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It starts off with small things. Small things like checking in - simple things like “Good morning”, “Whatcha doin’?”, and “Can I get you anything?”. It starts off with things like this because whenever Castiel tilts his head and contemplates Dean’s words before replying, butterflies erupt in the hunter’s stomach, and he sort of feels giddy in a way that he never has before. It starts off with little things like this because he’d read (yes, he’d read, sue him) that sometimes the smallest gestures have the biggest impact. So, while he is doing these lil baby things for Cas, he’s still left feeling slightly… unfulfilled, so he takes it up a notch.

He extends the small things into more. “Good morning” turns into “Good morning, I’m already makin’ breakfast, whaddya want?”, “Whatch doin’?” evolves into “Can I join you?”, and “Can I get you anything?” transforms into “I got this thing I think you might like”. Castiel seems to have a slightly bigger reaction to these things, and Dean’s pea brain realizes that the leap in interest is so strong because Dean isn’t just doing things for Castiel anymore, he’s doing things with Castiel. And ain’t that somethin’?

Castiel is never brisk in his thanks. He makes eye contact and even sometimes initiates a point of contact before voicing his gratitude, and Dean is pretty sure it really does come from the bottom of his heart. It’s a little breathtaking, because Dean’s been thanked plenty of times (the “Family Business” usually the recipient) but something about the way that Castiel says thank you makes his entire body buzz.

But, it’s still not enough.

Dean has an ulterior motive, even if he’s not quite sure what it is at this exact moment in time, so he’s going to do his best to continue elevating his level of contact with Castiel until he either gets what he doesn’t know he’s looking for, or realizes he realizes he’s playing a game of gay chicken that he didn’t necessarily mean to sign up for.

As Dean makes himself more amenable to Castiel, because the guy deserves it, ok?, he notices a subtle change in the angel. Not just being more receptive to Dean wanting to be in his space more than ever, but the way his eyes soften and his lips curl, and how he looks so… soft. Dean has to remind himself that Castiel was once, literally, a killing machine, so he can banish those weird thoughts out of his head. Castiel is a man (ish), he’s manly and rough around the edges and goes days between shaves and hey, Dean even heard him burp once.

That’s besides the point.

Phase three is, undoubtedly, Dean practically bending over backwards for Castiel. It’s pretty damn obvious but any time Sam or Jack bring it up to him Dean gets defensive and snippy and insists that Castiel has been through a hard time, a’right? Guy deserves a friggin’ break. But he sees the looks that Sam exchanges with Jack (it’s rather one sided, because Sam has an all-knowing look, but Jack just kinda furrows his brows and hilts his head (so much like Cas, damnit) because he clearly doesn’t understand what’s happening) every time Sam tries to bring it up in front of Dean, so he wonders if maybe he’s being too obvious.

Castiel hasn’t said anything, though.

And you know what? He probably won’t. Because Dean has a suspicion that Castiel knows exactly what he’s up to (even if Dean?? Still isn’t quite sure what he’s doing???) and the angel isn’t likely to tell Dean to stop doing… whatever it is he’s doing, mostly because he’s benefitting largely from it.

Awesome.

“Dean.”

Dean glances up from the fitted sheet he’s currently trying (and failing) to fold. He’s in the laundry room, it’s around seven in the morning, and he couldn’t sleep because he kept dreaming (about Castiel) so he decided to get up and make himself useful. Laundry is something that zones him out nicely; it has the perks of getting absorbed and focused on cleaning, but with less of a chemical scent. Nothing like burying your face in a fresh, warm, fluffy towel and taking in a big ol’ whiff before folding it up to be put away.

It’s the simple things in life.

“Heya, Cas.” Dean greets. He abandons trying to fold the fitted sheet neatly and just sort of rolls it up in an organized manner, setting it off towards the side of the table to maybe try again later. He can probably find a youtube tutorial on it. “‘Sup? Got any laundry you need done?”

Castiel is dressed down in a pair of sweats and one of Dean’s old tshirts and he looks mouth wateringly delicious, but Dean resolutely ignores that in favor of whatever fabric is currently bunched up in Castiel’s hands. “Yes. I seem to have soiled these.”

