Dean, for once, feels good when he wakes up. It was a good night, and it's gonna be a good morning. He hasn't checked the time, but Sam was supposed to leave this morning to help Jody on a case and the bunker is otherwise empty, so when he rolls out of bed, pre-coffee bleary, he's not too worried about whatever he pulls on. And cuz he's feeling so good, Dean cracks the door and leaves it open when there's no sign of life. It's a free bunker. Let the light in.
He's brushing his teeth when he realizes it's not his dead guy robe that he pulled from the back of the desk chair. And they're not his boxers he found on the floor either.
"Huh," Dean says around a mouthful of toothpaste foam, which dribbles into the sink.
Cas makes a curious-ish grumbling noise from the bed, awoken by the light, but Dean ignores it.
He's stuck on his reflection.
Apparently, it's Cas's dress shirt he's got draped over him, little white buttons glinting in the light now let in by the door. Dean hasn't ever really thought about it before—at least, not outside the haze of horniness—but Cas is definitely built wider than him, and the shirt hangs a little loose over Dean's shoulders, just enough to notice, and it's long enough to look baggier when tucked into Cas's slacks. He thinks. He remembers...
"What is it?"
Dean buttons one button in the middle of the shirt, then another, almost on instinct, though he doesn't know why. In the corner of the mirror, he catches Cas shuffling up on his elbows, bare chest visible over the mountain of rumpled sheets, before his eyes go back to the mirror. Dean sees himself, but not. Even barely buttoned, just a bit of skin peeking out. Flash 'em a little thigh...
The picture snaps together. "Dude, I'm Julia Roberts."
"What." Cas sits up more to rub his eyes with one palm.
Pretty Woman, Mr. & Mrs. Smith, that one with Anne Hathaway and Gyllenhaal, like ninety percent of Cameron Diaz's filmography. He's the chick on the poster—the lead in the sex comedy wearing just her underwear with the dude's too-big shirt the morning after, with the misaligned buttons and the sex hair. He's—
"I'm the hot girl."
Cas, still squinting, lies back down. "Okay."
"I'm—" Dean crawls back up the bed, ignoring Cas's disgruntled noises as the further disruption. "Like Charlie's freaking Angels. Cas. Hey. I'm the hot girl."
He turns over, eyes shut up at the ceiling. "I don't know what that means."
Dean just tugs the blankets further from Cas's face and sits back on his knees, gesturing at the everything he's got going on. "Look."
The situation slips back from funny to hot when Cas opens his eyes.
First, there's the usual reasons: Cas is hot. Cas is always hot, but especially right now because Dean had sex with him last night and can't look at him without remembering that, not in the least because the mess of his hair and the mouth-shaped bruises on his shoulders are a pretty clear indication of that. His eyes are burning blue when they open, already locked on Dean, and that was all it took to get Dean to climb him like a tree the night before. This morning, it's even worse.
Second, Dean realizes the flaw in his "look at me, I'm the hot girl in the movie," presentation because it means he's very on display when he realizes that he forgot the other half of the scene: the equally sexed-up guy still in the bed, shirtless because his clothes are busy elsewhere. He forgot that that would be Cas.
Then, of course, Cas opens his mouth. "What am I looking at?"
"Hey!" Dean grabs his own pillow and smacks his stupid handsome face with it.
Cas splutters, taking the pillow from Dean's hands easily. "What?"
Stashing the pillow behind his back, Cas sits up fully so they're eye to squinting eye, face to tilted face. "I am looking at... you?"
"Yeah," Dean shoots back. "And?"
As a hint, Dean bites his lip, but Cas gives him another blank look.
"And... you're beautiful?"
He rolls his eyes. "Thanks."
"Dean," Cas sighs. "Of course I think you're attractive. You always have been to me, no matter how your exterior appearance changes."
"Hell yeah I am."
"But," Cas continues, perpetually nonchalant, "I fail to see what I'm supposed to get from the declaration that you're 'the hot girl.' Unless you woke up with a sudden enthusiasm for 'women's studies talk' for some reason and this is your bizarre way of introducing that, you're still the man I love."
"Shut up." Dean flushes. "That's not— I meant like. I made you watch Pretty Woman."
Cas nods like he still kinda thinks Dean's insane. "You did."
"'Big mistake'? 'Huge'?"
