent past even needing to eat, but that doesn’t mean his complimentary words and enthusiastic consumption don’t leave Dean grinning. It does make it hard to figure out what Cas’ favourites are, but whatever.
In any case, Dean’s original argument stands firm, and it’s maybe not the most dignified hill to die on but he’ll battle it to the death regardless.
He’s not nesting.
He’s just getting comfortable, is all.
And he’s doing really well at it. The bunker is home now and Dean is comfortable. They have a routine outside of those pesky hunts that keep cropping up, and if that routine involves him spending a great deal of time cooking and baking and laundering and also being in Cas’ presence, well, so be it. There’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all. Nope. He’ll bake his pies and wear his panties under his jeans and subtly check out his angel, the one that isn’t really his and also isn’t really an angel anymore either, and that’ll just be that.
Yeah.
Right.
He’s almost got himself convinced it can be that easy, too. He’s so well convinced that he’s pointedly not even thinking of what it is he’s supposed to be convincing himself of and is just blindly believing it, when Cas shows up at the door to his bedroom one fateful Friday afternoon.
Dean knows it’s Friday because he’d just done all the laundry yesterday, and the sheets on his bed are still nice and fresh and crisp. His pillow case is barely wrinkled and his room has the incredibly calming scent of clean laundry about it, a soothing, warming aroma that you never really catch when you’re thinking about it but always pick up subtle whiffs of when you’re pondering something else. Dean is leaned against the headboard of his neatly made bed with a book in hand, some predictable-as-fuck mystery novel he found in the library. He’s got time for predictable-as-fuck mystery novels now. He can read whatever he feels like, and he especially enjoys things that are so far out of the realm of research as to make an obvious statement that he’s clearly not researching, so the second he and Sam ascertained that this nondescript book was not, in fact, a cursed artefact that just appeared to be a predictable-as-fuck mystery novel, he claimed it for his own.
It’s obviously the butler that did it. Why even have a butler in your predictable-as-fuck mystery novel unless the butler did it? Dean’s solved enough real life mysteries in his day to see the red herrings for what they are and he’s totally confident he’s got this one solved. He’s only still reading so he can prove himself right. These sorts of victories are important. But he sets the book down anyway, marking his place with an actual, real bookmark, not a slip of receipt paper but a thing that was actually made for marking books, hence the name, and turns his attention to the guy in his doorway.
“What’s up, Cas?” he queries nonchalantly, pretending that the sight of Cas hovering at the entrance to his bedroom does not make him think about the things that he and Cas might do in this very room if the fabric of reality were to bend on itself and open up a wormhole into an alternate universe wherein Dean has the balls to actually act on his desire to do things with Cas. What kind of things, a person might ask. Things, Dean would reply emphatically, eyebrows waggling suggestively, and then fail to actually put words to any of those things, because this is not the alternate reality where Dean is yet capable of expressing such complex thoughts out loud. Those kind of things.
“You did my laundry,” Cas ventures carefully, like it isn’t something Dean does every single week and will probably continue doing every single week from here to eternity. It’s really not that much effort. Cas owns, in total, probably about two entire loads of laundry on a regular household washer. These industrial things could take everything Cas has plus all the towels he uses in his ridiculously long showers in one load, and still have room for all the shirts Dean has to change out of while cooking because he was too busy staring at Cas to notice that he was spilling food on himself.
“It’s no big deal,” Dean tells him, figuring that’s what this is about. As aforementioned, Cas has offered to help with the laundry, which Dean has declined, and will continue to decline for as long as he can continue coming up with halfway believable excuses for doing so.
“I think some of our things got mixed up,” Cas continues. Dean supresses an obnoxious desire to turn that statement into innuendo, nearly failing. He’s had to work on that urge around Cas, not only because most of the innuendos he might make could be misconstrued as a (very real) desire to get inside Cas’ various pants, but also because they would likely go over Cas’ gorgeously tousled head, and then he’d have to explain himself. At length. No thanks.
“You sure?” Dean replies. Being that Cas owns so little clothing, (they really ought to take him shopping), it’s not hard to keep track, and he’s nearly certain none of Cas’ shirts have ended up in his own closet. He does have one grey tee he got at a thrift shop that, when inside out, can easily be confused for Dean’s own AC/DC one, but Dean is currently wearing that shirt so it’s not that he gave Cas any of his own stuff by mistake. Cas is clearly confused about this entire matter. It’ll soon sort itself out.
