for @spnhell, happy birthday!
There is little in the world that is better than waking up next to Dean, Castiel has decided.
In those moments, curled up together in their bed in the small apartment that they call home—the space they have carved out together, just for the two of them—he could not be happier. The sheets are warm where they wrap around his body; Dean, in every possible place they’re pressed together, is even warmer. It’s cozy and it’s home and if Castiel never had to leave he’d be a happy man.
His alarm, and the eight a.m. class that Professor Adler scheduled just to spite his students, have other ideas.
The musical tones cut through his sleep-hazed mind—sharp enough to rouse him, but not grating enough to irritate—and he grumbles under his breath. It’s been raining all night, he thinks, had been raining when they went to sleep tangled together and blissfully exhausted, and is still raining now in a light patter against their bedroom window. His motivation to get out of bed is low.
Castiel disentangles himself from Dean’s octopus grip enough to reach for his phone and snooze the alarm. Does he bite the bullet and get up now, or give himself another five minutes?
Dean’s arm tightens around his waist and pulls him gently back into the pool of warmth that they’ve created, away from the cool bite of the early morning air. “Mornin’, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing drowsily over Castiel’s shoulders, and Castiel melts.
“Good morning,” he says, his lips curling up until a smile as he leans back into Dean’s embrace. Dean is solid and warm behind him, hair tickling the back of his neck and fingers skimming lightly over his stomach.
“You plannin’ on leaving me?” Dean says against his skin, pressing his forehead against the curve of Castiel’s spine. His voice is sleep-roughened, but Castiel can still hear his smile, feel it in the shape of Dean’s lips on his skin.
If he wants to keep his willpower intact, he shouldn’t roll over, but that’s exactly what he does now, shifting in Dean’s embrace until they’re face to face. He’d been a lost cause from the moment Dean had pulled him closer and called him baby. “I should,” he says, unconvincingly, because now he can see Dean’s face in the faint light that filters through rain-dappled windows, those green eyes soft and amused. “I have to get to class, you—you’re a bad influence.”
The last few words come out somewhat more hoarse that Castiel had been expecting, because Dean chooses that point to tilt his head and brush his lips against the curve of Cas’s jaw, kissing up towards the soft spot on his neck that makes him forget about anything other than Dean’s kisses, Dean’s touch, Dean. “Fuck,” he breathes, and Dean chuckles, rich and warm.
“Your lecture date with Adler is more appealing than staying in bed with your boyfriend on a rainy day?” He tsksquietly, scraping his teeth over the bolt of Castiel’s jaw while his fingers slide teasingly over his stomach. “Guess I didn’t do a very good job last night, then.”
The words are said with the smug air of someone who does indeedknow that they had done a good job last night, if the comfortable ache in Castiel’s muscles is anything to go by, but there’s no way he can muster enough focus to deliver a witty comeback. Instead, all he can do is groan “you’re insufferable” and curl his fingers around the curve of Dean’s jaw, pulling him up into a proper kiss.
It’s lazy and relaxed, all slow-moving bodies and the drag of hands over skin, and Castiel is definitely going to have to email Adler with a bullshit excuse for his absence—but that becomes the last thing on his mind when Dean’s hands and mouth start to roam, and all of Castiel’s thoughts dissolve into pleasure and bliss and Dean.