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It nearly knocks him off balance, Dean barrelling into him right as he toes off his shoes in the doorway. Castiel barely manages to catch himself, his hand shooting off to press against the wall at the last minute. The worried question dies at the tip of his tongue when his omega slides down to his knees, arms strong from hours of manual labor and exercise snaking their way around Castiel’s legs. Dean presses his face against Castiel’s clothed stomach, nuzzling. He takes a breath, open-mouthed and audible, to take in Castiel’s day-old scent, and sighs happily. Another breath, another sigh, and then he’s making happy little noises against Castiel’s shirt.
The world stands still for a moment, before the gears in Castiel’s head click and lock in place. The scent of vanilla bourbon finally registers, its usually airy vanilla sugar turning more burnt, caramelized, bourbon turning amber—cloying, until Castiel realizes he has a fully grown man of an omega in heat at his feet.
Distracted, the suitcase Castiel carries falls to the wooden-panelled floor beside him, hitting the floor with a muted thud. He pushes his fingers into Dean’s soft hair—no products today—and runs them through the strands, until his hand cups the back of Dean’s head in a warm, loving cradle.
“Dean?”
No answer, just those happy little noises. Castiel traces the fingers of his other hand down the side of Dean’s face, at the same time he tugs lightly at Dean’s hair, and Dean obeys the pull, tilting his face up at Castiel. He cradles Dean’s jaw like so, something that would have Dean grinning up cheekily at him on a normal day, a glint in his eyes, but now Dean melts like putty in his hands. He leans into the touch instead, gazing up at Cas. Dean’s mouth opens as he huffs out a breath, his eyes glazed over with the heat. His skin is warm too—Cas offhandedly notes, fever-warm just like his scent is heat-sweet.
“My love,” Cas murmurs. Dean continues to look at and through him, here but not there. His pretty green eyes shine in the bright light of the hallway. “Has your heat come?”
Dean’s response to that is to loll his tongue out, huffing a little puff of warm air against Castiel’s hand. He makes a low sound from the back of his throat. Maybe an agreement, or a demand.
“I see,” Cas states. He gives Dean what he wants, pressing his thumb on Dean’s soft tongue. Dean shivers and sags, lips wrapping around Cas’ thumb, pulling it into his mouth to the first knuckle and sucking, licking.
“Very good,” Cas rumbles, pressing forward and in, down at Dean’s soft, yielding tongue. He pulls his thumb out slightly before pushing back in. Dean keens, sucking harder, and a jolt of arousal licks down Cas’ belly, warms him up as Dean warms his thumb as if it was a cock. He can’t help the lowering of his gaze, the huskiness of his voice. Dean makes him feel heady, Dean makes him feel powerful. But Castiel shelves these feelings for later use. “Very good, my love.”
Castiel’s other hand continues its gentle petting of Dean’s hair. Back and forth, back and forth, and Dean starts a hum that turns into a purr deep from within his chest. A content omega. Cas feels himself relax with it.
Dean’s in that stage of the heat where all he wants to do is keep close to Castiel, to be pet and kissed and doted on. He won’t beg to be fucked yet, won’t get on his hands and knees and whine pitifully until Cas relents and give him what he wants–usually his knot inside Dean, for hours, if he could manage it.
At this stage, Dean likes the closeness more than anything, likes to be comfortable, to have his alpha close to him, his scent and warmth comforting him. It’s this knowledge that has Cas coaxing Dean up and onto his feet. As expected of him, Dean lets out a noise of dissatisfaction, immediately trying to sink down to his knees again. Cas remedies this by pulling Dean in, pushing his omega’s face into the crook of his neck, where he knows his scent is the strongest, and hugging him close. Dean’s purr starts back up—so very easily pleased and so very predictable. His arms wrap tightly around Cas’s shoulders, pressing the both of them together securely, like he’s afraid his alpha will float away if he doesn’t.
In a feat that’s probably an overestimation of his own strength, Castiel hoists Dean up and into his arms, hands gripping tight under Dean’s thighs. Dean, in turn, only lets out a delighted squeal and clings tighter to him, bowed legs wounding tight around Castiel’s waist. He continues to nuzzle Cas’ neck, rubbing his face there in an effort to scent, to mark even as he takes comfort from Cas’ scent . All the while Castiel tries his best to manoeuvre them into the bedroom.
They miraculously make it—Dean having left the door open in his haste to get to Castiel. The bed is unmade, a fact that would’ve come as a shock if Dean wasn’t in heat. As it is, the bed is littered with articles of clothing—both Castiel’s and Dean’s alike. There’s a jumper he’d put into the laundry hamper yesterday, his favorite shirt that he knows was supposed to be sitting in their drawer, Dean’s favorite throw blanket that’s been washed five thousand times and was probably the softest thing they owned, and Cas’ favorite sleepshirt, worn and rumpled, filled with holes that Cas keeps asking Dean to mend. His omega has been nesting, trying to make himself comfortable but missing the most important component—his alpha. It warms Castiel up, and he can’t help but coo, ducking his face in order to kiss his love on the cheek.
“Have you been waiting long for me, darling?” He says.
Dean sighs and nods, humming.
“I’m very sorry, I’m here now. Let me take care of you.”