“Certain.” Cas says firmly, stepping further into the room and swinging the door mostly shut behind him. Dean swallows involuntarily, his mouth going dry and his hands balling into fists on the bedspread beside him. He’s definitely never had a fantasy that started almost exactly like this. Nope. That didn’t happen. And he’s certainly not mentally reliving it right now while he tries to carry on a casual conversation about laundry ownership with his best friend. Nope.
From behind his back, Cas produces something small and pink, and Dean knows that he’s died in his sleep somehow, because this is Hell. The dainty cotton-candy colored lace protruding from Cas’ fist can only indicate the presence of one thing in this entire bunker, a thing Dean would most certainly rather have kept to himself, and there is absolutely nowhere to run.
“They’re clearly not Sam’s,” Cas explains with an air of confidence not unlike the one the detective in Dean’s predictable-as-fuck mystery novel will use when he reveals whodunit at the end of the book. “If he had something like this, he’d never throw it in with the laundry for you to do. You’d never let him hear the end of it. And they’re clearly not mine.” He lets the panties fall from his fist to dangle between thumb and forefinger, revealing that they are exactly the pair Dean thought they were. “So they’ve got to be yours. And before you try to evade,” Cas holds up a warning finger on his other hand as Dean opens his mouth to protest, “remember that I’m fully aware you have never brought a woman into this bunker, and they’re too large to have been Ch—“ he cuts himself off, a pained look flashing across his face. “Too large to have belonged to any of the female hunters we’re acquainted with. So they’re yours. Yes?”
There’s a heavy moment of eye contact between them, Dean like a deer in the headlights too panicked to run away and too startled to spring to his own defence, Cas with the casual predatory confidence of a mountain lion that’s just sighted its next meal. Dean wills his mouth to open and refute Cas’ argument, or just say no and refuse to explain further, but there’s this horrid little voice inside his head chanting show him show him show him, a reminder that the pink pair is nice, sure, but the black lace ones with the cut out, the ones he’s wearing right now, do a way better job of showing off his ass and if they’re gonna talk about panties, those are the ones that should be talked about. And there’s a split second of terrifying near-honesty when he almost does just that, offer to show Cas the rest of his collection, before his preservation instinct kicks in and he opens his mouth to croak out the weakest, least believable no in the history of spoken language. If he were on trial for murder right now, that denial alone would be obvious enough for a jury of his peers to convict him on the spot, and the judge would call it fair game.
“Whatever you say,” Cas says, rolling his eyes so hard it makes Dean’s face hurt in sympathy. “I’ll just hang on to these until I find out who they do belong to, then.” And he turns and strides out of the room like nothing at all happened, stuffing the traitorous pink lace into the pocket of his sweatpants.
When Dean picks his jaw up off the floor, the predictable-as-fuck mystery novel no longer seems like an appropriate distraction.
It’s about a week later that Dean manages to recover enough of his pride to stop hiding from eye contact with Cas and get over it. Ok, he’s not really over it, not really, but he is done losing his shit in panic over it. He’s also given up on getting the pink ones back, because he figures the only way to do that is to admit to Cas that they are his, which he’s not about to do, or to sneak into Cas’ room and steal them back, which, when Cas realizes they’re gone, will be just about the same as actually saying it. So, goodbye pink lace panties, you will be sorely missed. C’est la vie.
It’s also about a week later that Cas rips the seam in the back of his favorite sweat pants, the ones he stuffed said pink panties into the pocket of, so Dean grudgingly points him in the direction of the Impala and navigates a trip to the local Wal-Mart for a replacement pair. Cas has never owned anything brand new. Christ, even his body is second hand, come to think of it. It’s only fair that he at least has a fucking pair of sweatpants that no one else has worn before. Right now he’s all hand-me-down’s from Dean (Sam’s stuff is too long, obviously), and a few odds and ends they’ve grabbed from thrift stores. None of it is really Cas’ stuff.
So Wal-Mart it is.
When the doors slide open in front of them, Cas looks, understandably, apprehensive. It’s a fairly overwhelming place, really. The haze of the fluorescent lights, the ugly throngs milling about, no regard for the people around them, Dean hates all of it. But even with stolen credit cards they do have some kind of a budget to stick to, so if he wants to get Cas more than a single pair of jeans or more thrift store stuff, Wal-Mart is their only choice.
“Come on,” Dean directs firmly, clapping Cas on the shoulder. “Clothes are this way.” He heads off in the direction of the men’s wear section, weaving his way through the obnoxious crowds and, more than once, dodging out of the way of a shopping card driven by someone who cares not one bit if they run over his damn foot. Thank fuck for steel toed boots. He doesn’t stop to check if Cas is following him until he reaches the boundary of the area they’re looking for. Cas apparently did follow though, because he collides heavily with Dean’s back when he stops to glance over his shoulder.