"Those were words spoken in the movie," he agrees.
"Alright, and there's that scene when— You know, she's eating breakfast, she's got like the hotel robe on."
Cas nods again, this time like he's actually following, which Dean'll take. "She's eating a croissant, and then it's a pancake."
"Yes, and I hate you forever for pointing that out." Dean still turns his free hand over in the sheets between them when Cas reaches out, tangling their fingers together. "But it's like that. It's a movie thing, y'know? Sexy romcom... thing. Most of the time it's the girl wearing the guy's shirt, though. It's supposed to be sexy. With the hair and the barely closed clothes. Like, decent but also indecent."
"And you're this hot girl?" Cas supplies.
Dean sits back again, cocks his hip a bit, and gestures theatrically with his free hand to the length of himself: sex hair, Cas's shirt, Cas's underwear. Ta-da.
And— Okay, so it might come off a little goofier than he intended: less seductive and more ridiculous, as Dean is so often wont to be. But Cas is into— Well, he's into Dean, at least, and that's a territory with which goofiness comes. He better like it.
"Or, you know." Dean deflates slightly. "Whatever."
Squeezing the hand he still has a hold on, Cas brings Dean in for a kiss by the back of his head. He's usually more of a hips kind of guy—which would make Dean the hot girl again—and Dean's now thinking about that, but hopefully this means the bedhead aspect is doing something. Or maybe Cas has just been listening.
The latter is proved when Cas pulls back again after not too long, eyes already locked on Dean's. Though he still waits until Dean nods back, nothing in his expression changes as his fingers push up to the crown of Dean's head, messing up his hair further gently and then very much the opposite.
Cas waits until Dean laughs before the smile reaches his eyes. "You're the hot girl."
"Okay," he admits, "then what?"
"I mean..." Cas's hand leaves his hair (Dean does not mourn it, shut up) to wave at Dean the same way Dean did earlier. "In the movie scenario. What happens next?"
"There's not— I don't know, man. It's just a thing. Like a trope or whatever."
"So it's only visual?"
"Well. You said the trope usually comes after sex," Cas offers. "Does this still count? As lovely as this outfit makes your arms look, technically you didn't put my shirt on out of any sense of decency. You just put it on because you get cold in the morning. That's not connected to sex per se."
"Yeah, but not always immediately. Sometimes it's the morning after, however long that takes."
"Well," Dean waggles his eyebrows, though when he tries to look up under his eyelashes too, their heads knock together with how close they already are, "now's kinda both. So we're ticking all the boxes, if you know what I mean."
Cas hums, not taking the bait, and smooths down one unbuttoned side of Dean's/his shirt. "And that's it?"
"Well... Yeah." He thinks it through for a second, lulled by the soft feeling of Cas's thumb arcing slowly back and forth across Dean's chest. "I mean, there's not really— It's mostly so movies can show that the characters had sex without, y'know, showing the characters having sex. Most of the time they just get on with the plot."
"What's our plot, then?"
Cas still has hold of one of Dean's hands and seems to study it, turning it over and over, tracing slow lines between Dean's fingers between his own. His eyes never leave Dean's face, though. It's a tactile study, Dean guesses.
"Uh." It's hard to pay attention. "Life?"
"In the movie, then," Cas just says. "Where you're the hot girl."
"Where I'm the hot girl?"
"Mhm." He drops Dean's hand to roll up the floppy sleeve above it.
"I don't know, man, it wasn't that deep a reference."
Cas just nudges closer. "You're saying you haven't thought about it?"
In the movie where Dean's the hot girl and he picks up Cas's dress shirt on his way out of bed, leaving Cas in the sheets like Dean's every best wet dream, meanwhile Dean's draped in a scrap of borrowed decency that somehow makes it that that much less decent, that much more debauched looking.
But that's basically what happened, right? Like. That is it. That's not a movie, that's just... Dean's life. Dean's life is mornings in bed and someone else's clothes and the heat between two bodies.
"I guess not."
There's suddenly half a foot of clear air between their faces as Cas hits him with his Dean, you're being an idiot look. "Dean."
"What?" He mentally replays the last few minutes, finally noticing the way Cas's hand is still cradling the back of his neck. The other hand on his thigh. When did that get there? Wait. "Ohhh."
Cas smiles his most winning, closed-mouth smile and bumps his nose into Dean's cheek.
