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Put that "D" in Your "Canon" and Suck It, Pachelbel

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Somewhere on the outskirts of Pontiac, Illinois, just a couple miles off 55, you tell Sam that rickety old barn shouldn't have survived what you've dubbed "Apocalypse Not."

As you roll to a stop, he probably thinks you can't hear that annoying little sigh of his over the crunch of gravel underneath Baby's tires, and you're about to tell him to shut it, too, because he never could appreciate a perfectly good pun (uncultured swine), but he sticks out a hand and orders you to fork it over. "You need to let me look at that before you go in there."

His fingers're gestured towards the crumpled up piece of paper in your pocket, one that's got a few too many creases from all the times you chucked it into the garbage and fished it right back out again. And maybe there's some kinda fucking metaphor in that, scribbling things out and smudging things up with beer stains the more you kept staring at the damn thing, but hell if you're gonna let your brother see just how much blood and sweat you put into it. Literally. Paper cut hurts like a bitch.

Sam motions for it again, and you swat his nosy ass away. "What? No!" You narrow your eyes at him. "Why?"

Not that you're concerned about his, like, opinion or anything.

"To make sure you didn't quote something stupid like Die Hard or—"

"Hey, you worry about your part, and I'll worry 'bout mine, 'kay?"

Sam's face flatlines. "Oh, God, you didn't."

You get out of the car and slam the door without another word.

Man, fuck Sam. Not like you don't already got more jitters than a junkie quitting cold turkey, hopped up on so many butterflies on steroids that you feel like you're going to puke waterfalls into next week. Doesn't help that you've spent the last nine hours driving and dealing with the literal ass-end of your brother's blatant disregard of your no burritos rule.

You unscrew your flask and take a swig of whatever you hope's still enough to last you the day. At the rate you're going, though, you'll be praying to the porcelain god tonight. Now there's a way to kick off the honeymoon.

"You'll do fine," Sam says, reaching over to adjust the flower pinned to your lapel, and you groan at the memory of Cas dragging you around that farmers' market to examine every last goddamn species of plant you don't even know how to pronounce. "Listen, you made it this far, right?"

"Bee sting-free," you're absolutely freakin' thrilled to say.

"And you know I'd be the first to tell you if I thought this was a huge mistake."

The burn working up to the back of your mouth's got some bite to it, nearly making your eyes water. "Is it?"

"Aside from the fact that this pretty much makes the big guy your father-in-law?" There's about fifty more ways of telling Sam to go screw himself at the tip of your tongue, but then he has the nerve to go all sappy on you. "Dean, if you didn't already know the answer to that, trust me…you wouldn't be here."

Truth is, you wouldn't be on this giant hunk of rock at all if it weren't for Cas. Well, probably not so giant to him. His meatsuit might be middle-aged, but dude's older than a number you can even count to. And once in a while, it sticks out like a sore thumb: that time he called you some pipsqueak ant and you swear you saw all four of the darkest corners of the universe flare up in his eyes. He's seen Rome get its ass kicked; watched China slap down its first brick. The guy outdates dinosaurs, for chrissakes.

And even though you're nothin' but a blink in whatever grand fucking scheme there's supposed to be, he ended up with your sorry ass all the same. Willingly. Traded what was left of his mojo to cure a mark that couldn't be fixed with any number of anger management sessions. Like trading down the Playboy Mansion for some hole in the ground. Nearly got himself killed, the crazy son of a bitch.

Not sure you would've made it yourself if he hadn't.

You try not to think about it too much—how he chose this; how he chose you—because you're liable to break under the weight of it all. Just like this rickety old barn with a little more sag in the roof and a few more chips in the paint. It's a friggin' miracle it's still standing, what, must be ten years now? Guess it fits, what with all the creaks in your knees and cracks in your bones these days, swerving on the edge of forty and still only six bucks to your name. And as you swallow back another spot of whiskey that's beginning to feel less like cheap therapy and more like a punch in the throat, hell, you're surprised you're still standing.

It used to give you cold sweats, a real bad case of the shakes—that horse crap people call destiny. Fate. And don't get you wrong; you still don't buy none of that "greater purpose" baloney. But maybe you bein' here, filled with the kind of warmth that doesn't leave you with a nasty hangover…maybe you just didn't know you'd been following the stars already laid out for you.

Maybe faith was just a way of leading you home.

You clench your fists and gird yourself before walking into the barn, but not even an iron stomach could have prepared you for the waft of—ugh, good God, what is that?

"Nag Champa," Charlie says. Least you hope it's Charlie. Assuming Puff the Magic Dragon didn't make the list and that's not some serious secondhand doobie smoke you're tripping on.


"Sandalwood, mostly. You use incense to summon angels, right?"