“Careful,” Dean warns, stepping between racks of hanging product. “What do you need?”
Cas shrugs. “I don’t know. What do I need?”
Right. Newly human. Still figuring this out. Dean forgets sometimes, how little experience Cas has to draw on for this kind of shit.
“Probably a couple pairs of jeans, a few shirts, replace that sad pair of sweats you lost. See what catches your eye.” Dean waves his hand in a sweeping gesture that encompasses the majority of the clothes behind him. It’s more than a little amusing to watch Cas pick his way through the racks of shirts and sweaters. He’s so intent on everything he picks up, inspecting every single item like it holds the secrets of the universe in its myriad threads. Suddenly, what started out as a quick run in to town is beginning to seem like a lengthy shopping trip. He starts to feel a little annoyed but stamps it down. There wasn’t really anything else that needed doing today anyway, and hey, Cas appears seven kinds of happy about the stuff he’s picking out so Dean can deal.
When Cas strides back over with an armload of clothes, Dean starts to wish he’d grabbed a cart from the entrance. It’d be easier than lugging all this stuff around, at least. He grudgingly holds his arms out, expecting Cas to hand everything over, but instead he stops a few feet in front of Dean.
“What size jeans do I wear?” Cas asks.
“I don’t know, dude,” Dean shoots back. Sure, he’s spent a lot of time looking at Cas’ jeans, (specifically, the way they conform to the curve of his ass), but he has no idea what size they are.
“Can you check?”
Dean does a double take. He’s sure he’s heard wrong, because there is no way Cas just asked him to reach down his pants and check the size on the tag. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s been good. Ok, mostly good. Ok, terrible, but for good reasons. But he definitely doesn’t deserve this. The universe has no call to punish him so.
“Just grab a couple sizes and try them on. One of ‘em’s gotta fit.”
“Dean,” Cas responds flatly, doing his best impression of Sam’s bitchface. “Just check the tag for me.” He turns around, his back facing towards Dean, worn denim the only thing between Dean and his apparent quarry.
Dean blinks.
He swallows.
And he steps forward, letting his hands reach forward to grasp the waistband of Cas’ jeans.
Surprisingly, the world does not end.
“You’re a thirty four,” Dean says aloud after a quick inspection of the tag inside. You’re a ten, Dean’s traitorous inner monologue counters. Dean tells it to shut the fuck up, please and thanks. His inner monologue doesn’t have a face but if it did, it’d be smirking at him.
“Thanks,” Cas replies happily, then strides off to the wall o’ denim to find himself a damn pair of jeans.
At least it means this away mission is almost over, right?
Wrong.
“Dean!” Cas calls a few minutes later. Dean strides over to him without any prompting, finding Cas staring upwards with a perplexed look on his face. “The ones I want are up there.” He gestures upward with his chin and Dean follows the line of his gaze up the stacks of folded denim. From the stickers on the ends that are facing out, he can see the pair Cas is aiming for. Thirty Four waist, thirty two inseam, dark denim boot cut.
Cas would be able to reach them just fine if his arms weren’t full. They’re only a couple of shelves above his head.. But at this point there’s no way Cas can get the jeans himself. And Dean is only kind of a jerk, so like, of course he’s going to help.
Doesn’t mean he isn’t going to be dickish about it, though.
Dean heaves the biggest sigh, rolling his eyes like he’s getting paid for it, and strides up to the shelf. He plants his feet decisively, reaches up, and settles his hand on the pair of 34x34 bootcuts.
“These ones?” Dean asks, his voice full of exaggerated disdain.
Cas doesn’t reply.
Dean waits a moment, then glances over his shoulder to see what the hold-up is. Perhaps Cas has caught sight of something shiny and wandered away. But no, when he casts his eyes backwards he can see that Cas is definitely still standing there. And he’s not distracted. In fact, he’s watching pretty intently. And it takes Dean a couple seconds to realize what he’s staring at.
And then it all falls into place.
Dean’s reaching up far enough that his shirt is riding up his back. The jeans he’s wearing are about a half size too big and are probably hanging pretty low on his hips. And he’s wearing the blue panties, the ones that match Cas’ stupid eyes.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
It’s too late to do anything about it now. If there’s anything to see, Cas has seen all of it. So Dean does what he does best, which is to say, he pointedly pretends that nothing at all is wrong, everything is perfectly fucking fine thankyouverymuch. He grabs the damned jeans off the shelf, drops them on top of the pile that Cas is clutching to his chest, and, without making even the barest graze of eye contact, makes a beeline for the registers. He’s just gonna assume Cas is done shopping. Dean sure as fuck is.
