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Dean did not like mornings.
As far as he was concerned, they sucked. Completely and totally. Five thirty was too early to wake up and start doing adult shit, especially without coffee. There was absolutely nothing enjoyable about it, not the birdsong or the colors that streaked across the sky.
Nothing.
People who willingly woke up at the asscrack of dawn were crazy. There was no doubt in his mind.
Fortunately, his boyfriend was not one of those people. Despite being a mob boss, Cas was very much sane. And, Dean thought jealously as he dragged himself out of bed (before the fucking asscrack of dawn), he was very much asleep.
More and more often, Cas spent the night at Dean’s apartment, something that Dean loved. He’d get home from work, and half the time, Cas had let himself in and was sitting patiently on the couch or frowning at whatever was in Dean’s fridge. Dean would cook or they’d order take out, settle down on the couch while he graded with his feet on Cas’ lap, and eventually, they made their way to Dean’s room.
Whether they slept right away or not was another story, but, well. Sex or no sex, they ended up wrapped around each other, because Cas was a cuddler.
Dean wouldn’t trade any of it. Except for, ya know, the part where he had to disentangle himself from the octopus his boyfriend turned into in the middle of the night to go to work. Like now.
It was still dark, but Dean could still make out Cas. His face was smushed into Dean’s pillow, arms and legs sprawled out towards Dean’s side of the bed. His hair stuck up in all directions, and Dean couldn’t help his smile.
This was so unlike the Cas he saw during the day— that Cas was much more serious, all piercing baby blues and squints. Still a dork at times, but solemn and almost always unwavering. This Cas was soft, beautiful and almost a complete contrast of the one Dean saw when he was awake.
Dean stood there for a few more moments, smiling before running a gentle hand through Cas’ hair and drowsily stumbling into the kitchen for coffee.
It didn’t take particularly long for him to get ready. He threw on clothes, drowned himself in caffeine, and stuffed his sketchbook into his bag before grabbing a post-it from a drawer.
there’s still coffee, he scribbled. can’t have my little mobster half asleep while he’s kicking ass. see you later.
He pulled it off the pad and stuck it to the fridge.
With one last thought of I hate mornings, Dean slung his bag over his shoulder and slipped out of the apartment.
“I’m not little,” were the first words out of Cas’ mouth when Dean got home.
“Hello to you, too, amore,” Dean said, dropping his bag by the door before moving in towards Cas.
Cas sighed at the endearment. “You’re ridiculous,” he said.
Dean grinned at him. “Who, me?”
“Yes,” Cas said. “You and your absurd quest to turn our lives into The Godfather.”
“C’mon, Cas, it’s a classic. And you’re a mobster, mio caro— oomph!” Cas cut him off with a hard kiss that had Dean grabbing his shoulders to keep his balance. He melted into it, pulling Cas closer, until—
Dean pushed him back, meeting his eyes. “That’s cheating,” he complained.
Cas looked amused. “It’s effective.”
“You’re— effective,” Dean tried.
“Good,” Cas said.
Dean shot him a look. “Shut up.”
Despite his impressive poker face, it was clear that Cas was internally laughing at him.
Yeah. This was the guy Dean was falling in love with.
“Anyway,” he said, moving towards the fridge, “I’m making burgers tonight, if you’re sticking around?” Dean didn’t have to ask— Cas usually stayed.
“Of course,” Cas said.
“Cool. Help me out here, will you?”
The night had been fairly laid back. Dean had suffered through his grading during his prep hour, meaning the two of them were able to eat a relaxed meal, watch some tv, then make their way to Dean’s room.
In only a t-shirt and boxers, Dean had fallen asleep pressed up next to Cas, an arm over his waist.
It was just his luck that he woke up before his alarm.
He just wanted to sleep, goddammit.
According to the flashing clock on his nightstand, he only had about an hour before he had to be moving. Not enough time to go back to sleep, too long to just lay here the whole time.
He turned his head slightly, getting a face full of hair.
Octo-Cas had made an appearance, wrapping himself around Dean in his sleep. He had one leg slotted between Dean’s, arms thrown over him almost posessively. His face was tucked into the crook of Dean’s neck, and Dean could feel his small puffs of breath against his collarbone.
Slowly, he shifted, trying to unpin one of his arms. Cas grumbled a little as he moved, shifting closer subconsciously.
God, he was so cute.
Dean stopped trying to free his arm, just lying there, savoring the feel of Cas’ chest rising and falling against him. When he had stopped burrowing closer to him, Dean shifted again.
This time, Cas tugged him closer.
Alright. So maybe Dean was staying in bed.
He managed to free his arm with the consequence of Cas shifting so that he was nearly on top of him, splayed over Dean like a starfish. He was wholly pinned to the bed now, but with his fingers carding through his boyfriend’s hair and said boyfriend (okay, yeah, more than nearly) on top of him, it wasn’t bed. It was nice, actually. Dean could stay like this for a long time, he was finding.
Maybe— just maybe— this was worth being up too early for. This peace, watching Cas cling to him in his sleep.
Naturally, his alarm ruined things, and at the asscrack of dawn, as per fucking usual, Dean had to escape Cas’ hold.