"One at a time, yeah. Not the whole damn Tabernacle Choir!"

"Sheesh, lighten up, Grumps. We just thought we'd, you know…" She fistbumps you in the shoulder, and cripes, she's actually wiggling her eyebrows at you. "Recreate the mood."

"Of the freakin' seventies?"

"No, your meet cute, duh."

Now you wish you were hallucinating because someone really needs to tell you that she did not just say "meet cute."

"Oh, yeah. Getting my ass dragged out of the fiery pit. Pumping an angel full of lead and then knifing him. Real adorable. All we're missing is the part where I gouge my eye out with a spork because last I checked, this ain't a fucking romcom."

"Pffft. What show have you been watching, Hunter McDreamy?"

Swear to God, first person that says "mawwiage" gets their kidney stabbed.

"Besides, someone had to clean this place up." Charlie nods over at Eileen, Sam's wife as of last Christmas, who's fiddling with the floral arrangements. Huh. Don't remember picking those. Probably because you put a bullet in your brain after the six bazillionth option. "You better be kissing her feet like the queen she is after this is over because she busted major ass shaping it into something only semi-hazardous to humans. In my opinion, this horror movie should have been torn down a long time ago, but I guess sentimentality overrides thirty-five health and fire code violations."

You snort. Like you're going to risk the wrath of that woman's scorn. She might not be the most talkative of the bunch, but sure is true what they say about the quiet ones. Barely more than a half-pint tall, and she still keeps your brother on his toes. "I will. You know me; never been much for rules, anyway. And hey." You throw her a once-over of the red-hot number she's wearing. "You look bangin'."

She rolls her eyes after she catches you winking at Dorothy, too, who waffles between courtesy waving and ignoring you for her gin and tonic. "Hands off. You're about to get hitched; no tradesies." Don't stop her from leaning forward and whispering, "But I know, right? And…you're not so bad yourself. For a Grumps, that is. But for whatever reason, Cas seems to dig that sort of thing."

Yeah, you don't get it, neither. Not that he's a fucking ray of sunshine before ten a.m. himself. "Thanks for, uh…" You clear your throat. "Coming."

She pecks you on the cheek. "I know."

Charlie ain't so far off on the horror movie bit; the sigils you and Bobby spray painted wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor are still there as a reminder of just how half-baked your plan was. Hell, not even quarter-baked. Could've been knocking on the devil's door, for all you knew (though, technically, you and Sam managed to screw the pooch on that one, too).

Strange how it all feels like a whole different lifetime back then. Back when…

Well, back before good things happened.

Frankly, you would've been fine with renting out the party room at Biggerson's, but apparently, that would've been like committing the eighth deadly sin from the way Sam's eyes were bugging out at you. And now that you see the final product, s'pose the sprucing up wasn't such a bad idea after all. The strings of LED lights, the big-ass drapes, those dinky tea light candles—which you only know the name of 'cause you had to go buy one of those electronic dealies after you almost burned down the bunker during…

Actually, that part's not important.

Anyway, it's, uh. Something. Okay, so, whatever...maybe it's…y'know. Nice. Not exactly Zeppelin and an open hood; grease-stained t-shirts and a hard-earned six-pack, but it'll do. If you're into that fairy dust stuff. Sure as hell classier than Sam's trip to the little nuthouse of love with that Becky chick—and nope, still not letting him live that down.

It's five minutes to showtime, so Sam does a head count to see which of these slackers you're waiting on. Sheriff Mills and Hanscum are here with the girls, course. You remember bumping into Cesar and Jesse earlier, too, and saying a quick hello to Garth and Bess, but you'll be honest: roll call ain't exactly ringing in at number one priority when you're too busy eyeballing the inside of your flask and choking down an ulcer the size of Texas to deal with the fact that holy shit, you're getting freakin' married in five minutes.

Then again, it don't compare to your entire stomach dropping out when you hear Sam ask if anybody's seen the one person that gets you outta bed every damn morning in the first place.

Cas texted you the night before, but the last time you actually saw him was…shit, has it been five days now? The guy woke up one day, said something like his chakras're all out of whack, and completely outta nowhere, he took off on some fucking vision quest. Wouldn't clue you in on the real reason why he thought he needed to do a little stargazing, but he promised it'd only be for a night, and you let him go on the condition he'd call you so you knew he wasn't grizzly chow.

But then one night turned into two, and two turned into four, leaving you all manner of pissed and needing to jack off so hard you saw stars of your own. 'Cept clearing the pipes didn't do shit for clearing the head; rubbing one out just rubbed the tension even deeper once it all seeped back in; once it dawned on you that you've had to go to bed alone for the past several nights since your space case for a fiancé went all Nowhere Man on you. For all you know, he's legally changed his name to Sunshine Rainbow Flower by now and would rather chain himself to a tree than your ass because apparently bees going extinct is a sign of another goddamn apocalypse. Christ. You know seeing the bride—er, other groom—before the wedding's bad luck, but this…well, it had your brain spinnin' with about eighty different text messages you were gonna fire off to him till you deleted them all and settled for one that wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you one step from tearing your fucking hair out.