After the Wal-Mart debacle, Dean goes back to wearing boxer briefs for a week or so. The two close calls he’s had since he started wearing the panties again are two too many. His poor old hunter’s heart can’t take it. Every time he’s in the room with Cas he’s on edge, looking for some kind of indication that Cas is going to say something about the little lacy secret. It ruins nearly all his fun, but it never comes up. After the apprehension of the first couple of days, Dean calms down about it, stops looking for the other shoe to drop, and puts panties back into his rotation.
Things are remarkably, surprisingly, calm for a few weeks, and Dean begins to think he’s out of the woods. Cas has grown bored of taunting him with what he knows, he tells himself. The ordeal is over, and he can go back thinking about what Cas looks like naked without ever forming any concrete plans to find out for realsies.
Yeah. Right.
And then, because Dean’s life has not been difficult enough up until this point and he apparently still has transgressions to atone for, things stop being calm.
It’s Thursday, laundry day, and after all the sheets are washed and the towels are folded and the clothes all put away, after dinner and dishes and all those domestic things Dean never thought he’d have but is quite happy to do, it’s just him and Cas in the library. Sam has fucked off somewhere in the bunker, ostensibly reading or perhaps sleeping or maybe just to escape the entirely palpable sexual tension that Dean, for one, is happy to deny until his very last breath. And he’d have kept on denying it too, goddamn it, until he eventually dies (providing it actually sticks this time), if it weren’t for Cas. Sometimes, Dean can’t tell if he’s completely fucking clueless or so totally clued in that he’s just playing them all for chumps. Either way, it catches Dean so totally off guard, sitting in the library with a beer in hand, when Cas decides that tonight, this innocuous Thursday, is the perfect time to have a bit of a chat.
“It’s not just the two pairs, is it?” he asks, not even lifting his eyes from the heavy, leather-bound tome on the table in front of him.
Dean slow blinks, trying desperately to maintain some kind of plausible deniability, but he doesn’t for a second believe that he’s succeeded. Still, the most important part of bluffing is to keep bluffing. Even after you’re caught, even once you’re called out. Deny, deny, deny.
“I mean, I know you said the pink ones weren’t yours,” Cas says, by way of explanation.
“I did say that,” Dean agrees.
“But there’s the blue ones.” He pauses, pointedly, eyes still focused on the page. Like he’s only casually interested. Like it isn’t a huge thing to bring up. “And those are definitely yours.”
If Dean were a smart man, he’d say nothing. He would keep his damn mouth shut, leave the room, and repress the entire thing until the next apocalypse pushes it to the back burner.
Spoiler alert: he ain’t that.
Instead, Dean does pretty much the polar opposite. He looks up at Cas, who is still staring at his book, his face twisted into some sort of hyperbolic expression of confusion, like some small and primal part of his brain is convinced he can actually play this one off and pretend he has no idea what Cas is talking about. Dean’s gotten pretty good at denying things over the years, but even he knows this is ridiculous
“I don’t know what you’re talking about dude,” Dean argues, an exercise in futility.
“No?” Cas replies, placid. His eyes finally lift off the page in front of him, and his gaze slides over Dean mercilessly. Dean’s never seen Cas like this before. Ok, no, that’s not true. Dean’s never seen Cas like this in real life. He’s seen Cas shift into this kind of mood more than once in his mind’s eye, when he’s living out fantasies he’s never once thought might come true.
“So you aren’t wearing lace panties under your jeans right this minute, is that what you’re trying to telling me?” Cas stares at him with those intense eyes, threatening to bore right through to his soul. Dean swallows the lump in his throat, opens his mouth to try to protest, and finds that he doesn’t have any words at his disposal at that exact moment.
“I bet they look gorgeous,” Cas continues, and there’s nothing placid about it. Dark and lustful, more like, and woah, yeah, imagining it is one thing but having it play out in real life? Pretty much short circuits Dean’s brain. “I bet you look gorgeous.”
“Dude,” Dean replies cleverly, some part of him still trying to pretend like he’s not 100% on board with whatever the fuck is happening right now.
A slow grin creeps across Cas’ face. “You could show me,” he suggests, and there’s no mistaking the delight in his eyes when Dean’s mouth hangs open in startled reply.
Very, very far in the back of Dean’s brain, there’s a little voice that is demanding he call a full stop to this injustice. It’s absurd, is what it is. How dare he? How dare Castiel, former angel of the lord and Dean’s best friend, currently wearing a decidedly male vessel, assume that consummate ladies’ man Dean Winchester might be ok with the suggestion that he show off his lacy underpants. It’s rude. It’s offensive. Yadda yadda yadda.