Dean snorts a little, “Soiled.”, and then takes the fabric from Castiel, shaking it out a little. Oh, it’s boxers. Oh, it’s- oh. Oh, there’s a very large wet spot on the front. Dean’s throat goes a little dry and he tries to laugh it off but his laugh is rattly and raspy and disgusting so he just clears his throat, throwing the boxers into the drum of the washing machine without further ado. “Sure, buddy.”

“Do you have inappropriate dreams, Dean?”

Dean accidentally punches the fabric softener when he whips around, the bottle clattering to the floor, and thank God the cap is still on because Dean does not feel like going into town for another. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Dean tries for casual as he lets out a chuckle, another gross, dry sound. “They’re called wet dreams, Cas. And nah, haven’t had one of those since I was a teenager.”

Confession: Dean had one this morning. Which is why he’s in the freaking laundry room fighting fitted sheets and ignoring the fact that he’d initially done laundry to wash his soiled boxers.

“I see.”

Things catch up to Dean in slow-mo, and realizing that Castiel has had a fucking wet dream, that Dean had held his cum soaked boxers, that Castiel is currently talking to Dean about it has Dean resting his hip heavily against the folding table. He gets a little dizzy and tries to speak around his cottonmouth, and Jesus, death rattles in the living shouldn’t be a thing but he currently can’t produce any other noise.

“Thank you, Dean, for washing those for me.” Castiel says, turning on heel and leaving the laundry room.

Dean can only nod stiffly, and once Castiel is gone he bends his waist against the edge of the table so he can lie his chest over the pile of fluffy, warm towels he’s been fishing through. He inhales deeply, breathing in fabric softener and home, before he exhales a loud, distressed groan into the mounds of fluff.

What is he doing, again?

--

Sam and Castiel are deep in discussion when Dean enters the war room, the pair seated across from each other at the map table. Sam has the biggest book Dean has ever seen laid out on the space between them, and both of their hands are on the pages they’re looking at, fingers tracing symbols, words, and pictures, fingertips occasionally bumping against each other. Dean’s unsure if he’ll be of any help whatsoever, because let’s face it, it’s his job to ask “whaddya need to kill it?” and then go kill it, but he’ll pretend for a second that he might be able to put forth something useful.

He sits down next to Castiel, who doesn’t even blink in his direction. Sam is totally engrossed and he’s got that excited puppy look on his face, his free hand occasionally brushing his long hair out of his eyes when it falls from where he’s tucking it behind his ear. As far as Dean is concerned they’re speaking gibberish, because he doesn’t really recognize a single word they’re saying aside from “Right?!” and “Yes” and “So get this”.

Dean wants Castiel’s attention, which is why he left the Dean Cave in the first place. He’d been enjoying bingeing Netflix for only about an hour before his trigger finger got itchy. He wants to go out target practicing, and Castiel hasn’t handled a gun a lot, and alright, Dean knows a ~warrior of God~ can wield any weapon in their hands (he’s seen Cas with a gun, ok?), but he’d still like to fine tune some things and give Castiel some pointers. Y’know. Because he’s good people and Castiel should probably learn where the safety is.

But the thing is, Sam and Castiel continue their weird gibberish conversation, ignoring Dean altogether. Which is freaking stupid, because at least Sam usually nods at him in acknowledgment. But right now?

Nada. Zip. Zilch. Nothin.

Dean tries clearing his throat. Castiel, without looking up, slides his bottled water towards Dean, before putting that hand back on the book and pointing out something different to Sam. Dean’s brows rise slowly up his forehead. There’s a pen by Dean’s hand and he picks it up to start fidgeting with it, still watching the conversation unfold, even if he hasn’t a clue as to what it’s about.

“Doing research with you is so great,” Sam nearly gushes. “It’s one thing to read about things, but there are events and legends that you actually lived through. That’s an invaluable resource.”

Dean flips the pen between his fingers idly.

“I am more than happy to help you, Sam,” Castiel says. They’re making eye contact over the book - Sam looking a little starstruck, Castiel’s features smoothed warmly. “All you need to do is ask.”

Dean starts tapping his pen on the table.

“Thanks, Cas.” Sam is beaming.

Castiel is smiling.

Dean taps the pen so hard the clip breaks off.

Sam’s attention finally snaps towards him. “What’s up, Dean?”

Dean offers a tight smile. “Just seein’ if I could help.”

“Oh,” Sam waves a hand, pulling the book back towards his side of the table and putting his nose in it. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Dean,” Castiel says softly.