Sent 11:03 p.m. - U done kumbaya-ing with nature yet

Received 11:17 p.m. - I believe so. The quiet was much-needed.

Sent 11:17 p.m. - K good

Sent 11:18 p.m. - You cumin home tonight?

Sent 11:18 p.m. - Ugh coming

Received 11:22 p.m. - And here I thought you were attempting to seduce me with Indian cuisine.

Deleted 11:24 p.m. - You know that crap goes right through me

Deleted 11:27 p.m. - I'll cook you a whole damn pot of that chicken tiki whatever if

Sent 11:28 p.m. - Just answer the question

Received 11:29 p.m. - What question?

Sent 11:29 p.m. - Home??

Received 11:36 p.m. - I don't think that would be wise. You're the one always telling me that I shouldn't be driving when it gets too late.

Sent 11:40 p.m. - Yeah cuz you won't wear your damn glasses

Received 11:41 - My vision is perfectly fine.

Sent 11:41 p.m. - Whatever Mr Magoo

Sent 11:42 p.m. - You do remember what tomorrow is though

Sent 11:43 p.m. - right

Received 11:46 p.m. - September 18th? I hear it's important.

Sent 11:47 p.m. - Important enough to buy every flower in the tri state area apparently

Sent 11:51 p.m. - I don't care how pretty they make me look Cas

Sent 11:52 p.m. - Not wearing another one of ur handmade flower crowns at the wedding

Received 11:54 p.m. - (◡‿◡❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀)

Sent 11:58 p.m. - So. ..r u just meeting there?

Sent 12:03 a.m. - Cas?

Deleted 12:06 a.m. - I swear 2 god Cas if you

Deleted 12:08 a.m. - I really wish you were

Sent 12:09 a.m. - I'm not gonna have to fish your body out of the river am i

Received 12:11 a.m. - Sorry, I didn't mean to worry you. I got distracted.

Received 12:12 a.m. - There's nothing quite like the pleasure of urinating out in the open air.

Sent 12:12 a.m. - Tmi dude

Received 12:13 a.m. - I found the answers I was searching for.

Received 12:14 a.m. - Everything is very clear to me now.

Deleted 12:16 a.m. - The hell does that mean

Deleted 12:18 a.m. - I miss you

Fuck if you knew how to respond to something like that, so you ended up throwing your phone to the empty side of the bed, rolling over into a fitful sleep that you blamed on your Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza. But popping antacids won't cure the gut rot; won't neutralize the bile creepin' up your throat when neither your brother nor his wife's heard a peep from him. Your next best bet is Claire, but she only does this wimpy shrug and says she figured he was riding with you. On top of that, you have maybe about…two drops left in your flask, it's getting dark, and the cell phone service out here is so crappy you can't even ream his ass long distance.

Face it, man. Something has to be wrong. 'Cause when did things ever go right, huh? And after ten, twenty, nearly thirty minutes go by, you start thinkin' your worst fear's come true: he's flaked out on you again.

What a fucking dupe you are.

But the real kicker? This whole dog and pony show wasn't even your idea in the first place. Jesus, how could…

You scrub a hand down your face to wipe away the sweat beads, cursing the stuffy monkey suit you got wrangled into as you pace back and forth. When you glance back up, Sam's got his puppy eyes on you. The same stupid look he'd given you when you'd hightailed it over to his place to drop the big news—but not before you made a beeline for the beer in his fridge.

"Cas wants to get married?" he'd asked, because apparently the dude couldn't think of anything better than repeating the same fucking thing you just said. "That's great, right?"

"No." You popped off the bottle cap with a hiss, tossing the opener with a clunk onto the table. "Not great."

"You…don't want to get married?"

"What's so bad about what we got now, huh?"

"What, 'cause you're keeping your options open? In case you ever feel the urge to hit up Vegas and wake up married to a stripper someday?"

He'd snorted at you, and you were 'bout ready to chuck that bottle cap at him. "I just…I don't get why he cares so much. Marriage ain't gonna change anything. It's gonna be the same old shit whether we make the ankle chains legit or not."

"Yeah, Dean, why does it matter? I get it; marriage is a big thing, but you and Cas have been together for, like…ever. I mean, really, honestly, Dean…is there anyone else? Do you want there to be someone else?"

