#charlie is just a wiggly wobbly guy

[dirtgrubroy]

art imitates life

[wordstrings]

Loopy 5

A story of fluff and kink discovery. The third date. Word count: 5,100

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

(or read it on AO3)

—

Dean opens the shelter’s front door and enters chaos.

There are shouts. There are crashes. The display of collars and treat packs in the corner of the lobby is on its side with its products strewn across the floor like shattered glass. Footsteps are pounding away down the hall on his left. In front of him, Charlie is behind the service counter, standing precariously on the unstable seat of a swiveling office chair and squeaking down at her feet in dismay.

“What–” is all Dean gets out before a thunderous shout of “YOU FUCKER!” echoes out from the distant looper area, followed by a slamming door.

“Jailbreak!” Charlie chirps as she looks wildly about the floor below her. “One of the newer residents used to be a service looper and nobody told us. She opened her own crate and staged an uprising. Cas is–”

Another roar of frustration cuts through the halls. Some rooms away, something clatters.

“–is the only one who can wrangle them. I just go to a puddle if something tickles, and… no, get away, get out of here, you little monster!”

She grabs the pen behind her ear and hurls it at the floor somewhere behind the counter. There’s a scrabbling sound off to her right. Charlie yelps and grabs onto the chair’s backrest to keep from falling off, then starts scooting her weight atop the chair to make it roll a few inches in the opposite direction.

Never one to leave a lesbian in distress, Dean leans his palms on the counter and levers himself up a few inches to look down on the other side.

“Where is it?”

Charlie points toward the wastebasket. A slim black collar that looks like it belongs on a chihuahua is shuffling around in the empty space a few inches from the floor.

Dean vaults the counter and makes a grab for it. It evades; he swipes; it makes a break for the door; he dives after it.

“Gotcha.”

The invisible handful of wiggly looper grabs back at him, twining frantic tentacles around his wrist, his arm. Dean stands carefully and coos some soothing noises. A few soft strokes help the looper calm until its tentacles stop their grabbing and begin sliding gently between his fingers instead.

“Uh. What should I do with it?” he asks.

Charlie points out past the lobby as she climbs carefully down off the wobbly chair. “The crates in the looper room have numbers above each door. There should be a tag on that little guy’s collar that matches. If you think you can help Cas at all after putting that one back, just follow the yelling.”

Dean nods. “Will do.”

He tucks the looper into the crook of his arm like a football and begins picking his way out into the destruction. A tentacle or two rubs curiously at his elbow, but the poor thing is too stressed to do much more than that. He keeps petting it until they’ve reached the looper room. Locating the right crate is quick work, and once it’s secure with the wayward looper inside, he pauses to take in the rest of the room.

A good number of crates are still locked shut, but there are about a dozen vacant with doors hanging open. Dean hopes none of them were litters still being kept together. The staff will be hunting down teeny invisible looper pups for weeks if that’s the case.

A door opens somewhere out in the hallway. Dean steps out to see if he can help– and promptly gets hit by a truck.

A wide pink collar and trailing leash gallops away down the hall, leaving him flat on his ass and blinking spots from his eyes.

“I’m going to fucking– oh my god, Dean.”

Today is suddenly a million times better, because Cas is here. And touching him. Dean still feels a bit disoriented, but he manages to grin at his boyfriend.

(That term, applied to Cas, still makes him light up inside. He thought he’d gotten over the giddy bits, but it’s not like he’s required to tell anybody that, so who cares if it makes him feel a bit like a teen again. Boyfriend!)

“Are you alright? I’m so sorry, she’s an asshole–!” Cas calls accusingly down the hallway.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Dean insists, but accepts Cas’ hand in getting up. “Tell me how I can help.”

—

Nothing ever goes smoothly when Dean is around, Cas thinks. Not that it’s Dean’s fault – more like the universe has it out for Cas whenever Dean is present, always keeping him humble with a slip-up or complication out of his control.

Cas likes control. If there is a god, Cas decides they hate each other.

Even with Dean’s help, it’s an exhausting round-up getting the loose loopers wrangled. By the end of it, Cas has almost forgotten the whole reason Dean’s here in the first place: picking him up for their third date.

He feels grimy and tired. Humble.

Dean is nothing but gracious, offering small soothing touches and opening doors so Cas doesn’t have to. It’s a mercy that their plans involve takeout and a movie at Dean’s place. Cas would be a terrible date tonight if anything more socially strenuous were required of him.

