Work Text:
It’s 11:19 at night when Dean finally slouches in his chair, away from his laptop and his finished paper. He feels the tension leaving his body, and he lets out a long and low sigh. His eyes drift shut, lips curling into a smile. He should read it through, but it isn’t due for another two days, so he has time to do that later. Really, he’s sure that the paper is fine, even without the editing. The topic—dance in films, particularly ballet—is something that he thoroughly enjoys discussing, so he spent a lot of time writing instead of studying for other classes. He saves twice, to be safe, and turns his laptop off.
Dean scrubs a hand over his face, blinking the tiredness from his eyes, and swivels in his chair to face Cas, who is bent nearly in half over his desk. His arm looks uncomfortably trapped between his chest and the papers he is writing on. Actually, Dean isn’t sure how he’s writing at all; there’s hardly any room for his hand to glide across the page. Still, there are at least ten pages filled with neat, cramped numbers and symbols around him. His empty coffee mug (with a math joke on it, obviously) rests on the corner, dangerously close to falling to the floor.
Cas listens to music when he studies—mostly he plays the soundtracks of boy bands; he’s just lucky that Dean doesn’t mind too much—and his speakers softly play “Pleasant Valley Sunday,” because Cas moved on to The Monkees a few hours ago. Dean can hear Cas humming along to the words, only a phrase or two before he stops, as if he’s worried that the excess noise will disturb Dean.
Quietly, Dean stands and crosses the small room to Cas. His roommate’s hands and face are covered in gray smudges from pencil lead. Dean can see dark bags under his eyes, even in the poor lighting. The stubble on his jaw is thick; he hasn’t taken the time to shave in days, instead spending most of his time awake to study for finals. Dean curls his arms around Cas from behind. Immediately, Cas makes a soft sound, low in his throat, and melts into Dean’s embrace. He tilts his head slightly to allow Dean to kiss the shell of his ear and the sharp line of his jaw. The rasp of stubble against Dean’s lips is loud, even against the upbeat music.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean says. His voice is rough from lack of use. Cas trembles slightly as Dean talks, his mouth trailing wetly over skin. He hums a reply, dropping his pencil and cracking his knuckles. The song changes to “Last Train to Clarksville.”
Dean moves his lips to Cas’s neck, where his pulse beats sluggishly. Cas lets out a relaxed and content sound.
“Hello,” Cas says, and his voice is low and gruff, too. Dean feels the words against his lips on Cas’s neck. He smiles against the hollow of Cas’s throat before he gently pulls back, moving his arms to the chair so he can turn Cas around to face him. Quickly, Dean drops his hands down to Cas’s waist, while Cas automatically reaches out and cups Dean’s jaw with a warm hand. His other hand drops to loosely grip Dean’s forearm. His gaze is entirely affectionate.
“I needed a study break,” he says, before leaning up to kiss Dean breathless.
Dean sighs happily into Cas’s mouth as his eyes close and he’s swept up into the kiss. Cas tastes like coffee, but he’s not bitter at all, because he can’t stand anything without at least three packets of sugar. They kiss slowly and sweetly, lips sliding together. It’s warm and lazy, just simple and light, until Dean pulls back to inhale deeply and press chaste kisses to Cas’s cheeks. They rest their foreheads against each other, eyes open and searching. Cas rubs his thumb over Dean’s cheek in a soothing motion, loving the way his hand molds to Dean’s face, the light stubble rough on his palm. Dean, in turn, runs his hands up and down Cas’s sides, squeezing tenderly. On his forearm, Cas’s hand rests idly, warmth seeping into Dean’s skin. They stare at each other for another few minutes, happy to just be close and touching.
“Pancakes?” Dean asks, smiling crookedly. Cas’s face twists in confusion, forehead furrowing, so Dean presses a series of quick kisses on the wrinkles, laughing lightly. “For dinner, I mean. We’ve been eating junk all day, and I’m hungry.”
Cas nods enthusiastically as his stomach grumbles. They move away from each other to grab jackets and shoes. Even after putting on his coat, Dean feels distinctly colder until Cas strides over and wraps himself tightly around Dean, pressed warmly together. Hot puffs of breath ghost against Dean, and he nuzzles Dean’s shoulder. The room is quiet except for their breathing now, since Cas shut off the music.
Eventually, they make it outside. Their air is cold, but they walk anyways, because IHOP is only two streets down from their dorm. Their fingers thread together tightly, and they walk shoulder-to-shoulder, pressed as closely as they can get.