#fully brought to you by misha's forearms and back

[quillquiver]

dean comes home to britney blaring from somewhere in the bunker. there’s only one person who could be listening to music like that, but the loudness is weird. dean shoves most of the groceries into the fridge and makes his way towards the noise, grimacing the closer he gets. 

cas is working out.

cas is lifting barbell with two huge weights on either side, his face flushed as he grunts through a set of squats. he’s sweating through his flimsy, sleeveless shirt, his thighs straining against his indecently short little shorts as he sinks down. dean practically chokes on his own tongue. 

he totally doesn’t mean to stare, but it’s... the guy is strong. like, sure, as an angel he coulda lifted that thing without blinking an eye, but it’s kind of so much hotter to see him sweating for it and still getting the job done. 

like, really hot.

which is something dean is allowed to think, now that they’re... whatever they are. not dating but like. aware. of each other. in that capacity. whatever. cas lifts the bar over his head and lets the thing fall to the floor with a huge clang and dean basically jumps five feet in the air and then trips over his own feet. 

cas whips around as if ready to fight, relaxing once he sees dean. “oh,” he shouts. “it’s you.”

or at least that’s what dean thinks he says. the princess of pop is singing so loud about a circus that dean can feel it in his chest. “what?” he asks.

cas yells something again and dean still can’t hear shit. “what?!” he asks again.

grabbing the mug of what is probably gross and cold coffee from beside the weights, cas swallows a mouthful and rolls his eyes before walking over. “i said,” he says loudly. “it’s you.”

he’s... really close. close enough to touch, for sure. for dean to reach out and touch his damp shirt and the inside of his arm. close enough to kiss. “yeah,” dean replies, laughing for some reason totally beyond himself. “it’s me. i’m—me.” cas’s head tilts ever-so-slightly to the side and dean feels himself smile nervously. cas leans in a little and dean holds his breath and this is it, isn’t it, this is how their entire song and dance culminates: to britney spears’ baby one more time. it’s ridiculous. it’s mortifying.

fuck it.

dean kisses him. it’s way softer than he means to be; just the barest press of lips and he’s pulling away, buzzing. cas chases because he was never taught not to—never taught to play it cool—and soon dean is pressed against the inside of doorframe and digging his fingers into the insane muscles on cas’s back. fuck. fuck. fuck.

baby one more time has transitioned into gimme more.

dean opens his mouth and their kisses turn wet and sloppy. cas squeezes a big palmful of his ass and dean sinks his free hand into cas’s dark hair. it feels stupid and clumsy, but mostly it’s hot. and fun. dean hasn’t had fun like this in years. they trip over each other and end up sprawled on the ground. Dean makes quick work of shoving at cas’s shorts and cas slides his hand under dean’s shirt. the dude’s so into everything going on it’s hard to get him to focus on the next step. namely: take clothes off.

there’s a different song playing now, but it’s not britney. god, it’s like christina or j lo or—cas’s hand slides into the front of his boxers. dean pretty much only hears static after that.

...it’s only after, when they’re sprawled, panting, on the exercise mats that dean clues into the music. “dude, is this lizzo?”

cas hums. “part of my ‘pop gets shit done’ playlist.”

well alright then.