—

There’s a lot to learn about a person when observing their living space.

Cas already knows Dean wears leather jackets and drives a muscle car, so the classic masculinity of his apartment is no surprise. The cleanliness, though, is unexpected. Not to say that there isn’t some clutter; the mail slot on the wall is packed with cockeyed junk mail, a corner of the coffee table holds short stacks of magazines, some piece of electronic equipment is laid open like a surgery patient on one end of the dining table. But there are no dirty dishes stacked in the sink, no haphazard piles of clothing on the floor. Dean keeps his space in order, making Cas feel like a comfortable guest rather than a surprise intruder.

The movie collection is, as promised, epic. Cas has visited his share of theaters for new releases, but he’s typically more of a channel-surfer in his entertainment choices. Dean, though, is clearly a movie buff, and the triple-wide bookcase that owns the space beneath the wall-mounted TV is lined with disc cases. They’re meticulously arranged in alphabetical order, with a tasteful selection of pop figures acting as occasional bookends. Framed posters of Indiana Jones and Han Solo look down on everything in approval.

Dean has a faint look of pride as he watches Cas take it all in.

“So what can I interest you in?” he asks, gesturing grandly. “Action, sci-fi, western, fantasy?”

The choices are somewhat overwhelming. Cas’ eyes skim the shelves, unsure where to even begin. He must look out of his depth, because Dean claps his shoulder and softens the demand with,

“Tell you what. I’ll grab us some drinks and takeout menus while you think about it.” He turns and heads into the kitchen. “Soda, beer, iced tea?”

“Water is fine,” Cas answers distractedly.

“Seriously?”

Cas rolls his eyes and continues scanning the choices. Sue him for trying to avoid excess sugar at night. He doesn’t even know most of these titles, and reading them over and over isn’t really helping him choose. “Yes, seriously.”

“The hell’s wrong with you. Water,” Dean scoffs amid the clinking of glassware.

At some point, Cas will figure out how to respond with wit to Dean’s teasing, instead of just having intrusive flashes of the man whining beneath him.

He’s still squinting at the rows of movies when Dean plops a glass on the end table behind him.

“One boring-ass water as requested. See anything you like?”

Cas pointedly turns his head to eye Dean up and down. It feels forward, but he thinks he’s allowed, now that they’re something official. Plus, the way Dean is comfortable in his own space is different from the ease he displays elsewhere out in the world. His posture melts into something a little more fluid and he moves with less direct purpose. He’s nice to look at all the time, but in here there’s an openness that’s very attractive – and makes Cas itch to swoop his way in.

Cas finishes his once-over and hums noncommittally.

Dean plays at being offended and makes to cover his chest in modesty. He grabs up a remote to turn on the TV.

“If you’re gonna be picky, we could play a video game instead, but I need you to tell me right now if you don’t like my taste in movies. Because then I’d have to kick you out.”

Cas eyes him. He’s never been one to rise when baited, but for some reason, it’s difficult not to respond when Dean is the one baiting him.

“You could try,” he says – as though he’d have any hope of not getting his ass kicked if Dean really put his mind to it. The guy’s arms are unfair; Cas has never really stopped calling him “lumberjack” in his head. He looks back at the shelf and continues, “But I’ve never actually seen any of these, so I can’t say for sure whether your taste is any good.”

“What? Okay, maybe I do need to kick you out. But only after, uh…” Dean steps up behind his shoulder to look closer. “A New Hope, or maybe Karate Kid. Unless you’re more of a Princess Bride guy.”

“I… don’t know what ‘kind of guy’ I am.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

There’s that low, teasing tone that always makes Cas’ spine tingle. The heat at his back presses in as Dean’s arm reaches over his shoulder to pluck a DVD from the shelf.

“Karate Kid it is. Let your education commence,” Dean says.

“Maybe after you point me to your restroom? Otherwise I’ll need a hall pass after act one.”

“Sure, just there to the left. We can talk food when you get back.”

—

As he exits the bathroom, Cas tips his head to one side, trying to relieve the lingering tightness in his neck. Further, further… crack-k-k. He groans with the release.

Dean frowns from the couch and sets down a handful of takeout menus. “You okay?”

Cas rolls his shoulders. “I spent over an hour chasing down troublemakers with tentacles, after cleaning out dog kennels all day. I’m alright, just sore.”

“Want me to work that out for you?” Dean pivots sideways on the couch and pats the space in front of him. “C’mere.”