Dean’s gaze flicks over towards the angel, whose eyes are on Dean’s hand. “What.”

Castiel glances up at Dean, “You broke your pen.”

Dean stands up so forcefully the backs of his thighs push the chair back to skid along the floor, and at the same time he tosses the pen up into the air, relishing the clatter of it landing on the table, before he stalks out of the room with the intent to drink approximately nineteen beers.

--

“Hey, Dean?”

Dean glances up from where he’s standing at the stove, in the process of waiting for the underside of the beef patties to cook to perfection so he can flip them. Jack’s voice carries a similar cadence to Castiel’s, although different in pitch, and sometimes when he says Dean’s name he says it with the same intonation of a teenager saying ‘dad’ and honestly Dean tries not to dwell on that too much because, if he’s honest, it makes him a little soft inside. “Sup, kid?”

“I was wondering if your acts of service to Castiel have won him over yet,” Jack says, taking a seat at the table.

Dean stares at the juices bubbling on top of the patty. “What.”

He can hear the pride in Jack’s voice, “I have noticed you being very accommodating to him lately, whereas usually you don’t accommodate anyone.”

Dean turns around to fix Jack with an incredulous look, brows furrowed and mouth twisted. “I accommodate people.”

Jack looks at Dean plaintively, head tilting. “Do you?”

“Don’t sass me, kid, I ain’t in the mood,” Dean grumbles, turning back to his burgers.

“It is to my understanding that your love language is acts of service,” Jack says, simply, like it’s freaking obvious. “So I have come to the conclusion that you are trying to tell Castiel that you love him through various acts of involvement.”

Dean feels his heart hammering against his chest, still not turning to look at Jack. “The fuck is a love language?”

“I read about it in a magazine called Cosmopolitan,” Jack says, still sounding pretty proud of himself. “There are five different types. I have surmised that yours is acts of service, and Castiel’s is quality time. Sam’s is words of affirmation,” he adds as an afterthought.

Dean scrunches his nose a little, flipping the burgers over. They’re slightly burnt. “Why does stuff like that matter?” He’ll ignore the fact that Jack got his hands on a girly magazine.

“It helps bring value and understanding into a relationship,” Jack explains. “It also builds communication. If you know how to make your loved ones feel valued and appreciated, there are less misunderstandings.”

From the titles alone, Dean can figure out pretty easily what those love languages mean. He supposes that it’s pretty obvious, which is why he’s been trying to insert himself into Castiel’s day comings and goings as much as possible. Hearing that Dean can only properly express himself by giving forth acts of service isn’t really surprising, but he wonders if he’s that easy to read. If Jack, of all people, could figure it out, then surely Castiel could, right?

“Don’t matter,” Dean finds himself grumbling. “I been at it for weeks and he hasn’t really responded.”

“He hasn’t?” Jack sounds genuinely confused. Dean spares him a glance - Jack’s brows are knit, lips pouted, and Dean suddenly wants to bear hug him. He doesn’t. “That is odd.”

“Not odd if he don’t feel the same way,” Dean says, in his usual self-deprecating defense.

“I don’t think you need to worry, Dean,” Jack says, once again smiling.

Clenching his jaw, Dean’s unsure how he feels about Jack knowing about what he’s doing - because Dean hadn’t even realized what he’d been doing in the first place, and if Jack knows, then probably everyone else knows too, and isn’t that just lovely. “Go round up the troops for lunch,” Dean says, voice gruff.

Instead of leaving right away, Jack approaches Dean from the right - in his peripheral, so he sees him coming - and then hugs Dean from the side, one arm across Dean’s chest, the other over his back, his fingers hugging Dean’s left bicep and shoulder as he gives the man a warm, affectionate squeeze. “You are a good man, Dean.”

Jack leaves and Dean feels a blush on his cheeks trying to spread down his neck. He can’t believe he ever thought the kid was evil.

--

While Dean has been giving Castiel acts of service (and wow, when he thinks those words in his head it sounds utterly filthy), Dean has pretty much totally overlooked that Castiel has been giving him quality time, in return. He doesn’t really think about it until he’s in the Dean Cave relaxing in a recliner, an eye mask over his features, headphones on his head, and Def Leppard blaring in his ears. Ok well honestly he doesn’t even think about it then, but Sam comes into the room and lifts one side of Dean’s headphones up to ask loudly “WHERE’S CAS”, causing Dean to flail and almost fall out of the chair altogether.