"You were doing the thing," Dean says into his cheekbone. Now that he's looking, he recognizes it all as not only seduction but themed seduction.
"Obviously." Cas slips a hand up under the shirt, along Dean's ribs, warm in contrast to the cool of the fabric. Duh. No shit, Winchester. "I was— What's the phrase? 'And also'?"
"Yes and?!" And before Cas even finishes nodding, Dean's dragging him in. "You yes-anded me— Dude, you sex yes-anded me, holy shit, I love you."
Then, thankfully, before Dean can say any more dumb shit, Cas gets both hands around his waist and yanks Dean flat against the bed. They both stop talking pretty quickly then. The plot is thoroughly lost.
Once the dust has settled and the rumbling in Dean's stomach becomes unignorable, he crawls out of bed, regretfully pulling himself out of Cas's arms again and again until he manages to break free.
"Gimme a sec," he huffs against Cas's lips, the smile on his own undermining the follow-up. "Fucking angel stamina, I tell ya. The mortal's gotta eat first."
"That's unfortunate." Cas kisses him again, deep and dirty, and Dean falls into where the air between them is warm and soft and familiar. His stomach goes off again.
"Seriously." Dean tries to lean back, though it's hard to get much further when Cas is holding onto him again, hands molded to the bones of Dean's hips.
Dean laughs and extracts himself. "I don't know. Take it up with the big man upstairs."
He fishes around in the sheets and manages to find the shirt again: Cas's shirt, now wrinkled beyond all belief, but warm from where it's been wrapped up in the bed with them. When he looks up, Cas is already (still) watching, and so it's with that gaze on him that Dean pulls the shirt back on, one sleeve at a time.
One thing the movies can't convey is how thick the air is in that moment. The tension, the heat, all this other shit that doesn't come across on film. The way that the shirt doesn't really smell like Cas—what the fuck would that even mean—but still, in some way, carries this Cas feeling on it like a scent. The comparative coolness of the fabric when Dean put it on that morning after hours of being flung on the far side of the room, alien feeling from the inside but, in his reflection, wholly familiar. And then the feeling of Cas, on the outside, watching Dean do and feel all this, and then reaching over to pull the edges of the shirt together.
Quietly, he buttons them together just the same (wrong) way that they'd been when Dean got back in bed. He tugs one end awry, then fixes one side of the collar before messing up the other side even more. He runs his hand through the hair on top of Dean's head, gentle and then intentional and then—
"Alright, alright," Dean says, smacking Cas's hand away when he gets a little too into scrubbing Dean's hair up in the wrong direction. He doesn't need to see his reflection again to know how ridiculous he looks now, nor to know which smile is breaking across his own face.
Cas just smiles back. "There."
"Alright, stud, keep it in your pants."
"I'm not wearing any pants," he points out, and Dean looks over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the underwear he'd stolen and, further, Cas's normal pants in the corner for some reason.
For good measure, Dean makes a note to go and grab those again too. Just to complete the recreation again. He thinks about the stash in the back of his underwear drawer, how it would really be a better fit for the whole Pretty Woman vibe, but if the idea is to get out of bed and get something to eat, that wouldn't exactly help matters. Maybe later. After food.
"You want anything?" He continues aloud, bare feet sticking uncomfortably to the cold concrete of the floor.
Cas pushes back up against the headboard, which Dean pointedly doesn't watch, lest he have no choice but to immediately get started round three. "Coffee."
"Duh." Dean's glad he at least had time to brush his teeth. Also, that Sam is still not here. "You know, this is your fault. Really you should be the one bringing me breakfast in bed. Hot girl privileges."
"That makes no sense when you're the one, by definition, wearing clothes to leave the bed in," Cas points out.
"Don't try to logic me, man. I know movies, okay?"
Cas's smile is audible in his voice, but Dean stops in the doorway and turns back anyway. He was right, on both accounts: if he turned around sooner, he'd never get out the door, and Cas is still definitely the hot guy. More importantly, though, he's Dean's hot guy, and it's Cas's shirt on Dean's back, one he picked out for himself but is still so integral to the iconic Cas look.
And it's Cas he's bringing coffee back for, so Dean drums on the doorway in a pleased bit of fidgeting and smiles again as he walks backwards out the door. Way better than the movies.