“I didn’t know you were a chiropractor as well as a mechanic,” Cas says. It’s an invitation he can’t refuse, though, so he sits.

Dean slides in close and arranges his knees around Cas’ hips. “Ha. Years of wrestling with rusty bolts on a daily basis means my grip strength is pretty good. Let me know if anything hurts, ‘kay?”

“Okay.”

Dean’s hands are confident from the first touch. He strokes flat palms down and up Cas’ back, out and in along the angle of his shoulders, then starts pressing in with strong thumbs. Cas grunts pleasantly, until both of Dean’s hands direct a slow, rolling squeeze into the muscle on either side of Cas’ nape, which is just divine.

“Oh, there… that… that’s…”

Cas’ eyelids flutter and the rest of his sentence floats away from him. His body shuts down, like somebody’s walking through his veins and flicking off every light switch along the way. The only lights that stay on are along his nape, glowing with low-burning firelight that invites cozying up and staying a while. His boyfriend’s fingers are pressing unfiltered pleasure deep into his flesh. It’s rich, resonant, and just so... good. He’s had some great sex, sure, but those touches have always served to gear him up, not power him down. Nobody has touched him like this before. This… this is pure indulgence, and he is helpless beneath its sway.

Cas whimpers when Dean pushes firm, raking fingers up the sides of his neck and into his hair. They scratch, and drag, and press together to tug just so on the hairs caught in between the knuckles, and Cas finds himself making sounds he’s only ever made with his head pressing back into a pillow.

“You sure know how to make a guy feel appreciated, Cas,” Dean says, voice low and smiling.

“This is…” Cas breaks off with another weak noise. “O-oh…”

“Jesus.”

Cas tries to open his eyes. It only partially works, the room a soft blur beyond his lashes. “Hm?”

Dean’s hands continue to work his neck, the curve at the base of his skull, the tender skin behind his ears. “Nothin’, just… wasn’t quite expecting to learn your bedroom sounds tonight.”

“Mmm,” Cas manages in response. “You are… very good at this.”

Dean chuckles. “You’re gonna love finding out what other things I’m good at.”

“Ahh… mm. Me, too.”

“‘You too’ what?”

Cas purrs as Dean’s thumbs roll along his vertebrae. “You’ll love what I can do to you, too.”

Dean’s hands falter. “Y’know, Cas, I’m trying to be a gentleman, here. But the things that come out of your mouth…”

Cas hums a laugh. If they end up getting distracted and don’t make it to the movie part of the evening, he can’t say he’ll be disappointed.

With a huff that might be amusement, or exasperation, or possibly both, Dean continues massaging the length of his trapezius muscle, from his shoulder up his neck and back again. The heavier touches are interspersed with gentle, clawed scratches on his skin that encourage Cas’ head to roll forward in surrender to gravity. The further forward he goes, the softer the scratches gradually become. They feel heavenly.

A fingertip skates up through his hair behind his ear and the back of Cas’ skull fizzles. A helpless shudder fires down his spine.

“Oh, did I find your tingle spot?” Dean asks with a smile in his voice.

“My wh–aah,” Cas wheezes as Dean scritches there again, too-light and too-wonderful. His shoulders snap up with a violent shiver. Holy hell, nothing has ever felt like that before and his body can’t decide if it’s unbearable or too decadent for words.

“Your tingle spot,” Dean says. “Makes your whole head vibrate and feels freakin’ amazing. It’s kinda fickle though; doesn’t always work the same way all the time. Probably for the best… If I knew the secret formula, I’d go broke shooting up with it and using one of those wire head massagers ‘til I wasted away like a rat with an orgasm button.”

Barely half of that makes sense but Cas can’t process any more because Dean’s fingers are magic and his nervous system is lighting off a continuous finale of fireworks that is absolutely incapacitating. Every inch of skin prickles with goosebumps. He’s vaguely aware that he’s holding himself, hunched over his own lap, in danger of shaking apart like a shuttle re-entry gone wrong.

“Oh my god,” Cas chokes out. “Dea– hhhuuuh…”

Dean spider-scribbles that spot through his short hair with three fingertips, and it’s too much but Cas couldn’t possibly put a stop to it even as he shiver-trembles to bits. Orgasm button, indeed.

He’s suddenly gripped by a raw desire to hold Dean down and exploit his tingle spot while Dean gasps and shudders beneath him.