You'd taken your sweet time planting your ass in that chair across from your brother, downing half your beer and wishing you had something to hit you harder than that goddamn question. Like you hadn't already spent your nights tossing and turning over it. Like you hadn't remembered all the mornings you'd woken up alone in a stiff, cold bed before Cas came home to the bunker for good. But in that moment, all you could concentrate on was that dumb bottle cap, spinning it between your fingers as you tried over and over again to get it to stay up.

"No," you'd finally said, eyes still on the bottle cap rattling to a stop for the last time.

And it felt like someone'd gutted you open with a knife.

"Then what's the problem?"

"Because, Sam, what if he…"

"What if he what, Dean?"

There's an L-word that carves you deeper than that four-letter one.

"I keep thinkin' he's gonna figure it out. That his ass is gonna wise up and realize…I got nothin'. That this is it. This is our lives. All we got to look forward to is—"


The barn doors burst open, snapping you back to the present when a hot mess of trench coat rushes down the aisle. There's none of that sparks-flying shit, but you still feel the warmth flare up in the pit of your stomach, the knots in your shoulders unraveling as goose bumps prickle your skin.

The son of a bitch came back.

Cas fists the lapels of your suit. "Dean, I'm so sorry; I—"

"You were late the first time, too, you jackass." You paw at the sides of his face, your smile teetering back and forth as you choke down something that's a little too soppy to blame on indigestion. You dunno whether your body wants to laugh or cry more, but it's taking all the strength you have not to crash and burn onto his shoulder right in front of everybody. Charlie better not be record—oh, crud. She's already whipped the iPad out.

"I would have been here an hour ago, but traffic was insufferable," he says. "And there was a turtle in distress that needed roadside assistance."

God, do you know how to pick 'em. Got his tie all backwards, too, the nerd.

"I had to dress myself in the car," he confesses, attempting to fix his clothes and shrug his coat off, but you grab him by the arm.

"No, no, just…leave it." You ruffle his bangs a bit for good measure. "There we go. Perfect."

You're not fooling yourself into thinking that you're suddenly ten years younger—not with the grays popping up at each of your hairlines and the crow's feet deepening around your eyes—but he looks just like you feel: struck by lightning all over again.

Sam clears his throat, swiping at his tablet to bring up the notes he's prepped. "We, uh…ready?"

Your breath hitches as Cas nods, his gaze never leaving yours as you barely shrug the equivalent of a "ditto." So. This is really happening. This is…

Jesus, you gotta keep it together, man.

When you all settle on your marks, Sammy's wearing the biggest shit-eating grin you've ever seen, and yeah, you bet he's enjoying this. Bastard won the secret pool he had going with everybody else for when you and Cas were finally gonna get your act together and make things official. So it's just plain principle, really—an act of natural brotherly defiance—that you let most of what he says go in one ear and out the other.

And maybe also 'cause your heart's beating so fucking hard, it might just bust right out of its cage.

Somewhere in the midst of all the tongue wagging about union and matrimony, Cas takes your hands into his, and—oh, God, you're already up to your vows. Shit, he can't feel how sweaty your palms are, can he? Did you forget to put on deodorant earlier? Wait…did you leave the stove on?

Probably a good idea that Cas is taking first crack at this vow thing because there's no way in hell you're opening your mouth without a whole bunch of stupid falling out.

"Dean," he starts, and even though you've heard him say your name a million times before, it always feels like an anchor in your chest, grounding you and dragging you back to shore. "I've witnessed the rise and fall of thousands upon thousands of civilizations; I've seen the glory and the spoils of battle; I've walked this earth and reveled in the beauty of all that my father's creation has to offer. But never have I once crossed paths with anything or anyone more remarkable than you."

Your throat closes up, the heat rising in your cheeks as those big blues stare right down into you. Reminds you of how he'd try to dissect you, study you like some petri dish. Figure out all your parts, how they all fit together—or more often, how they don't—and you hated how naked it made you feel.

Only difference now is, after all your hollow places're exposed, he goes in and fills them right up.

You're not sure which'll turn you into the bigger wreck.

"My brothers and sisters…they thought I was lost the moment I reached in and pulled you out, but truthfully, it feels like I've been lost long before then. Because Dean…you found me. You had faith in me when all hope was gone. You showed me the depth of humanity; you showed me why, even with all the sorrow and the pain, it's something worth fighting to hold onto. And although my days are numbered no greater than yours, I will spend each of them fighting to hold onto you. You are worth more than anything immortality or powers or all of heaven could ever give me, and you…you are the one to whom I devote my life. You always have been, and you always will be. I promise I will always choose you."

The room falls dead silent, suddenly feeling the lead in your stomach and the cotton in your mouth. Okay, maybe Cas shouldn't have gone first. Fuck. How're you supposed to top that?

Sam nudges you. "Dean, you, uh…wanna say yours?"

"What, like now?"

