Chapter Text
One day, Cas walks into the kitchen shirtless, with only a pair of green plaid boxers hanging low on his hips.
Dean slops coffee all over himself. “C-Cas, what - uh.” He pauses to gather himself and take a deep breath. “Your clothes,” he says finally. “Where are they?”
Cas, in the middle of pouring himself a cup of coffee, turns to glare at him. He doesn’t say anything; he just goes back to pouring.
Sam trails in, sighing heavily. “It’s the dryer,” he explains, once he sees Dean staring at Cas’s bare back. “Conked out this morning. His clothes are air-drying.” He looks at the ceiling of the bunker. “It’ll take a while down here.”
Dean tries to take another casual swallow of coffee, but Cas sits down across from him and Dean misses his mouth. The coffee spills down his front instead. Cas just stares at him impassively, then steals his toast.
Dean takes it in stride - meaning he hides in his room for the rest of the day. It doesn’t help. He can’t help but remember the smooth angles of Cas’s back, the skin of his hips that dove under the waistband of his boxers, the way the muscles of his arm and chest flexed when he lifted his mug to his mouth.
And that mouth. Dean suddenly can’t stop thinking about that mouth.
In the solitude of his room, Dean groans and pulls a pillow down onto his face. He stays like that, breathing in the cotton of his pillowcase, waiting for the urge to touch every inch of Cas’s skin to die.
It’s five minutes later that Dean hears someone knock. He doesn’t bother answering.
“Dean?” It’s Cas. Dean pulls the pillow tighter over his face. He hears Cas’s bare feet pad to the bed, then feels the pillow being tugged away.
The first thing he sees is Cas, moving to sit at his hip. Then he sees Cas’s bare shoulders, then his collarbone and his chest, his stomach - he shuts his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath. “What’s up, bud?” His voice is hoarse.
“My clothes aren’t drying fast enough, and I dislike being without a shirt. May I borrow one of yours?”
Dean waves a hand toward his dresser, his eyes still squeezed shut. “Knock yourself out.”
“Thank you.”
There’s the sound of a drawer being open, then shut. Dean waits a few seconds for Cas to put the shirt on, then opens his eyes, turning to look.
Cas has chosen one of Dean’s plain black shirts to wear. It’s looser on him than it is on Dean, but the dark fabric is snug against Cas’s shoulders and arms. If possible, he looks even better than he did when he was shirtless. Dean wants to touch every inch of him. With his tongue.
Cas smiles. “Thank you again, Dean,” he says, before turning and walking out of the room. Dean lifts his head and follows every flex and tense of Cas’s arms with his eyes.
When the door clicks closed, Dean gropes for the pillow. He presses it to his face. “Fuck.”