“Dean,” Cas keens, scrabbling a hand up behind his neck to take Dean’s wrist and–

“Alright, sorry,” Dean laughs and, in a tragic misinterpretation, stops and rubs him soothingly instead. “We’ll get back to the relaxing parts.”

Tragedy on top of tragedy, the contrast feels so nice that Cas can only sigh. Flipping Dean down onto his belly will have to wait.

There are fingernails scraping deliciously along Cas’ neck again, up into his hair and back down, in and out along the tops of his shoulders, resolving into deep rubs that press out the lingering tension like squeezing out a sponge.

“Mff. I’d sleep so much better if this happened every night,” Cas mumbles.

Knuckles drag firm lines down his spine, all the way to the low lumbar where they dig circles of just-right pressure. Dean makes a considering sound.

“I certainly wouldn’t mind doing this more often,” he says.

“…Yeah?” Cas says eloquently.

“Yeah.” One of Dean’s fingers nudges questioningly under the hem of Cas’ shirt. “Would, uh… would underneath be okay?”

Cas catches a breath. “Please.”

Dean's hands slip beneath his shirt and Cas melts.

A butterfly formation of ten warm fingertips drags along the naked skin of his lower back. Cas’ breath purrs its way out of his throat as the touch divides out to his flanks and rejoins toward his spine. Once again, the way Dean touches him is foreign – and gloriously so. These aren’t hard scratches or directing pulls. They inspire goosebumps up his sides and flutters from his eyelids. Dean explores his back slowly, drifting in long sweeps and gentle arcs. Cas can’t seem to stop humming with every exhale.

And Dean wants to do this more? Cas will pack a suitcase tomorrow and live on Dean’s couch indefinitely, becoming one with the cushions over months and years, so long as he gets that more.

Fingers skim along his shoulder blade and Cas’ hum leaps an octave.

His top half has jolted forward, shoulders folding back as if to protect themselves, and he didn’t consciously do any of it. A vague afterimage of some sharp-bladed sensation lingers where Dean touched.

What the hell was that?

“Whoa,” Dean says, startled, then, “Wait.”

One of his arms hooks around Cas’ stomach. The other hand skitters curiously across his shoulder blade again.

Cas’ torso revolts. A high, panicked sound bolts out of him as his spine tries to emergency exit through his chest. But Dean’s arm clamps tight, holding him in place.

“Oh my god,” Dean exclaims, “did I find a tickle spot?”

Hell if Cas knows, but holy shit, that’s so much more than the tingle spot. Dean’s fingers scribble eagerly and Cas abruptly loses all rational control of his body. He squirms and yelps like a madman, elbows flinging backward, back arching. Dean laughs excitedly, and before Cas knows it, he’s laughing too, helplessly full and loud as his limbic system pulls the trigger on fight-or-flight like a machine gun but Cas isn’t succeeding at either. If the tingle spot was fireworks, this is a lightning storm, miles wide and high and striking him through like the violent force of nature it is. Oh god, it– it tickles!

Dean’s trying to keep him caught, losing the battle with one arm versus Cas’ two, but he manages to fold a leg over Cas’ lap. He’s trying to bring up the other, too, and Cas’ instincts go feral to keep it from locking around him and sealing his fate. He torques and twists, grabbing at Dean’s arms, half-hysterical with laughter and desperation. They wrestle wildly as Cas twists himself around, needing to block Dean’s hands from his back. He shoves and snatches at Dean’s wrists, gets purchase on one, flails defensively at the other. They’re facing each other now, Cas up on his knees and kicking his leg over Dean’s so it can’t hook him from behind.

Now this is exhilarating: fighting Dean down while they both sputter and laugh. Dean is fantastically strong, and maybe if Cas hadn’t gotten turned around so quickly this would be heading for a different outcome. But he’s hopped up on adrenaline, and Dean is laughing too much to really strategize, so Cas is coming out on top (metaphorically and literally) as the tussle progresses.

And, of course, what better way to turn the tables than to start tickling Dean in retaliation?

The first tweak at his side makes Dean shout with laughter and fall back into the cushions. Cas launches a full assault, then, scribbling furiously at his ribs and belly and armpits while Dean swats back at him and tries to block too many spots at once.

“Help!” Dean cries, giggling all the while. “I’m being attacked! No, no, fuck! No, wait, you’re actually ticklish, you gotta let me– ahah!”