You're pretty sure that online certificate didn't give him the authority to make bitchfaces during your wedding.

"Um, yeah, okay…" The whiskey's beginning to wear off (maybe you should've brought the super-sized flask), hands shaking as you retrieve the note from your pocket, dropping it and scrabbling to pick it back up again. "Uh…" You tug at your collar, making some phlegmy noises that you're praying Charlie'll have the decency to edit out of your nup vid. "Sorry, think I got a little, uh…ahem…something…"

Sam kicks you in the shin. Jeez, not like he has to hurry home to watch the Super Bowl. "Right, um…Cas…" He smiles patiently as you hold up the crinkled sheet in front of you, trying to make sense of your chicken scratch. "Ever since that day we met…well, maybe 'met' don't exactly fit, but, uh…"

You trail off, the back of your jaw locking up just like your knees when the ink starts blurring together. Seconds seem like hours as you leave Cas hanging there, and you're one hop and a skip away from jumping outta that burning plane, screaming, Mayday! Mayday!

"Screw it." Nobody's on fire yet, and if you go with your gut and wing it, maybe there's still hope for a graceful landing. You shove the note back into your pocket, licking your lips and steeling yourself as you pull him closer. "Cas, you know I'm not much with the whole…y'know, words thing. And I'm sorry that I can't, um…do you one better. I just…I-I just know that when the world's gone to shit out there, you…well, having you around makes it less shitty."

Ugh. Smooth, Winchester. Least no one's gonna be killing any trees puttin' your fancy speeches to paper.

"Listen, I don't know where we're gonna be five years from now. Hell, five minutes from now. All I know is that when I do try to picture the future…well, it's black, mostly. But, uh…you remember that night in the confessional, how I was saying stuff about f-feelings and crap, and…and I realized…you make me wanna see beyond today. And I—fuck, I don't want to do this without you, man."

You rub at your eye. Speck of dust, is all. "I don't have much to offer you, Cas, but, uh…heh. If we're talking promises, I guess one of the few things that I can promise you is that…I'm gonna piss you off." He breaks out into the widest, toothiest grin, and God, if you could kiss him right there. "And I promise you're gonna piss me off. Thing is, that…that don't mean a lick. 'Cause no matter how far we get from each other, somehow, we always seem to come back 'round. And 'bout what you were saying earlier, h-how I've 'found' you or whatever—I will, Cas. I'll always come find you. Promise."

He leans forward like he's aching to close the distance between you, squeezing your hands a little tighter, and…wow, that's—that's actually quite the grip he's got.

Not that you're ever letting go.

"I know we've been through the muck and the mire together, and I know that ain't gonna be the last of it. Maybe...maybe bein' who we are…maybe we are cursed. But I ain't lookin' for the friggin' antidote. You…you're…" Jesus, stop rambling like a fucking sap. "You're it for me, Cas."

You try swallowing, regain a bit of your composure, but that damn lump won't go down. "Sounded nicer the way you said it, though."

"No," he says, the word snagging on a laugh that's a little wet for his typical dry humor. "That was wonderful." He presses his lips together to fight back the quiver, eyes turning glassy, and dammit, if he gets all weepy on you, you're a goner.

Instead, you end up glancing down at the polish on your shoes, numbing yourself to everything around you 'cause it's the only option you got if you don't wanna lose it completely. Yeah, you would be the one person to have a total breakdown because you're too goddamn happy, of all things.


You really are happy, aren't you?

Soon as you hear mention of "rings," you take a deep breath, preparing to go through the motions just like you rehearsed so you can get this whole awkward display of lovey-dovey declarations over with. You'd at least like to think you're a semi-functional adult. You know, where it counts.

'Cept your brother has to ruin your plans when he notices the few minor tweaks you may or may not've snuck into the script. "Dude. No."

You grit your teeth. "Dude, just go with it."

"I am not saying, 'Do you take this dude to be your lawfully-wedded buddy?'"

"Means the same thing, Sammy."

"No, it doesn't, and you're an idiot. Cas, do you take my idiot brother to be your lawfully-wedded husband?"

"I do," he says, stone-cold sober and without hesitation. It's almost surreal standing there, watching him take your wrist and slip the metal band onto your finger. It feels…weird. A little bit alien.

But for better or worse, you s'pose that sums up pretty much your entire relationship with the guy.

"And Dean, do you take Cas to be your lawfully-wedded husband?"

It's a funny kinda irony knowing that ten years ago, you were clenching the hilt of a dagger in your palm instead of a ring. But before you can answer, you freeze up when the wind rattles the roof overhead, reminding you of that feeling that something big's about to go down.

Okay, universe. Point taken.

"Yeah," you say quietly, lifting Cas' hand and sliding the other matching band into its rightful place. "I do. Cursed or not."