This is one very, very tiny voice though. The rest of Dean’s brain is some kind of excited, when it’s not too shocked to believe what is actually happening. He could listen to that tiny voice, the one that’s trying to ruin all his fun, but let’s be real here. Dean can consider himself a ladies man all he wants, hell, he can still be a ladies man, but it doesn’t change the fact that any time he accesses the spank bank lately, it’s blue eyes and dark hair and stubble and dicks he’s thinking of.
So he crams that voice into a tiny little box, locks it up, then demolishes it with the mental equivalent of C4 just for good measure. He doesn’t need that voice.
He does need to actually say something though. Cas is watching him intently, waiting for some kind of reply to his truly shocking inquiry. Once Dean gets over the holy shit holy shit holy shit moment and realizes this is actually happening, it’s pretty easy to talk himself into action. Instead of using words, which seem to be failing him, he pushes his chair back from the table and stands up. His hands are on his belt buckle, ready to just go through with this, when Cas motions him closer. Dean’s too caught up in the moment to do anything but obey. He finds his legs carrying him around the end of the table and over to where Cas is sitting, coming to a stop when he’s close enough that it reminds him of all the times he cautioned Cas about personal space. He doesn’t really want any of that personal space right now. What he really wants is for Cas to touch him.
It’s not even really so much admitting that he wants Cas to touch him that’s the problem, but rather, admitting that he’s wearing underwear of a style that is traditionally reserved for the fairer sex. The vast majority of Dean’s identity, the way he sees it, is wrapped up in that whole confirmed masculinity thing. Getting into panties in the first place took a tough-as-nails chick who didn’t take no for an answer, and he’s pretty sure she only pressed ‘cause it was a whole power-play thing and he was so resolutely against it in the first place. Acknowledging to himself that he liked the way they made him feel took a whole fuckton of thinking and drinking. Coming to terms with the idea that someone, especially someone he knows as well as he knows Cas, is going to see him in said panties is at best a little overwhelming.
But he’s doing it. He’s unbuckling his belt and he’s opening his fly, and somehow, he’s waded through the panic to this place where he’s mere seconds away from Cas catching a glimpse of his secret, one he wouldn’t be able to deny later.
It’s kinda thrilling.
It’s also kinda terrifying.
Before Dean can overanalyze further, though, Cas’ hands are covering his own, pushing open the fly of his jeans to reveal the tiny scrap of red lace. A small gasp escapes Cas’ lips, and for a moment Dean feels like he’s being judged, like this is all a terrible idea and he’s going to regret it every single day for the rest of his existence and probably afterwards. But when he glances down and catches the look on Cas’ face, his worries melt away into nothing.
“Oh Dean,” Cas intones with reverence in his voice. “They’re beautiful.”
“It’s…they’re…” Dean chokes on his words. “I just like…”
“You don’t have to explain,” Cas assures him. “It’s ok to like things that make you feel good. This is what you’re always trying to teach me, right? One of the best things about being human is having the freedom to make all your own choices. This is a good choice.”
Dean blushes furiously, a deep pink hue spreading from high on his cheeks all the way down his throat, probably making an appearance across his chest as well. He can feel the heat rising in his skin, and with Cas’ hands so close, still hanging on to the waistband of his jeans, something else is starting to rise as well. Carefully, Cas begins to push Dean’s jeans down over his hips.
“May I?” he asks, his voice soft yet confident. There’s nothing to his tone that leads Dean to believe Cas actually thinks he’s gonna get a no in response, but it does a whole lot to settle his nerves anyway. Dean could say no if he didn’t want this, if this was some kind of strange bizarro-world where this isn’t what he’s been fantasizing about for-fucking-ever, and Cas would totally respect that.
“Yeah,” Dean rasps, his voice thick with lust. “Yeah that’s good. But we’re kinda in the middle of the library.” Honestly, Dean is impressed with himself that he’s got the presence of mind to be aware of their surroundings, let alone say something about it.
“Good point,” Cas concedes, cocking his head to the side inquisitively. “I suppose we could relocate. If you want to show me more, that is.”
“I do,” Dean tells him confidently. “Come on.” He buttons his pants back up, just to keep them on during the short trek to his room, but doesn’t bother with the fly or the belt. If Dean is reading this right and he’s pretty sure he is, then he’s not going to be wearing them for very long after the door shuts behind them.
Dean glances over his shoulder once, after just a couple of steps, to make sure he’s being followed. Cas is thankfully hot on his heels, a look of determination on his face as he strides quickly down the hallway. A left, a right, then another left, and Dean will have them at the door to his room.