Cas is going to let him do nothing. His blood is pumping now, and having Dean thrashing and shrieking beneath him is the most intense hit of euphoria he’s ever had in his life. He crams his hands into every crevice Dean tries to defend until Dean’s just got his arms locked over his chest as he wails with laughter. His legs kick a pillow to the floor while he throws his head back, cackling with eyes squeezed tightly shut. Cas crab-claws ruthlessly down his side, and suddenly Dean’s thigh is slamming repeatedly into Cas’ ass and Dean is jackknifing up at him.

“Shit, no!” Dean frantically tries folding in half to make a squashed Cas sandwich. He scrabbles for Cas’ hand with fresh desperation. “Fuck you, fuck you, fffahaha!”

Down by his hip is evidently a weak spot. Cas grins ferociously.

He rolls his upper body to one side and reaches around behind Dean to grab Dean’s opposite shoulder. In a heave of motion, he throws himself back to center and bodily whips Dean facedown on the couch. A quick scoot backwards onto Dean’s thighs, and he can plow both hands down under the sides of Dean’s hips to tickle him there mercilessly.

Dean screams into the upholstery. His arms ram down to grapple with Cas’ hands. Cas shoots up to his ribs to throw off the counterattack, then bounces right back down again. Clawing into the joint at the top of Dean’s thigh makes him buck; kneading the pelvic bone makes him roar so desperately that Cas is sure he’s trying to hulk out. Cas rides every kick and spasm as Dean bows up and crashes down and laughs himself hoarse.

And all of that is from tickling through layers of cloth and denim. Cas wishes he could blink Dean nude. But barring that, he can at least ruck up the back of Dean’s shirt and burrow beneath it, which he does.

Dean gasps, chokes, “Worse! Worse, that’s so much worse, oh-ho-ho my god!”

The feel of his skin beneath Cas’ hands is rapturous. Cas tries spidering lighter strokes in the areas that aren’t jammed against couch or elbow. They don’t make Dean thrash as hard, but his laughter ratchets up the scale until he’s giggling madly, which is no lesser an aphrodisiac.

Cas tickles him, and tickles him, and tickles him, tearing more shreds of his strength away as the minutes tick on. He tries every spot he can reach, even up between Dean’s shoulders to see if that works on him, but nothing compares to how Dean loses his mind when his hips are tickled. So Cas always comes back to them, pinching and kneading and scribbling. The generous front pockets of Dean’s jeans offer plenty of room for wicked wiggling fingers, allowing Cas to find what new noises of mirthful anguish Dean is capable of making.

Soon, Dean is nothing but a weakly writhing mess, wheezing and sniggering with one hand pawing feebly at Cas’ wrist and the other fisted up by his head, too tired to pound the cushions any longer. The side of Dean’s face not pressed into the couch is streaked with damp lines and the heated flush of exertion. His eyebrows are knit up in overwhelm, his eyes scrunched and wet, his weary tortured grin glowing handsomely beneath laugh-tired cheeks.

Not even the loopers have managed to wring Dean out so thoroughly. He’s the most gorgeous fucking thing Cas has ever seen.

The draw is irresistible; Cas plants a hand on the cushion and bows down to hungrily kiss the side of his mouth.

Dean makes another spent noise before catching up and flimsily trying to return the kiss in confusion.

“Are… are you done?” he pants.

His mouth, however tired, is still enchanting and Cas continues chasing it for dopey kisses. “Mm-hmm.”

Dean whines out a sound of utter relief and goes boneless.

“Holy fuck,” he mumbles.

Cas nuzzles his cheek, kissing up the angle of his jaw. He spreads his knees to let his weight drop and settle across Dean’s back. His arms curl up around Dean’s shoulders to rub gently with his thumbs as he noses his way into the hot, inviting crook of Dean’s neck. More kisses are due, there on his neck and up on his ear and down on his shoulder.

Cas lavishes affection on him, because he’s so very good, so beautiful, so amazing in taking everything without begging Cas to stop.

Not even once. Cas noticed.

Being splayed in full-body contact over Dean’s broad back is a cuddle for the ages, especially as the buzz dissipates and the day’s fatigue sets in. Cas nuzzles in below his boyfriend’s ear and closes his eyes with a sigh. The urge is there to nibble something sensitive until Dean crumbles into giggles again, but Cas knows he’s earned some rest.

Dean folds up one arm to grasp clumsily at Cas’ hand curled on his shoulder and sags with a sigh of his own.