With Cas sprawled over him, it was impossible for him to get out without waking him. “Cas. Cas, buddy, you’ve gotta let me up.”
No response. Dean moved his free hand to squeeze his shoulder.
“C’mon, tesoro. Roll over.”
“I’m not even Italian,” Cas grumbled into Dean’s chest, making no move to let Dean go. His voice was thick with sleep.
“Sure you are,” Dean said.
“No, I’m not,” Cas said back.
Dean smiled a little. “We can argue about this later. Much as I want to stay here, I have work.”
“Then stay,” Cas said. “I won’t let them fire you.”
“Cas,” Dean said.
“Zachariah Adler isn’t a concern. He wouldn’t dare.”
“Cas,” Dean said again, some of the amusement leaking into his voice.
Cas huffed, but, still grumbling under his breath, shifted off of Dean.
Dean pressed a chaste kiss to the top of his head. “I’ll see you later.”
Cas mumbled something into his pillow grumpily in response.
Dean slipped out of the room, glancing back at him one last time.
He’d make a beautiful piece, he thought vaguely, taking him in. Messy hair, face smooshed against the pillow. Blanket only covering him up to the dip in his back, everything showing nothing but skin.
A beautiful piece, indeed.
Maybe…
No. He couldn’t just skip work.
He resolved to get up too early again the next time Cas stayed over, and to keep his sketchbook on his nightstand.
Actually, Dean needed to just keep his sketchbook on him. Ethereal and asleep or solemn and awake, he wanted to draw Cas. Not that he could do the intensity of his gaze or the surprising softness of his hands justice, but he wanted to capture it somehow. Wrap Cas up in pencils and paper and an artist’s devotion and preserve all those moments.
When had Dean gotten so sappy?
The nights Cas didn’t spend in Dean’s apartment were getting fewer and further between. Dean would get home, Cas would be waiting or show up later, and they’d hang out on the couch and watch tv, or Cas would peer over Dean’s shoulder while he graded. They’d get takeout or Dean would cook and Cas helped with the prep. In the morning, Dean left before Cas was fully awake, coffee and a note sitting on the kitchen counter.
It was such a simple, easy routine, and Dean was pretty sure he could live like this forever.
The thought struck him in the morning, another one where he’d woken up well before his alarm. He wanted to live like this forever, because he—
Cas wasn’t just the guy he was falling in love with. Cas was the guy he was in love with, and that was a scary thought. Scary and thrilling and almost easy.
Oh.
It was too early in the morning to think about this, Dean thought, then glanced over at Cas. He’d wrapped himself around Dean again, exhaling against his collarbone where he had buried his head.
I love him, Dean thought anyway.
He stayed like that for a moment. Then another. And another, just taking Cas in. Then, he began the careful, methodical task of disentangling himself from Cas.
As always, Cas was far from thrilled that Dean was trying to move away from him, holding him even more tightly. This was normal now, though; Dean slipped out of his hold without too much trouble, propping himself up against the headboard and reaching over to grab his sketchbook and one of his too-many pencils that were strewn about the apartment.
It was quiet except for the flipping of pages and then the scratch of a pencil, and behind that, Cas’ consistent, steady exhales.
He was a beautiful picture. Sprawled across the bed, faint moonlight throwing his features into shadow from the window they’d forgotten to close last night. Face relaxed, open and unburdened. He was ethereal.
Dean tried to capture it all; the ease of his breaths, the press of his cheek against the mattress, the way the blankets fell around him, his moonlit grace. His alarm went off as he finished.
Dean pressed a chaste kiss to Cas’ forehead before moving into the kitchen, getting the coffee started like every morning. He threw all his stuff in his bag, pulled out a post-it to scribble a note, and—
He paused, looking towards the ajar bedroom door, then glancing at his sketchbook, which was sticking out of his bag.
Dean put the post-it down and fluidly grabbed his sketchbook. He flipped it open with ease, picking up another pencil that had been left haphazardly laying around.
Above Cas’ head he drew a round halo, glistening with the faint moonlight that threw the rest of him into shadow. In the corner, he scribbled a messy title.
Mio Angelo. My Angel.
Carefully, he tore the page out, and left it on the counter.
“I’m not Italian,” Cas grumbled when he came home.
Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, alright, Don. Kick any ass today?” He dropped his bag before coming up to his boyfriend, resting his hands on Cas’ hips and leaning in for a gentle kiss.
“Yes,” Cas said when they broke apart.
“Awesome,” Dean said, smiling a little.
They were quiet for a moment.
“ Мой ангел,” Cas said suddenly.
Dean blinked. “Huh?”
“ Мой ангел,” Cas repeated. “I’m Russian, not Italian. That’s how you would say it in Russian.”
“You speak Russian?” Dean said dumbly.
Cas glanced away. “No. I looked it up.”
Dean grinned. “Aw, Cas!”
“There is no point to continuously referring to me with Italian terms of endearment when I’m not Italian,” Cas said. “Russian makes more sense.”
“You’ll be my angel in any language,” Dean said with a wink.
Cas gave him a look. “Dean—“
“Mio angelo,” Dean finished. “Mi ángel. Mon ange. Mein Engel. Uh, Moй a—“
Cas cut him off with a kiss.