You're thinking it's probably for the best that Sam skipped the "till death do you part" bit.

"Now kiss the groom, you jerk."



The peanut gallery erupts into whooping and whistling as you move in for the kill, and hey, if they want a show, you'll give 'em one, all gratuity and no shame while you sneak in some tongue for added effect. And when you pull apart again, you don't even care that your face muscles are gettin' sore from working overtime.

You wouldn't stop your dopey smiling for the world.

Later, after you've had about all the Roxbury brothers impressions you can handle (you might love the dude, and you might even let yourself get tipsy enough to slow dance to Journey, but nowhere in your contract does it say you have to bust a move to nineties Eurotrash or "Gangnam Style"—and absolutely no fucking way will you ever be hammered enough for Sir Mix-a-Lot), you find Sam lurking on the sidelines, digging a couple of cold ones out of the cooler and offering one up to you.

"So." You take a slow sip of your beer, waving at Eileen as the other ladies rope her into carousing along to a number by some guy with the words "boob" and "lay" in his name. You're told he's a staple for this sorta shindig, but you're gonna need a staple gun if someone doesn't put on some AC/DC soon. "Guess we found our white picket fence after all."

The corner of Sam's mouth quirks. "How 'bout that?"

"Mmm. How 'bout that."

"Congrats, Dean." Bottles raised, glass clinks glass. "Proud of you."

Oh, here you go. "This isn't gonna require a drunken 'I love you, man,' is it?"

Chin down, he chuckles. "Nah, you know me. I get lippy when I'm drunk."

You've seen some scary shit in your lifetime, but nothing comes close to the sight of your giant turd of a brother makin' fish lips and kissy noises at you. "Ugh, Jesus, get off of me!"

"How is it that I'm taller than you, and I've never once given you a proper noogie?"

"Sammy, I swear to God, if you—"

"I'm kidding!" He laughs and musses up your hair (which, by the way, took you forty-five goddamn minutes to get it to shape up this morning; just 'cause he's six-foot-four, that don't mean he can't be a little friggin' brat). Sighing into his beer, that dumb face of his is a shade too smug for your liking. "I do love ya, though."

"Yeah, yeah. Ditto on the love and the…whatever." Stupid weddings. Turning everybody into an overcooked bowl of oatmeal.

"Wish Bobby was here," you say after a few moments of silence pass.

"Yeah. He owes me twenty bucks."

Course, he does.

"You know what he'd say, though."


He slaps your shoulder before walking away. "'Bout damn time, you idjits."


"I mean, it isn't a bad smell," you explain to Cas when he tracks you down after you headed outside for some fresh air, "but they've got so much incense stinking up the joint that I was gettin' the spins."

"And I presume…" He crosses his arms, propping himself up against Baby to hide the fact that he's a little wobbly in the legs and one brewski over his usual limit. Which comes to a grand total of two. "It was the overpowering aroma that made you tear up during the ceremony."

"Yeah—yes! Exactly." You rub your shoulder up against his. "And…you know."

His lips stretch into a smirk, raising his eyebrows like you're damn right, he knows. You pretend not to notice when he shimmies up next to you, ignoring him for your slices of pecan and cherry pie. Can't let it go too far to his head. First time you actually admitted out loud that you love him, he wouldn't shut up about it for two whole weeks.

"Thank you," he says, his voice softer now, but he's still got that moony look on you, hovering close enough that you can almost feel his breath on your neck. "For indulging me. Perhaps the formalities weren't necessary, but…it meant a lot to me."

You scoop up another bite of pecan, stuffing your face and bein' real obnoxious about it. "I'm only here for the pie."

He eyes your plate. "I believe it's customary for the newly-wedded to feed each other a portion of their dessert."

Cas tries prying the fork out of your grasp, but you elbow him in the ribs. "Dude, no, that's creepy. We'll just bring the leftovers back to the motel, and then you can…lick it off of me or something."

But 'cause he's a shit, he diddles a finger in the gooey filling, making sure he's got your full attention with lips perfectly puckered as he sucks you—it off.

And that right there, ladies and gents, is the key to any successful marriage.

The air cools off as you settle back into each other, Bad Company rockin' the tape deck while you polish off the last few pieces of delicious, flaky crust. Mmm, now that's what you're talking about: Cas, Baby, and pie. The love trifecta. "Well, for all the pomp and circumstance, I'm thinkin' it, uh…" You cough into your fist. "Meant a little somethin' to me, too."

He glances up, eyes hooded and maybe a bit glazed over, but when he angles your chin towards his and leans in for a kiss, the blood rush to your head straight up confirms it:

You're just as far gone as he is.

"But, Cas…" You ease off, the smile wearing away. "I gotta ask…"

"What is it?"

