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Dean wakes and sits up instantly, reaching for the knife under his pillow. He searches the room for the hidden monster that has his blood pumping and his adrenalin through the roof.
Nothing. There’s nothing wrong. He’s in bed, in the home he and Castiel built with their bare hands. A monster-free zone, just as Dean had promised the other man when they’d finally finished. When they come here, they come to take a break from hunting, from saving people. They visit three or four times a year, usually after a particularly brutal hunt, to leave the blood and dirt and weapons behind them and to revel in each other.
Dean turns around to smile at his angel, but Castiel isn’t in bed with him. He freezes. This is what woke him, what's making him feel so on edge. Where’s Cas? Did something find them here?
“Dean,” he hears Castiel calling from the stairs. Collapsing back into their bed, he exhales and rolls his eyes at himself. His body can’t get through five minutes in bed without his lover before going into panic mode? What’s wrong with him?
“What?” he calls back out. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?” Castiel says from the doorway. “i heard you waking up. i just wanted to say good morning.”
Dean sits up again to smile at Castiel but he stops mid-way, his mouth open and his throat working. Castiel- his boyfriend, his lover, his angel- stands in the doorway, engulfed in one of Dean’s too-big plaid shirts. Jimmy’s body is a good six feet tall, but Castiel is almost dwarfed by the shirt. It reaches just above mid-thigh, and Dean instantly hardens as he closes his mouth and tries to swallow, wondering-
“Cas,” he says hoarsely, “baby, are you wearing anything under-”
He waves in the general direction of the fallen angel, unable to say anything more. Castiel shakes his head innocently, and Dean can’t tell if it’s mock innocence or if, after all this time, Castiel still actually doesn’t know what he does to Dean. They wear each other’s clothes when necessary, of course, especially when they run out of clean clothes on a hunt, but this. This is different. They’d never worn each other’s clothes so intimately. Dean’s instincts are screaming at him. Yours. He is yours. Make him yours.
He throws the covers off and stands up, naked. Castiel eyes drift downward and he makes a move towards him, grinning, but Dean puts up a hand. Realizing that something is different, even if he doesn’t completely understand what, Castiel stills, his grin fading, and watches as Dean stalks towards him.
“Dean,” he says quietly when the other man reaches him. Dean looks at him, and the lust, the need to possess, that burns in his eyes makes Castiel weak in the knees. He wants to lean back against the wall, but Dean preempts him, grabbing him and shoving him up against the wall.
The kiss that follows is hard, rough, almost an attack, and Castiel can do nothing but respond to Dean’s fervor and try to keep up. He doesn’t know what brought this on, but he’ll take it, whatever it is. Dean’s tongue fucks into his mouth, thrusting, taking, devouring him, and Castiel is overcome, a strangled cry leaving his throat only to be caught by Dean’s mouth. He wants to wrap his arms around Dean, return the embrace in full, but Dean slams his arms against the wall, trapping Castiel’s body with his. He lifts his lips and looks down at the man in his hold, his head thrown back, his throat working, his nipples peaking through the shirt and his cock achingly hard.
Dean’s hand wraps around Castiel’s throat gently and Castiel cries out. Dean’s touch is everywhere at once, his other hand and lips caressing, kneading, marking. It feels as if castiel’s grace is being torn apart and put back together at the same time, and he fights to inhale.
“Am i hurting you?” Dean breathes against his lips, pulling back an inch, concern tearing through the passion. “Cas, are you-“
Castiel shakes his head, gasping. “Dean,” he begs. “Dean, please.” Dean’s eyes burn again and he leans back, only as much as necessary to lift the shirt and fist the other man. He strokes him, slow and teasing.
“Mine,” he demands. “You’re mine, Cas. Say it.” Castiel keens, and the sound almost brings Dean to his knees, but he keeps eye contact with the angel. “Say it.” His strokes quicken, and Castiel leans his head back against the door, his mouth open, his muscles straining.
“Dean, I’m going to-“
“Say you’re mine,” Dean bites out.
“Dean,” Castiel gasps again, his eyes meeting Dean’s. He breathes in, hesitates, and then lowers his arm from the wall, reaching to cup Dean's face in his hands. The look on his face is submissive, earnest, determined.
“I’m yours,” Castiel says, smoothing out dean's eyebrows with his thumbs. “When god gave me Thursdays, he also gave me Dean Winchester. I've always been yours. And I will always be yours.”
Dean's expression calms slightly, but the possessiveness is still there when he leans in and takes Castiel's mouth with his, hot and wet and passionately staking his claim as he thrusts against him. Castiel opens for him, loops his arms around Dean's neck and lets him take.
"Yours," Castiel breathes out when Dean pulls back, and with one more thrust, Castiel is coming hard on Dean's stomach, crying out his name, "Dean, I'm- fuck- yours, always- Dean-" He can't say anything anymore, riding out the waves of his orgasm as Dean holds him up against him, watching Castiel fall apart because of him.
The fallen angel quiets as he comes down, still murmuring Dean’s name, and Dean, still hard and wanting, shushes him, pulls him into his arms, pressing kisses everywhere. Castiel’s head, his temple, his eyelids, his cheek, his chin, his throat. Castiel calms, but still needs to lean on Dean when he walks them over to the bed, where they lie down and Dean gathers Castiel into his arms.
When Castiel reaches over to Dean’s erection, Dean shakes his head, taking Cas’s hand and kissing his knuckles. He shifts, lying on his side, and pulls Castiel in to hold him closely. “Shhh,” he says, “it’s okay. Go to sleep. Let me take care of you.”
“What was that, Dean?” Castiel murmurs against his chest, the confusion in his voice clear. Dean’s hand cards through his hair and he shivers, burrowing closer.
“You wore my shirt,” Dean explains simply.
“Well then,” Castiel says, and Dean can hear the sleepy amusement in his voice, “next time I wear your shirt I at least expect to be fucked.”
“Thoroughly,” Dean promises, and smiles when Cas nuzzles his nose into Dean’s collarbone.