Its’ not even enough time to panic properly, apparently. By the time he’s drawing a deep breath and stepping into the shadows of his bedroom, his brain is only just starting to think about the implications of crossing this line with Cas, and he’s nowhere near to having an oh shit moment about it yet. And then Cas is crowding him through the doorway, a gentle hand on the small of his back guiding him into the darkness. Cas shuts the door behind them, pitching the entire room into near perfect darkness. Only a sliver of light sneaks through at the bottom.
“That’s no good,” Cas’ voice rumbles out. “You should turn a lamp on so I can see you. Kinda defeats the purpose otherwise.”
“Yeah ok,” Dean murmurs. He picks a careful path across the room, trying to sketch the floorplan out from memory so he doesn’t bloody his shin on the edge of something. Thankfully, he finds the nightstand without any major injuries, shutting his eyes as he flips the light on so it doesn’t shock his pupils. “There,” he says, a pointless announcement because Cas has eyes too, so he can clearly tell Dean has accomplished his goal.
“Much better,” Cas assures him. “Now, you had something to show me, didn’t you?”
It’s better to get these things over with quickly. It’s just like ripping off a band-aid, only in this case the band-aid is pants. With that in mind, Dean takes the deepest of breaths, quickly and efficiently unbuttons his pants, and throws them to the floor. No hesitation. No second guessing. The thing is done.
He should feel…exposed. And on some level, he does. You know, on account of the fact that he is, in actuality, exposed. But that’s not such a bad thing, because it’s Cas he’s exposed to, and Cas is eyeing him up with all sorts of bad ideas painted all over his face. Dean has just enough time to decide he’s probably on board for whatever those bad ideas might be but not quite enough to think about the actual details, and then somehow Cas has crossed the room without him noticing. His hands rise up, moving as if to take hold of Dean’s hips and then, for the first time this evening, he hesitates.
“Is this…” Cas asks carefully. “Do you want this?”
A couple of years ago, Dean would have jumped on the out. He’d have been too scared of facing his own desires to go through with this. Now though, in the moment, there’s not a shred of that left. He’s been thinking about this plenty over the past little while, though he’s been doing his best to pretend he hasn’t. No part of Dean’s brain wants to pretend right now. He’s waited long enough.
“Yeah,” he tells Cas sincerely. “I want this.”
“Good,” Cas affirms. His fingertips skate along the skin just above the red lace of Dean’s panties, sliding their way up under the hem of his shirt to push it higher and higher until Dean raises his arms up above his head to let Cas slide the shirt off. His skin pebbles though the room isn’t that cool, and by contrast, Cas’ fingertips seem to leave fire in their wake. Dean’s nearly naked, and Cas is still fully clothed, the new sweatpants they scored at Wal-Mart doing nothing at all to disguise the hard-on he’s sporting. “You don’t take well to subtle hints, do you?”
“What can I say?” Dean replies, hiding behind his sass like usual. “Always been a little slow.”
“Don’t,” Cas warns. “You’re not.” And then, in case Dean had plans to protest, Cas kisses him soundly. It’s the first touch of their lips, the first time Dean gets to feel this instead of dreaming about it, and it chases away all other thoughts as if they’d never existed. From the second their lips meet he can think of nothing but Cas, and even if he could tear his mind away he wouldn’t want to. The scent of Cas’ skin fills his lungs, his touch is all Dean can feel, and in that moment, Dean can’t remember why he ever denied wanting this.
Dean’s brain finally catches up and his hands get in the game, coming up to finally run through that mess of hair atop Cas’ head. Cas laughs softly against his lips, but he doesn’t protest. Instead, his hands slide around to grab greedily at the curves of Dean’s ass, his fingernails biting into the skin. They’re pressed close enough that Dean can feel Cas’ cock grinding up against his thigh, his own dick pressing against Cas’ leg with a delicious kind of friction. They kiss like they’re making up for lost time, like it means everything, like nothing else in the world matters at all. They kiss for so long that Dean forgets there’s anything else in the world they could be doing.
When they finally break away from the kiss, Cas leans in impossibly close, bringing his lips close enough to whisper in Dean’s ear.
“You can’t begin to understand how much I’ve thought about this,” Cas tells him in a low rumble.