"What's with the disappearing act in the first place? You get cold feet?"

McSquinty tilts his head. "What does the temperature of my extremities have anything to do with this?"

"No, you dope; I mean…" You pinch the bridge of your nose. "Were you having second thoughts about…us? Bein' together?"

Slowly, he gapes at you, like it's only just now clicked that he almost gave you a damn hernia going AWOL on you. "Oh, no, Dean. Is that what you really…?" He tugs at the corner of your suit jacket, clutching your arms. "Dean, no—you misunderstand. It wasn't a matter of whether I wanted to get married or not; there wasn't any, any doubt in my mind that I wanted to be here with you today. I…needed to clear my head. Ensure that I was doing this for the right reasons."

"The right reasons? There were wrong ones?" Guess there's the tax break. Which might make a difference if you actually did your taxes.

He scratches at the back of his head, toeing his foot in the dirt. "I thought that by marrying you…I was being selfish."

"Oh." Not an answer you expected. "Can't exactly blame you for wanting to keep this fine piece of ass to yourself."

"I do enjoy spending a lot of time in your ass."

"And I do pride myself on being a first-class asshole."

The remark earns you a snort, crickets filling in the blanks before he continues. "But eventually, I realized…it's always been about the selfless with us! About the martyring, the…the sacrifice!" He really gets into it, swinging his arms around and everything. You haven't seen him this expressive since discovering Whole Foods. "We've always been throwing our lives at each other, and while I wouldn't hesitate to do it again…Dean—Dean, shhhh…" Bumping up against your plate, he squishes your face together with both hands while attempting to shush you. You wonder if Mr. Lightweight also realizes he's smearing pie crumbs all over your suit. Or that you haven't even opened your damn mouth. "Shh, listen to me—honey, you…you are the single most precious thing in my life. I want to stop this…insane cycle of sacrificing ourselves away and start living for each other. Because that's what you showed me in the first place: how to fucking live! How to…how to love."

"You got all that from taking a leak in the great outdoors?"

He snatches your dirty plate and sets it on the hardtop, placing his hands at your hips as he sidles up to you. "This…this is a good thing, Dean. We are a good thing. I don't want us to forget that."

"Honestly, Cas, I don't even know what living for each other means."

"I can't say I have any experience being a husband, either."

There's that blood rush to the head again. Husband. That's…um. Gonna take some getting used to. "Probably involves annoying the fuck out of each other till we end up banging each other's brains out with a lot of hot and steamy make-up sex." You huff out a laugh, adding, "More than usual, least."

He presses into you, his breath heavy on your lips. "I suppose we'll just have to make it up as we go."

Yeah. That sounds about right.

Grabbing him by that ridiculous backwards tie and kissing him until he whines into your mouth about heading to a motel…well, that sounds even better.

You hit the road and white knuckle it back up 55 and into civilization, but Cas ain't acting any manner of civilized. Dude won't keep his dirty mitts off of you, slipping his fingers down the inside of your thigh, and fuck, does absence make the dick grow harder.

At a hair past midnight, you and Cas finally make your way into the lobby of the Astoria Hotel where some dude's got his legs propped up at reception and watching the late show on a dinky tube TV. If the scraggly beard and the Johnny Potseed tee is anything to go by, you're willing to bet he's Jesus reincarnated as a hippie.

"Winchester," Cas says as he waltzes up to the guy, elbows on the counter as he winks. Well, tries to wink. Hope it's not a seizure. "That's what our last name is now. Because we just got married. It's our wedding night. He's my husband. And I am going to rock him like a hurricane."

This wedding's about to turn into a funeral if your husband doesn't clam the fuck up.

But Johnny Potseed just nods at you, slack-jawed from the awe. Or maybe it's the one too many bong hits. "That's so beautiful, man. Congratulations! Want me to bump you up to the honeymoon suite? I'll knock a few bucks off the price."

"We're quite partial to the room we've booked. It's where I tried to first make contact with him. Although there was also a gas station—"

"Say no more, my friend. Me and my old lady got a place like that, too, back in Portland. Nothing like reconnecting with our past selves to really fire up the romance and that raw, animalistic—"

"O-kay, we'll just be"—you swipe the key dangling from his fingers—"heading up to our room now. Come on, Drunky."

Hoisting your duffle over your shoulder, you drag Cas away from reception and lead him towards the elevator. Soon as the bell dings, he yanks you inside the car, and you land up against him with an oomph! as he cracks up into a fit of giggles. Or whatever those Beavis and Butthead-like noises comin' from his throat are.

"You're cute when you're embarrassed."

"And you're drunk, sweetheart."

"Pffffffft, I'm not…inebriated." The accidental spit makes it extra convincing. "I'm pleasantly, mmm…" His stubble scrapes your jawline as he hums into your cheek. "Pleasant."

