Chapter Text
"Happy birthday, boss! From all of us." Charlie dropped a rectangular package wrapped in leftover Christmas paper onto Dean's desk.
"Festive," he said, hefting it—it was 99% likely to be a book, but sometimes people surprised him. This gift, though, had the familiar bend of a paperback, so the only question was the title. "Want me to open it now?"
"Nah, it's for later, when you're with your boyyyyyfriend," she cooed. He raised a warning eyebrow, and she added hastily: “No, Dean, I swear on Wash’s grave it’s nothing dirty. I mean, I wanted to throw in flavored lube, but Kevin put his foot down, and then Anna was pissed at me for being smutty in front of the young ‘un, and anyway it was a whole kerfuffle. No lube, is what I’m saying."
"Thank God for small favors," he said, blushing. Charlie kissed his cheek and headed to the floor.
Another month had passed with Cas and Dean in different states, in frequent but maddeningly figurative contact. But tonight they were meeting in Hannibal again, spending the weekend together at a Gilded Age mansion remodeled into a swank bed & breakfast. It was more time than Dean had taken off since the store opened, and it was only possible now that his staff had convinced him to hire a part-timer: Krissy, a sixteen-year-old girl with an encyclopedic knowledge of paranormal love-triangle YA. And an actual work ethic; she'd been in after school every day this week for training, and Dean actually wasn't nervous about leaving Charlie in charge for two days with Krissy to back her up.
No, what he was nervous about was seeing Cas again. Because this time, they were going to have sex, after months of near-celibacy (barring a session of phone sex or two). And they'd agreed Dean would top, as a symbol that they were starting over with this aspect of their relationship.
Dean had no qualms about the actual act, but the weight of it—that now he'd be fucking someone he was in love with, someone who knew so much about him and loved him back anyway—made him panicky, like something was stuck in his throat. He felt...well, dammit, he'd had 80s Madonna running through his head for three days, and that kind of summed it up.
These worries nibbled away at him on the drive, three hours of unwanted introspection. At least once he got to Hannibal, there were directions to distract him—and then the mansion where they were staying came into view, and his jaw dropped.
Dean didn't know architecture for shit, so his best guess at the house's style was "tycoon": it had pillars, for God's sake, like a legislature or something, and it was huge, stretching along a limestone bluff over the Mississippi. Cas, who was treating (simultaneously awesome and embarrassing to have a boyfriend with a lot more disposable income), had picked it because Mark Twain had stayed there once, and he had chosen well.
And shit, there he was, sitting in the reclined front seat of his Saab, reading a book. Dean's body ran through a litany of cliches: his heart both leapt and skipped a beat, his stomach plummeted, his breath caught. Fuck, Cas was hot. He really needed to take him out in public sometime, enjoy the wistful looks from folks who could look but not touch.
Dean could touch. Finally, tonight, he could touch all he wanted.
He parked a few spaces away and walked over to knock on his window. "Hey, baby," he said, and smiled when Cas's eyes went from startled to joyful in an instant. Cas threw the door open and grabbed him, spinning them around so Dean was crowded against the car, Cas’s hands tight on his waist.
"I missed you," Cas said, and kissed him, hard.
*******
God, he’d missed Dean. Their marathon New Year’s Eve kiss had only served to light a fire in Cas that had simmered for weeks like a low-grade fever. It was just so good to be in his arms again, to have that full mouth working against his. This beautiful, good man, his.
He thought of the Kafka quote tattooed up his right forearm: A book should be the ax for the frozen sea within us. Dean was that ax, his beauty a blade, crashing through Cas’s defenses—no, wait, fuck, he was doing it again.
He’s not a metaphor, he’s a man, he reminded himself sternly. Do him the courtesy of treating him like one.
Cas pulled back, leaving Dean gasping. “Hi,” he said. “We should probably get inside before I bend you over the hood of that behemoth of yours and ruin all our plans.”
“Right, yeah, definitely wanna avoid that horrible fate,” said Dean. “This place is ridiculous, dude! Old-timey one-percent, all the way. Have you stayed here before?”
“Nope. Never had a reason to stay overnight in this town. But you’re more than enough.”
Dean’s eyes flickered away, and Cas could almost see the gears turn, the internal struggle before he looked back at him and held his gaze. “Thanks, Cas.”
“You’re welcome. Happy birthday, Dean.”
Dean’s awe at his surroundings only continued as they wandered through the grand lobby and climbed the stairs to their room—the original master suite, still crammed with hardwood furniture, including a mammoth four-poster bed that sparked all sorts of ideas. “Dude!” Dean kept exclaiming. “Dude, there’s a fuckin’ pull chain on the toilet. We are gonna make some Victorians roll over in their graves tonight, Cas.”
“You don’t think they would approve?” Cas teased.
“Not if we do it right.” Dean gave him a glance that could only be described as “smoldering,” and the simmer in Cas’s blood was suddenly in danger of boiling over.
“Should we—should we go get dinner? Cake—or, no, pie? Birthday pie?” he blurted, unable to stop staring.
Dean stalked—stalked, like a panther, across the room, backed Cas into the fireplace and pinned him with his hips. “I hate to use a line, Cas, but you know that’s not what I’m hungry for.”
Cas whimpered in the moment before their mouths collided.