“Jesus, Sammy!” Dean says, kicking his heels against the footrest to get it to unrecline.

“Where’s Cas?” Sam repeats his question at a more acceptable volume level.

Rolling his eyes, Dean takes off his headphones and sets them on the little table between the chairs. “I don’t know, why are you asking me?”

“Because you’ve been with him all week,” Sam says, like it’s obvious.

Is it obvious?

Dean has a few flashbacks: him and Castiel in the kitchen bickering over whether or not creamer hinders or helps in the drinking of coffee; him and Castiel in the laundry room watching a tutorial on YouTube on Dean’s phone about how to properly fold a fitted sheet; him and Castiel in the Dean Cave, curled up in respective recliners, watching movies on Dean’s (newer, bigger) television; him and Castiel going to the farmer’s market together so Castiel can pick up whatever organic, fair-trade items he so desires (we will conveniently leave out the fact that every time Sam has tried to get Dean to go to the farmer’s market he’d been met with very vocal refusal); and, finally, him and Castiel entertaining Jack while he regales some story about a walk he took around the woods surrounding the bunker and excitedly chats about what he found and how it made him feel (and the picture in Dean’s head paints himself and Castiel as quite the attentive parents).

Ok. So Dean’s been a bit obvious. But he’s taking this love language thing seriously, and in his observations (and a few sneaks at the magazine Jack had left on his nightstand) confirmed that Castiel’s love language is, indeed, quality time. And Dean wants to give that to him.

“Well,” Dean finally returns to the present to answer Sam’s question. “I dunno. Jack is gone, too, so they probably went off somewhere together.”

Sam arches a brow. “An angel and a nephilim just… left the bunker. Together. Without telling anyone.”

Normally it’s Dean raising his hackles about two powerful beings going unchecked, but he just sorta shrugs his shoulder and puts his headphones back in place. “Yep.” He pops the ‘p’ and turns his music back on, settling back in his recliner once more.

He’s sure Sam leaves, but he doesn’t open his eyes to actually check.

Castiel and Jack should be just fine.

--

Turns out, Castiel and Jack are just fine. Dean’s filling one of the fancy crystal carafes with some good ol’ Jim Beam (he coulda sprang for the good stuff, but there’s something really satisfying about putting shit liquor in a pretty bottle) when the pair come clanking through the bunker door, Jack chattering excitedly about something as Castiel trails behind him. Jack is practically skipping, holding some items in his hands that Dean can’t really see very well - and it looks like Castiel is holding something, too.

“Dean!” Again, with that tone that makes Dean’s belly churn with warm, fuzzy content. “The wildflowers are in bloom! They’re so beautiful.”

Dean puts the stopper in the bottle and puts the empty bottle next to it, turning so he can fully face Jack, who is quickly approaching. His cheeks are flushed, his hair windswept, eyes glimmering with excitement. “Yeah?”

Jack holds out the items he has clasped gently in his fingers. They’re flower wreaths, woven with grass, vines, and smattered with watercolor flowers of all shapes, sizes, and colors. They’re very beautiful, and Dean smiles as he takes one, admiring the skill and patience it took to craft them.

“Here,” Jack’s fingers go to Dean’s wrists, nudging the man’s hands up towards his head. Dean gets the memo and allows Jack to help him arrange the wreath on his head, Jacks fingers carefully plucking at tufts of Dean’s hair to, hopefully, make it look as aesthetically pleasing as possible. Jack pulls away and beams at Dean, eyes flitting from the flower crown to Dean’s features. “You look beautiful.”

Dean flushes lightly and he ducks his head a little, trying to deflect the compliment, but there’s the smallest of smiles tugging his lips. He then watches as Jack arranges his own crown on his head; Dean had been paying attention - his own has more yellow daisies on it, Jack’s has more violets. There’s movement behind Jack and Dean remembers Castiel, eyes lifting to watch the angel lift his own flower crown dotted with blue forget-me-nots and arrange it over his messy head.

Jack still has one flower wreath looped over his fingers and he glances around the room, “Where is Sam? I made one for him, too.”

As if on cue, Sam comes from the dorm hallway, jogging up the two steps that lead into the room and glancing around at everyone with an amused, arched brow. “Wow.”

“I made you one, too!” Jack says excitedly, moving towards Sam.

