The first thing to cross Castiel’s mind as he opened his eyes that Friday morning was that it wasn’t pitch-black in their bedroom, despite the fact that morning had come with the sound of his alarm the way it always did, the way it had for years, at 6:15AM. The fact that it was grey instead of completely dark meant that the days were getting longer, slowly but surely, and it was now close enough to spring that the winter darkness had conceded to surrender before Castiel got out of the shower.
He smiled at that.
Not that he had any delusions - this winter had been mild, but it was only late January, and despite the lack of snow on the ground and a predicted high in the mid-40s for today, it was still very much winter in Lawrence. Spring was a solid six weeks away, at least.
He blinked, wiped the sleep from the corners of his eyes, and rolled over to grab his phone from where it sat plugged into the charger on his nightstand. As he swiped up to unlock the screen and access his Twitter account, the right corner of his mouth turned up wryly at the unbidden thought: I wonder what the Internet is mad about today?
A variety of things, it turned out, and he rolled his eyes and thumbed over most of it, thinking not for the first time that he was much too old to be getting involved in drama or wank on subjects he had no control over, or worrying about how “woke” he was when it came to the Generation Z definition of what “woke” was.
He settled into an article about how the Satanic Temple was setting up a pretty pointed argument that outlawing abortion of any sort was an infringement on their religious freedom, and was just about finished when there was a rustling of the covers and a shift of the mattress as his partner stirred, and then, predictably, a heavy arm came down across Castiel’s middle and a nose nuzzled into his bicep. “Wh’sha readin’?”
He set his phone aside and turned his head to the side with a fond smile. “Satanists are threatening to sue for abortion rights,” he relayed before dipping his chin to nuzzle a kiss to the crown of Dean’s head.
His smile grew wider at the thick warmth of Dean’s reply, and he rolled his body fully, so that he was laying on his right side, pressing flush against the full length of Dean’s body. “Good morning.”
“G’morning Sunshine.” Dean nuzzled his nose and Cas took that as invitation for a proper kiss. He did it slowly, like he was savoring a drink from a well of pure water.
Dean came awake in the kiss - Cas could tell because he slowly sought to dominate it, pulling himself up onto his elbow and then slowly rolling Cas flat onto his back before half-covering Cas’ body with his own, one leg working its way into the vee of Cas’ legs.
He groaned and rolled his hips, appreciative of the hardness that rubbed against his own, but then broke the kiss. “Tomorrow,” he said breathlessly. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, we can have lazy sex tomorrow.” Dean pouted. “I’m going to be late for work.”
“No one will care.” Dean tried to resume the liplock, but Cas shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“ Everyone will care, Dean. I have an 8:00 class.”
“Well, not everyone . Just your students in that one class. Besides, why is this even a thing? What sadistic motherfucker schedules an English class at 8:00 on a Friday morning?”
“The kind who likes to be free of responsibility by noon,” he responded with a quirked eyebrow. “Dean?”
“You need to let me up.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Dean hoisted himself off of Cas, rolled back toward his own side of the bed, and sat up on the edge with his feet planted on the floor and his arms stretching up over his head. Cas didn’t hear a yawn, but he expected it was there.
He took a moment to stare unabashedly at Dean’s back, admiring the way his t-shirt lifted at the waist to reveal a freckled bit of Dean’s back as he stretched. Then, with a sigh, he rolled out of bed and headed out of their bedroom and across the hall to the bathroom, grabbing his dark blue bathrobe off the back of their bedroom door as he went.
Dean stayed sitting up on the edge of the bed, his eyes on Cas until the other man was long out of sight and Dean could hear the shower start up from behind the closed bathroom door.
Then he flopped unceremoniously onto his back across the width of their queen bed, arms outstretched over his head, legs still dangling over the edge to the floor. He stared at the ceiling and huffed out a long breath of a sigh.
He was really fucking horny.
He could go join Cas in the shower. He could , but he wouldn’t, he knew, because Cas had a tight schedule to keep if he was going to get out the door in time to make his bus to campus, and Dean wasn’t a completely selfish asshole. He had a great amount of respect for Cas, and knew how to think with his brain instead of his dick.