“Well stop thinking,” Dean shoots back, finally regaining enough sense to hand out snark. “Do something about it.” Then, taking his own advice, he drops his hands to Cas’ waist and pushes his shirt up, getting his first touch of skin he’s dreamed about for god only knows how long. Cas is warm beneath his fingers, smooth and strong and so perfect, and he gets just enough time to ponder how much he’s going to enjoy learning every inch of it before he finds himself being spun around and pushed onto his bed. He lands heavily on his back, legs splayed out at wild angles. How disheveled he must look, the red lace barely containing his erection and nothing else to hide behind.
Cas spares him a brief smile that falls somewhere between devious and mirthful before he climbs onto the bed between Dean’s knees, pushing his thighs apart with careful hands so he can settle in close. His hands grip tight to Dean’s sides, thumbs pressing into his ribs. Dean arches up into it, desperate to feel everything.
“It took me a while to figure this out,” Cas explains almost casually. He leans down, taking one of Dean’s nipples between his teeth and teasing it mercilessly. The tip of his tongue darts out to flick against the hardened nub, then he speaks again. “It’s not a feeling I ever experienced as an angel. Definitely not one I ever understood. It’s…it’s overwhelming.” Cas ducks his head, licking experimentally between Dean’s pecs and sending a shiver up his spine. “I think I like it though. Desire. That’s what you call it. I desire you.”
The low timbre of his voice shouldn’t have such power over Dean, but should and is are frequently different things. Dean shouldn’t be thinking about getting a taste of Cas’ skin. He shouldn’t be wondering if he can fit Cas’ whole cock in his mouth at once. He shouldn’t be regretting all the time he wasted pretending he doesn’t want these things. He is though. He’s doing all those things, so in the face of overwhelming odds he does the only thing that makes sense. He slides his hand between their bodies and goes for something he probably shouldn’t want, pushing his fingers past the waistband of Cas’ sweatpants and inside his boxers, and taking hold of the thick shaft of his cock. Cas groans, a little startled. Almost immediately, he starts rocking his hips in time with the motion of Dean’s hand, driving himself forward to take advantage of as much friction as he’s afforded. And then it’s not about should and is anymore, it’s just about sensation and desire and pleasure.
He should probably tell Cas he shares in his desire, but words seem to be beyond Dean’s reach at this exact moment. So he doesn’t say it, but he shows it with actions. He drags his thumb through the precome at the tip of Cas’ leaking cock and jerks his cock in all the way Dean likes his own dick touched. He nibbles softly at Cas’ earlobe and moans softly when Cas’ thigh grinds against his lace-covered crotch. He holds Cas close and makes sure that, if he can’t tell Cas how much he wants him here, his every touch leaves no desire in Cas’ mind how much this is exactly what Dean wants.
For a few minutes, Cas appears content to let Dean take control, but it doesn’t last. At first, Dean is kissing Cas, touching and teasing him and bringing him pleasure, but the balance soon shifts. Before Dean really registers the change, Cas is the one controlling the tempo and pressure of their lips, and Dean may be the one gripping his cock but it’s more that his hand is in play while Cas thrusts into it. A sound that is closer to a growl than anything else emanates from Cas’ throat, and before he knows it, Cas is taking control.
“I want to be inside you,” he tells Dean, his voice a taunting promise of how good that’s going to feel. Dean’s had a dick in his ass before, sure, but never from someone he’s had, you know, feelings for, so this is kind of a big deal. Everything about this is a big deal, and he’s not freaking out, and that fact in itself is an entirely separate big deal but, ok, that’s a problem for later. Right now, he’s got the object of about 100% of his recent masturbation fantasies pinning him to the mattress. That ain’t half bad.
“Well,” Dean replies, ever the cocky one. “Better get at it then. Don’t keep a guy waiting.”
And it’s funny, because Cas said he only recently came to understand the entire concept of desire, but he appears to be totally up to speed on the details of acting on it. He reaches into the top drawer of Dean’s nightstand like he totally knows there’s going to be a bottle of astroglide sitting in there, and he pushes his pants and boxers to the floor with no preamble. Dean gets his first look at Cas’ cock, his mouth watering at the very sight of it. Fuck, he wants it. He wants to get his lips on it, or he wants to get it in his ass, but he wants it.
As it turns out, the choice is taken entirely out of his hands. The second Cas’ pants hit the floor, he’s got his hands on Dean’s thighs pushing them back so he can pull the lace of the panties aside and slide a slick finger between Dean’s cheeks. Another time, Cas might tease. Dean hopes he’ll tease. He hopes there’ll be a next time. But right now, none of that. He goes straight for it, pushing the tip of one finger into the tight furl of Dean’s hole. Dean moans softly, earning an amused chuckle from Cas. The single finger presses in slowly, carefully, twisting and pushing until the burn fades and all that’s left is the pleasure of friction. Then he adds a second, an soon a third, and before long, Dean is moaning and writhing on the bed, arching his back and chasing all the pleasure Cas’ fingers can give him.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Cas tells him. “Just stunning. I almost don’t want to take these off of you.” He snaps the lace of the panties’ waistband, then presses the heel of his hand to Dean’s aching cock.