His absence gives Dean a direct line of sight to Castiel, whose cool blues are unwavering as they rest on the flower crown on Dean’s head. He hears Sam telling Jack that the crown is very pretty, and Dean knows that he’s gonna want a picture of Sam wearing a flower crown with his pretty, swoopy hair, but right now all he can focus on is Castiel focusing on him. Castiel’s gaze drops to Dean’s eyes, and the angel seems to shock himself a little, his eyes widening a fraction before he averts his gaze. Interesting.

“We should get a photo!” Sam is saying from the side.

That grabs Dean’s attention and he turns his gaze away from Castiel, a grin spreading on his features. “Hell yeah. You’ve got the better phone, put the timer on and let’s find a place to put it.”

Sam pulls his phone out of his pocket and Dean surveys the library, before he chooses a bookshelf a decent height off of the ground. He and Sam confer (squabble) about what they want in the background of the photo (Dean argues they can crop it, Sam argues seeing some of the bunker will be cool to look back on), and they finally go with Sam’s bitching. Castiel and Jack are waiting patiently in the spot that the brothers had told them to stand so they could get a few test shots to make sure everyone will be in the frame, and then Sam hits the timer. He and Dean spring back towards where Castiel and Jack are; the brothers flank them, Dean on Castiel’s side, Sam on Jack’s, and they listen to the little beeps of the countdown.

It happens between five and seven seconds.

Dean slings his arm around Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel returns the embrace by sliding his arm along Dean’s lower back, his fingers curling around Dean’s waist, wrinkling the fabric of his flannel as he pulls him in close. Their sides are flush, tight together, and Dean’s feels his heart slamming against his ribcage at the same time the camera goes off. Jack and Sam break off from the formation to look at the photo, but Castiel doesn’t let go of Dean, and Dean doesn’t let go of Castiel, and they just stand there, holding each other, while Sam and Jack exclaim the photo turned out excellent.

“Check it out,” Sam says, approaching the pair. He either doesn’t notice how close they are, or he doesn’t care as he holds his phone out for them to look at the screen.

It’s a great photo. It’ll need a bit of cropping to get them exactly center (a pet peeve Dean keeps quietly to himself), but it looks incredibly… domestic, and soft. Sam has an arm around Jack’s shoulders and Jack is standing proud between him and Castiel. Castiel’s expression is a little muted but his eyes are radiating warmth, and when Dean’s eyes take in his expression, he feels his mouth dry up a little.

He’s never looked so… happy, in a photo.

His fingers clench idly in the material of Castiel’s trench coat on his shoulder. He should be terrified of his photo and the domestic bliss it (almost falsely) represents. The photo of him, Sam, Castiel, Bobby and the Harvelles before the world was supposed to end had ended up in the fire because Dean couldn’t stand the thought of holding on to a memento of people he loved, knowing that it was his fault they would die. This shouldn’t be any different. He should hate that they captured this innocent, happy moment, because it’s only a matter of time before the illusion is shattered.

The flower crowns will die.

The happiness won’t last.

“Are we able to print this?” Jack asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “We can go into town right now and get it printed off.”

“That’s a good idea,” Castiel says, still tucked into Dean’s side. His gravelly voice reverberates through every point of contact between their bodies.

Dean comes out of his own head and looks around him. This is different than the end of the world - this is different than capturing the last moments of their lives to leave something behind for the world (or whoever stumbles upon the bunker next) to stumble across.

This is them… genuinely happy.

And Dean’s gonna hold onto that.

“Let’s go to town,” Dean says, clapping his hands together.

Feels good to have three warm, loving smiles directed at him.

Yeah.

Yeah, this is much, much better.

--

It all comes to a head a week later in Dean’s favorite private space: the laundry room. Sam does his own laundry, but Dean has taken it upon himself to do Castiel and Jack’s as well - they don’t really generate much, since they’re in a bit of a lull of events right now, not really leaving the bunker save to pick up groceries or other necessities. It’s not atrocious to wear the same shirt or pants two (maybe even three) days in a row and they’re all dudes, so no one’s gonna call anyone out about it.