Three years they’d been married, and three years of dating before that, before they’d decided that taking the plunge while Cas was still a TA and not yet full faculty, let alone tenured faculty or anything mildly secure, was worth the risk. They’d been living together since their second year of relatively drama-free dating, and had mingled their finances shortly thereafter, and, well. Marriage had been inevitable at that point, Dean supposed. There was only so much peanut butter you could could spoon into your nutella before one flavor was virtually indistinguishable from the other. Might as well just mix it all together and enjoy.
And now here he was, the once-untamable Dean Winchester, lifelong fratboy, jock, and a thousand other macho-masculine descriptors detached from his name and traded in for a marriage license, a Subaru and a mortgage with a man - a man , for fuck’s sake, nobody saw that coming - who was more or less a professional nerd. Not that Dean had any room to judge Cas’ nerdiness; nothing screamed NERD like his own PhD in History. And he couldn’t possibly be happier if he tried.
Except maybe for one thing.
He rolled his eyes at his husband’s dedication to his career and reached down to shuck his sleep pants and boxers so he could jerk off properly.
It was quick, and it was messy, and it didn’t hold a candle to fucking Castiel, but his hand did the job appropriately, and he was just cleaning up as he heard the water turn off in the bathroom. He grabbed his dark grey robe off the door, secured it around his naked form, and headed for his turn in the shower. Today, same as every day, Cas would brush his teeth and then get dressed while Dean cleaned up. By the time Dean was dressed, Cas would have a half-eaten breakfast sandwich in his hand as he came in to give him a kiss goodbye so he could get to the park-and-ride in time to catch his bus to campus. A half hour later, Dean would follow in a similar manner and make the drive to campus in his ‘67 Chevy Impala.
It was predictable. Comfortable. Routine. The weekend would come soon. Dean would rock climb at the local gym with Sam on Saturday afternoon, and Castiel would go to yoga on Sunday morning, and in between, they’d attend to laundry and bills and grocery shopping, and Cas would dissertate, and they’d wrap themselves in each other and good food and the laughter of late weekend nights with friends and family.
And then it would be Monday, and they would begin again.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a life he loved with a man he loved more, and really, what else was there? Dean couldn’t think of anything.
He parked in the faculty lot behind the century-old red-brick building that housed Dean’s office and most of the lecture halls, labs and classrooms for the History department.
He had three classes today, the first of which was populated by a group of bored-looking freshmen. The spring semester had started just last week, and he could teach this chapter of “History 102, American History Civil War - Present” in his sleep. Which he might have to do, actually, if he didn’t get some coffee.
He swung by his office to drop off his bag, collect his notes, and start a fresh pot, allowing the first drips of coffee to fall directly into his travel mug to fill it before he replaced the carafe to catch the rest.
He looked back over his shoulder at the greeting as he was exiting his office, and upon recognition, raised a hand in a wave at his collegue, Benny Lafitte. He sipped his coffee and descended to the second floor via the stairs, passing students on the way and returning mumbled greetings as they were offered.
Five minutes before class, and that time clicked by as Dean settled himself with his laser pointer and drank half his coffee.
The last of the students trickled in, and Dean rounded to the front of his lectern. “All right, good morning, happy Friday, glad to see you’ve all survived another week of academic torture. First, before we get started, I have for you… this quiz.”
“C’mon, Winchester,” griped a young woman in the front row. “You’re supposed to be the cool professor!”
“Oh, I’m totally cool. Awesome, in fact. Hip? With it? Down? Woke?” He smirked at her, and then addressed the class in general. “Ten questions, open notes, then we’ll get started where we left off, talking about the infrastructure of the American South following their surrender, and why that’s still important information for you to have, even though it happened, like, a million years ago. Good luck.”
Just because his life was comfortable and predictable didn’t mean he had to afford the same generosity to his students. They had plenty of time to discover the monotony of adulthood on their own.