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It’s only when Cas stumbles into the kitchen the next morning that Dean realizes he’s utterly screwed. His favorite shirt hangs off Cas’s shoulders, the hole under the left arm a bit more noticeable on the former angel, and an old pair of his sweats ride low on his hips. Cas makes a beeline for the coffee (dash of milk, no sugar) and leans against the countertop, eyes closed, worshipfully taking his first sip. He opens his eyes over the rim of his mug and smiles at Dean who is now standing stock still, letting the bacon start to burn. Cas shuffles over and turns off the heat, crowding close. Dean rests his hands on Cas’s hips, thumbs catching on the sharp ridges of bone. Cas sets the bacon to drain and leans back against the counter again, drawing Dean flush against him, abandoning his coffee to grab the hunter by the edges of his open flannel, knuckles grazing the bare flesh beneath. He draws Dean’s head down and touches their lips together just barely. It’s soft and tender and he follows it up by licking the seam of Dean’s lips open and pressing close. It’s all desire and affection and tenderness and as lazy as Sunday. Dean breathes in and it’s all Cas. He’s here, he’s staying and he’s Dean’s.
Dean leans back and bites his lip, drinking in the sight of his sleep-tousled friend. He trails a finger along the worn shoulder seam of his shirt, feeling Cas’s warmth beneath it. He hooks his finger in the collar and yanks his friend close, crushing their lips together once again, this time all heat and a bit of desperation. He tears himself back and breathes against his friend’s lips “Fuck, Cas.”
The angel huffs a warm breath into his mouth, “That was the idea, Dean.”
He rolls his eyes and skates his palms down Cas’s chest, “You’re wearing my shirt.”
“I noticed.”
“I like it.”
Cas smirks, “I noticed.”
Sass like that can’t go unpunished so Dean drags the other man close once more, placing openmouthed kisses along his jaw, stopping to lick and bite at the pulse point at his throat until Cas is moaning. He sucks a dark mark at the base of the angel’s throat, overlapping the collar bone he’d spent half of last night worshipping. Nuzzling into the crook of his neck, Dean breathes, “I like you in my clothes.”
Cas chuckles breathlessly, “I would like you out of them.” He pushes away from the counter, reaching his hand out to the hunter, “My turn, now.”
Dean grins and let’s Cas lead him back to his own, their own, room.
In the stillness after, his head resting against Cas’s chest, the angel’s hands carding through his hair, lazing in the sun, Dean says it. The hands in his hair still and Cas slides down to look him in the face, eyes taking up his whole face. Dean cups his angel’s face in his palm and smiles, pressing a chaste kiss to his friend’s lips, “I love you, idiot.” His heart skips a beat before Cas’s face breaks into a gummy smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners and Dean suddenly has an armful of angel straddling his hips, breathing “I love you, Dean Winchester” into his mouth. Oh, yeah, Dean is totally screwed.