Dean’s in the process of moving the clothes from the washer to the dryer when Castiel presses up behind him, effectively pinning him to the washer and making him drop the damp socks in his hands. He knows it’s Castiel because he smells like ozone and flowers and also like the fabric softener that Dean uses on their clothes (Sam has his own weird organic crap - and sure, Jack also smells like the fabric softener Dean uses, but it’s unlikely that Jack would be pinning Dean bodily to a washing machine and nuzzling his nose into the back of his neck. Hopefully.); Dean stiffens slightly, shivers racing up and down his spine from the soft puffs of air that are exhaling from Castiel’s nostrils.

“Uh,” Dean braces his hands on either side of the top of the washer. “Heya, Cas…?”

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel crowds Dean even further, the edge of the machine pressing snug up against Dean’s soft belly. “I wanted to thank you.”

Dean lets out a reedy little laugh, “Uh. You just did, so- you’re welcome?”

“Mmm,” Castiel lets out a little hum against his skin, his nose trailing up the column of Dean’s neck so his lips come to rest by the shell of his ear, “I was thinking I could show you how thankful I am.”

“What exactly are you thankful for?” Dean asks, his voice totally not squeaking.

“You’ve been spending so much time with me,” Castiel murmurs, his voice soft, almost reticent. “And you’ve been doing well with Sam,” meaning no bickering or arguing, “and Jack speaks of you highly and fondly.”

“Well,” Dean tries to shrug, but he thinks better of it when he realizes he’ll knock Castiel’s chin if he does. “I uh. Y’know. We’re in tight quarters and not exactly busy, so I don’t wanna… start any fires.”

“I think,” Castiel says, and oh. Oh, his lips actually kiss the curve of Dean’s ear, “that you’re a wonderful family man, when given the opportunity. And it…” Castiel’s voice goes deeper. “...is very becoming.”

Did- did Castiel just call Dean hot, in his own weird way? Dean’s head turns a little and their noses bump because of it, and he goes a little cross-eyed for a second before his eyes focus on Castiel’s. “...Are you comin’ on to me?”

Castiel’s eyes flick between Dean’s, his brows slightly knit in that adorable (sexy) way, before he replies simply, “Yes.”

Dean crashes their lips together.

It’s clumsy and a bit awkward at first, but then Castiel is spinning Dean in his embrace and using his angelic strength (holy shit) to hoist Dean up onto the washing machine. Castiel’s knee knocks the front door shut and then he’s between Dean’s spread knees, kissing him senseless, one hand tangled in Dean’s hair and the other hand pushing his thighs apart even further. Dean’s wearing sweatpants and a tshirt so it doesn’t take long for it to be obvious how Castiel is affecting him; Castiel is wearing slacks and his white button-down, and it shouldn’t be so damn sexy that Castiel is properly dressed and Dean is fixed up as a slob, but it is and Dean groans, breaking the kiss and tipping his head back. Castiel’s lips blaze a trail down his jaw and throat, sucking a mark next to his adam’s apple as his hand drops from Dean’s hair to press his palm to the growing bulge in Dean’s sweats.

Going commando had been a necessity due to laundry day, but now Dean thinks it’s a pretty great advantage. Castiel’s hands are everywhere all at once, stripping Dean of his shirt and then hooking into the waistband of his sweats to shimmy them down his thighs. Sooner than later Dean is buck naked sitting on top of the washing machine (Castiel had even pulled off his socks along with his sweats and aw, that’s nice) and then Castiel’s mouth is on his chest, attacking it with biting kisses, tweaking Dean’s nipples and pressing his fingers into the spaces of his ribs. Heat sears through Dean’s body and he huffs out a moan, then a breath, and then starts squirming, Castiel’s mouth and hands everywhere once again and haha shit, why have they waited so long to do this?

Castiel’s hands then suddenly go under Dean’s thighs and push them upwards, causing Dean to lie back against the washer, his head resting on the wall behind it as Castiel spreads him wiiiide open. Dean feels his asshole flutter in anticipation, and a wild thought flits through his mind but no, no way would Castiel actually be preparing to do that, right?

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” Dean lets out a low moan when Castiel bends and swipes the width of his tongue over Dean’s puckered hole. Castiel’s hands drop and Dean reaches down to hold up his legs instead, looking down his body past his dripping, hard cock lying flat against his tummy, to see Castiel’s bedhead between his legs. Holy shit. Holy fuck.