He sets Dean down gently on the bed, or tries to, at least. Dean wouldn’t let go when he tries. Cas huffs but smiles, amused. He goes where Dean wants him to. After much crawling and nudging, Cas ends up on his back, all of his six feet one omega clinging to his side and nuzzling his neck, one arm slung across his chest, with half of his omega’s body on top of him.
Cas presses a kiss on top of Dean’s head. “Are you gonna let me get undressed?”
The purring stops. A dissenting grumble emanates in its place. Cas chuckles.
“Mm.” He replies, his hand trailing up and down Dean’s broad, muscled back. “The less I wear, the better I smell.”
Cas could feel the reluctance in Dean’s movement, especially with the pause between Cas’ words and his actions. Dean untucks his face just to frown at him. It’s not very effective, considering the flush on Dean’s cheeks and the faraway look on his eyes. Made worse by the fact that Dean tends to purse his lips just so when he’s in this state.
Dean is downright pouting at him, his heat-addled scent a delicious backdrop in their bedroom, and affection so strong blows through Castiel he would’ve toppled if he was standing up.
Cas smiles, something too soft, most probably too in love. “Please, love?”
Dean relinquishes his hold with a noncommittal grunt. Castiel uses what freedom he has to sit up and wiggle out of his trench coat. Dean stays pressed against him throughout, curled up against his hip with his arm slung possessively over Cas’ thighs.
Cas tries to be in contact as he undresses. He keeps a hand on Dean’s head, carding through soft dirty-blonde hair, as he uses his other hand to pull on his tie and unbuttons his shirt. By his side, Dean has taken the discarded trench coat and pushed the inside of it against his face, taking in deep lungfuls. Only the upper half of his face is showing over the collar, a faraway look on his eyes.
Jealousy burns through Castiel, unprompted. He nearly rips his shirt off of his body. He shimmies his dress-pants down his legs and kicks them off to the side, until he’s finally only in his undershirt and boxers. Dean’s distracted enough by that goddamn trench coat that he’s not asking for Cas’ attention anymore, and that makes Cas inexplicably more jealous.
Cas plucks the offending material away from his boyfriend’s face, and Dean whines in protest.
Cas remedies that quickly by laying on top of his boyfriend, pinning him down and peppering kisses onto his face.
Dean moans weakly, immediately getting onto Cas again. He makes a noise, somewhere between a question and a demand, and he’s turning them over swiftly, lodging one leg between Cas’ own, the muscles Dean’s spent hours honing on at the gym finally in use. His fingers twist into the materials of Cas’ undershirt as he scents Cas again, shoving his face into the crook of Cas’ neck and inhaling deeply.
He melts against Cas, eyes closed, snuffling happily.
If one doesn’t know better, they’d probably think Dean is asleep. He’s a dead-weight on top of Cas, radiating warmth like a space heater. But Cas knows better. He plays with Dean’s hair, raking his nails to the back of Dean’s head before going back up to the crown of his head, the way he knows Dean likes, and immediately the purring restarts. His other hand settles on Dean’s back, sweeping up and down and squeezing his ass on occasion.
It gets him content little noises, happy inflections in Dean’s sweet purr.
It’s exquisite that Castiel gets to see him like this–all six feet, broad shoulders and defined muscles of Dean Winchester like this—malleable in his hands like putty. Castiel gets to see this, gets to smell Dean’s vanilla bourbon scent ripening for him (well, not for him, but Castiel is not if not a little delusional in his love for Dean. And a heat means Dean’s body is preparing to receive, to conceive. And who else is gonna breed Dean but him?)
Cas settles the hand that was in Dean’s hair on the nape of his omega’s neck. He squeezes, and Dean goes limp.
“Oh, love,” Castiel can’t help but coo. He feels so drunk on this. Dean’s heat scent and his vulnerability. How soft and open and trusting Dean is around him. He tilts Dean’s head up, hand under his chin, marveling at Dean’s blissed out, half-lidded expression, and can’t help but kiss him on his slack mouth.
It takes Dean a while to respond, where Castiel just keeps kissing the corner of his mouth, the top of his lip, his bottom lip, but soon Dean is puckering his lips and Cas is kissing him for real. Soft, sweet kisses that get Castiel soft, sweet noises from the back of Dean’s throat.
Oh, Castiel adores him so. Castiel adores him so. His hands couldn’t stay still, and they pet and caress and touch without any real aim. He pets and caresses and touches just for the sake of it, just because he loves it so much, loves Dean so much. Dean is warm and supple and soft at the same time. And Castiel will enjoy it later when Dean’s desperate and begging for his cock, but he’s enjoying Dean now, where Dean’s mouth goes slacker and slacker with each passing minute.
At the end Dean just stops trying, and Cas chuckles against his unmoving mouth. Dean’s eyes are half-closed with sleep, and he’s already tucking his face in the crook of Cas’ neck again, clutching Cas close.
“Are you gonna take a nap?” Cas asks, his hand trailing absent patterns on Dean’s back.
All he gets is a hum in response. So Cas rearranges them, slides his arm under Dean’s head so Dean could burrow close into him. Their legs tangle, Dean’s evening breaths puff against his neck. All Cas feels is serenity. He should probably file in for heat leave, prepare for when the real heat hits and get Dean to eat and drink something beforehand. But that’s all for later. Right now, he pulls his omega close, closes his eyes and buries his face in Dean’s hair, and breathes.