—

Dean jerks awake. He can’t breathe. He’s being crushed by a bus, his ribs are cracking, there’s no air–

“Cas,” he gasps, flailing a hand back over his shoulder. “Cas, you gotta get off me, I’m dying…”

There’s a startled snuffle behind his neck. “Mm?”

“Can’t breathe,” he croaks. Which isn’t completely accurate, the more his body comes awake; it’s just strained and uncomfortable with a full-grown man sprawled on top of him. “Gotta get up.”

Cas grunts and wriggles toward the couch back, sliding over the curve of Dean’s side and nestling on top of his arm instead. Circulation is a lower priority than oxygen so it’s fine for the moment.

“We fell asleep,” Dean says, as if that weren’t obvious. He levers up on his elbow and rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand. His tear ducts feel gluey. “What time is it?”

Cas wrinkles his nose with a sniffle. He almost clocks Dean in the head when he swings his wrist up to look at his watch.

“Um. Late.”

“Shit, we didn’t even eat. You’ve gotta be starving. Let me see what I’ve got in the pantry.”

He moves to sit up, but Cas grabs his shoulder to stop him.

“You know, technically,” Cas says, with his eyes drooping like he’d be happy to lay back and spend the whole night on this cramped, secondhand sofa, “we just slept together. Didn’t even make it to the dinner-and-a-movie part first.”

Dean shuts him up with a grinning kiss. Cas, the bastard, takes advantage, slipping down onto his back and hooking his arms behind Dean’s neck to pull him back down.

God, the way Cas kisses makes Dean weak. Cas had been kissing him earlier, but Dean could hardly have been called an active participant (because fuck, Cas had leveled him, and that’s more to come back to later); this is really the first time they’re making out while horizontal. And Cas is a full-body kisser, communicating with the entirety of himself in ways Dean isn’t even sure he could consciously pick out but are thrumming loud and clear. Cas might be flat on his back, but he’s definitely the one in charge. He is the ocean, and Dean is merely a boat riding the swells.

Dean thinks he might enjoy not being the one in charge.

But his stomach is gurgling.

“Hey, so,” he mumbles into Cas’ mouth. “One of those things I’m good at is cooking. It’s a little late for a three-course meal, but I could scramble us some eggs.”

Cas hums hungrily. He dips under Dean’s chin and l-l-licks a long line up his throat. All the air punches out of Dean’s chest as Cas murmurs, “That sounds delicious.”

Fuck, how is Dean ever supposed to get off this couch?

Looking back down at Cas is a mistake. Dean is immediately thrown back to their time in the trees last week, when Cas had looked ready to devour him. But this time, Cas’ expression is even more hooded, and he’s got his arms coiled like pythons around Dean’s neck, and Dean knows what it feels like to be helpless under him–

He actually whines when Cas slides a hand down to his chest and gives him an encouraging shove. Which he is not proud of, but the way it sharpens something in Cas’ eyes immediately takes away the embarrassment and hot-swaps it for something tingling.

“I prefer my eggs over-easy, actually,” Cas says. “For future reference.”

Dean will be lucky if he can remember where his own damn fridge is, let alone retain any other information right now. But he fumbles his way to standing, because whatever Cas wants, Dean is going to give. That’s just being a good host, he thinks, even as his neurons totter like newborn foals trying to figure out how the ground works. Cas is getting up to follow him, stretching his arms high towards the ceiling and arching his back, limber in a way that belies his muscled shoulders and thighs.

Shoulders. Right. That’s what started all this.

God, Dean needs to get hands on him again ASAP. Cas has been settling into that confidence of his the more time they spend together – which is hot as hell, actually – but cracking that in-control demeanor with a spike of laughter is mouth-watering. Dean wants to explore that crack like a careful archaeologist, dusting away the powdered rock to expose the precious thing hidden beneath.

He’ll make it happen. Somehow.

But first, he’s gotta cook some eggs without crumpling over when Cas benignly slides an arm around his waist, whether or not that cocked brow implies threat. He has to trust that Cas isn’t going to tickle him while he’s wielding a hot pan – though the path between the stove and the fridge appears to be fair game. Cas spends some time pacing alongside him, some time leaning against the counter, all the time watching him with eyes that are attentive and somewhat tender. It’s filling Dean back up, bit by bit, in the drained space inside where all his energy had been before takeout was forgotten. It feels good.

This kitchen has seen Dean dance, and sing, and maybe even cry once or twice. Now, he thinks it’ll see him laughing a lot more.