“So don’t,” Dean retorts. “Leave ‘em on.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Cas asks, clearly rhetorical. “Just push your panties aside and bury myself inside you. Keep your cock trapped in lace while I drive into you.” And holy mother of fuck, Dean would not expect himself to be quite so turned on by that, he doesn’t usually go in for dirty talk, but an angel spewing filth like that makes him harder than he could possibly imagine. “I think that’s exactly what I’ll do. I think that’s what you want.”
Cas knows him so well out in the real world. He know show Dean hunts and how he thinks, how he lives his life and what motivates him. It shouldn’t be any surprise that he reads Dean this well in bed too. But it is, and he does, and that’s exactly what Dean wants.
When Cas fits the head of his cock to Dean’s hole, it’s like sparks on all his nerve endings. He’s hard and slick with lube, and he drives in so painfully, carefully slow that Dean can feel every single inch of Cas filling him up and splitting him open. He groans because he can’t keep it in, and he grips Cas’ shoulders because he needs it to ground him, and he prays, silently in the back of his mind, that this moment never ends.
Cas rocks into him rhythmically, a methodical push of his hips driving the length of his perfect cock into Dean’s ass. He’s careful but fierce, tender but fevered, and a million other contradictions that Dean doesn’t have time to process because he’s way too busy being lit on fire with the pleasure of it. His heart hammers in his chest and his lungs burn from gasping for breath. His fingers hurt from gripping so fiercely at Cas’ biceps, and Dean never wants it to end. Cas claims his lips in a passionate kiss, licking into his mouth with a fumbling kind of enthusiasm that is so much more endearing than it should be.
It’s not long before Dean feels the heat of his climax looming, a building wave that threatens to overtake him. He wants it to go on longer than this so he fights against it tooth and nail, but there’s nothing to be done for it. Cas is fucking into him good and hard, and the friction of their bodies is more than enough to coax his cock towards orgasm, and so no matter how much he tries to hold it off, Dean soon finds himself spilling hot and messy between them. His release clings to the skin of his belly and makes a mess of his lace panties, and Cas doesn’t stop rutting into him for a second. He doesn’t even slow, though the broad grin on his face makes it clear he knows Dean’s already come. He just keeps fucking, taking his pleasure from Dean’s willing body for as long as he can, and Dean is perfectly happy to let him.
When Cas finally does come, he collapses in a heavy heap, the full weight of his body bearing down on Dean as he heaves laboured breaths and once again skates the tips of his fingers over Dean’s hips. It nearly tickles now with all the endorphins coursing through his veins, the oversensitivity of his skin. Dean welcomes every second of it even if it makes him squirm.
Dean’s body wants sleep. It’s hard not to crave it after an orgasm that intense, but he’s leery that this might be a single session kind of thing and he doesn’t want to waste a moment. Cas just learned of desire. He said it with his own mouth. Dean’s not sure he could live with himself If he passed up the only opportunity he’ll ever have to linger in the afterglow with the being that dragged him from literal hell. It’s not an experience one passes up lightly.
When Cas rolls off to the side, Dean fears it’s over, that the moment has passed and the damage done. But all he seeks to accomplish, apparently, is to shift his weight off of Dean’s weary body and settle down beside him, arms wrapped around Dean’s waist. Cas holds him close, their bodies pressed together as tight as any two people can be, and it’s long, quiet minutes before either of them sees fit to speak again.
“I can return to my own room, if you prefer,” Cas assures him. Dean detects a note of worry there, one he won’t acknowledge out loud, but it’s there whether he chooses to or not. “But I’d rather stay here if you’d have me.”
“Of course I’ll have you,” Dean tells him, eternally glad that Cas wants to be here because Dean, personally, would rather not have him be anywhere else.
They don’t move for the longest while. Cas’ arms grow looser around his waist, and the come on Dean’s belly grows cold and sticky, but still they stay. Gradually, they curl onto their sides, and Dean’s panties get discarded, and someone’s shirt serves as a towel to clean them up. A sheet is draped over them, then a blanket. Then, because Cas starts shivering in the middle of the night, an extra blanket makes its’ way out of the cupboard and onto the bed. It’s just coincidence that the bed resembles a nest of blankets by the morning.
Because Dean isn’t nesting.
He’s just happy.