Dean’s pretty sure Castiel has never ate ass before, but he’s licking into him like a pro. His tongue spears and probes only to retreat and lick around the rim, wet and hot, his lips occasionally sealing around his hole to give it a good suck. Stars explode in Dean’s eyes and he closes them before he blows his load like some teenager, instead trying to absorb all of the sensations Castiel is giving him so he can ride along the waves of pleasure instead of cutting it short. Castiel’s wickedly talented and incredibly patient, and soon enough Dean is reaching down to tangle his fingers in Castiel’s hair, tangling in the thick locks, giving a sharp tug.

“Cas, fuck, Cas, I’m gonna-” Dean can barely find the words. “I’m gonna cum, I-”

Castiel comes up from air so he can make eye contact with Dean. One of his hands moves to grip Dean’s cock, fingers spindling around the length erotically, one by one, and then he presses his nose into Dean’s balls. Dean swallows - Castiel doesn’t look done. Castiel doesn’t look like he’s gonna stop.

Castiel looks like he’s gonna wreck him, and he’s so on board with that.

So Dean just sorta flops back, toes curling as he rests his feet on Castiel’s shoulders, huffing out a little breath. “Fuck.”

“Next time,” Castiel promises darkly.

Dean’s eyes roll into the back of his head when Castiel starts jerking him at the same time he draws one of his balls into his mouth. Tremors shudder through Dean’s body, the pleasure almost too intense to handle, but knowing that Castiel wants him to come undone just like this is only fueling the fire in his gut. He succumbs to the pleasure, lets out a high pitched when when the thumb of Castiel’s free hand tugs on his rim; Castiel’s tongue joins it and together they spread Dean’s hole this way and that, tugging at all angles, his thumb dipping inside along his tongue to stretch and wet him at the same time. Dean is tight and slick and his cock is drizzling steadily and Castiel twists his wrist, his thumb sliding out to be replaced by his forefinger, and Dean’s unsure as to how Castiel knows what he’s looking for but he does and Dean cries out and bows, his orgasm ripping through him without warning. His cock shoots so hard some cum lands to pool in Dean’s collarbone, his entire body near convulsing as he rides the tides. It’s probably the longest, most fulfilling release he’s ever had, and when he comes down he falls boneless, his feet slipping off of Castiel’s shoulders. His buttcheeks skid on the top of the washing machine slightly, sticky with sweat and probably suctioned to the metal surface, and Castiel stands up to let his eyes roam over Dean’s debauched body.

“Shit,” Dean pants out. “Gimme a minute and I’ll… return the favor.”

Castiel merely shakes his head, though. He then leans over Dean, bending so his tongue can start swiping up the cooling cum, gathering it on his tongue. He doesn’t stop until Dean’s pretty much clean, and when he comes up there’s no room for argument as he reaches for the back of Dean’s head to bring him in for a kiss. Well- it’s actually a sorry excuse for a kiss, because Dean moans into it as Castiel passes his cum into his mouth, the musky flavor exploding between them. Their tongues tangle to pass it back and forth a few times until they’ve both got a sufficient glob, and when they both swallow their eyes open and their noses brush, rather soft and cute for the filthy thing they just did.

Castiel then helps Dean off of the washing machine, assisting him in redressing because apparently Dean can’t feel his fingers. Once he’s decent again Castiel leans in to press the sweetest of kisses to Dean’s smooth cheek, lashes fluttering against his brow bone.

“You’re welcome.”

Shit, that might be the cockiest thing Castiel has ever said. He pulls away with a glint in his eye and his hair even more messed up than before, and then he’s leaving the laundry room, Dean still partially propped up against the washer. He stares at the empty doorway for an indeterminable amount of time once he’s alone, and he’s only brought back to reality when Jack comes bounding in.

“Dean! Did Castiel’s act of service bring you joy?”

Dean flushes scarlet. “What?”

“I told Cas about your love language,” Jack explains, innocent as ever. “He said he was going to do something for you right away.”

Redder than a tomato, Dean bends to pick up the forgotten damp socks off of the floor so he can toss them into the dryer along with a dryer sheet. “Uh- yeah, Jack. He uh.” He can’t help but snicker a little. “He serviced me real well.” He cranks the dial of the dryer and then turns around, whuffing out a noise of surprise when Jack suddenly throws his arms around Dean.

“We’re a family,” Jack declares.

Smiling softly, Dean wraps his arms around Jack in return, patting the nephilim’s back affectionately. “Yeah, kid. We sure are.”