You have to admit your gut's feelin' some warm fuzzies of its own when he squeezes your ass and grinds his hips up against yours. Never could grasp the finer points of subtlety. Not that your dick minds.

"Remember New York?" he asks as you punch in your floor. "When we were hunting that, um, shifting…shaper…"


"Yes!" His eyes light up, and actually, it's pretty…well, it's pretty damn adorable, okay? "And you wanted to see just how big"—he fucking gyrates his hips again—"the Chrysler building really is, so we stole a keycard—"

"Yeah, yeah, and we rode that elevator up till we got our dumb asses stuck on the top floor—"

"—and had to resort to some rather, um…creative ways to pass the time."

You shake your head, snorting out a laugh. "Hell, yeah, I remember. I'm sure those security guards still do, too."

"Then I presume you remember this?"

That twinkle of his turns into something darker when he reaches down to grope your junk and unzip your pants—which, okay, they were getting a little tight—but Christ, you gotta pace yourselves. "Hey, hey, whoa! Slow down there, tiger. Love the enthusiasm, but, heh…let's get to the room first before we start defiling each other, okay? I'd like to not wind up in a piss-soaked jail cell on account of public indecency. Again."

The elevator chimes open, and the two of you stagger down the hall to your room, nearly losing the key as you scramble to get the damn door unlocked. You're not even two steps in before Cas tosses both your bags onto the floor and fucking pounces on you, pushing his mouth against yours as he wrenches off your suit jacket. It takes all of three seconds before your buttons start ticking him off—which isn't his record, but you've got those two whole bottles of beer to factor in—and suddenly, those tiny things're pinging in every direction as he rips right through your shirt.

"You know I just bought this, right?" Cost you fifty bucks, too, the impulsive bastard.

He growls into your neck. "It was in the way."

On the other hand, hard to argue common sense.

"I'm your husband now," he says, sucking sloppy kisses at the corner of your jaw while he tugs at both of your belts, "and as your husband, I have some very important matrimonial duties to fulfill."

You quirk an eyebrow at 'im as he wastes no time stripping clean down to his ankles, which probably ain't the sexy visual he intended when he's got his shoe in a headlock trying to pull the dumb thing off. You pray he don't hurt himself. "That so?"

Turns out you might need the prayer instead; you hardly blink, and he shoves you balls to the wall, palming his hands over your ass as he reaches 'round to the opening in your zipper and paws at your half-hard dick. Jesus, someone's frisky. You'd think he was a friggin' TSA agent in a past life or something.

"Exactly what kinda duties are we talkin' here, Cas?"

He teases the back of your ear with his teeth. "The glass-shattering kind."

You groan as his cock pushes up against your ass crack, and goddamn, you've never hated pants more than you do right now. Seems Cas shares that sentiment, biting a moan into your shoulder as you grind back into him, desperate to bury every inch of him inside of you. He takes hold of the waistband of your fed slacks, shucking them off like some fancy tablecloth trick. You're gonna have to hire a personal tailor if Beaver doesn't stop being so damn eager here.

"Hey. Buddy. Careful with the merchandise; I ain't a Chippendale." Knew you shouldn't have let him watch Magic Mike. Stupid Channing Tatum and his washboard abs and unrealistic expectations.

But Cas' gone quiet on you, running his fingers over the black lace lining your neon pink panties. Heh. Almost forgot you had those on. They're a size too small these days, but you just figure they make your dick look huge (not that you need the help). "Your lucky pair," he says, breath hot and husky as it sends down a chill that raises your neck hairs. "You were nervous."

You thump your head against the wall, barely keeping a lid on the noises worming their way up your throat as he continues to fondle you. "Gee, what gave it away? The epic fail at the altar or—mmpf—the gallon of whiskey burning a hole through my—Cas!"

The fucker chuckles, and God, you really hope there's nobody occupying the room next to you 'cause ain't nothin' stopping you from letting out the most pathetic-ass groan when he pulls the silk-like material tight over the head of your cock. "I love you like this. Seeing the side of you that no one else can penetrate; your flesh and soul laid bare only for me." He squeezes at your crown jewels. "Mine."

The gesture's a little overkill, but you're not gonna complain 'bout the lack of finesse when he's jerking at your underwear again, all that smooth friction givin' you that nice tingly feeling that shoots circuits through your sensitive bits like a fucking live wire. "Yeah, baby," you pant, teeth gnawing at your lower lip. "This bag of chips is all yours." Fuck, you can't wait to have his eyes all over you, your dick twitching at the thought of him seeing the soaking mess you've already turned your panties into. You're almost sorry that they're on their last thread; one more tear'll put them out of commission when you've already got holes along the edges with the elastic all stretched out, but hell, you've had 'em long enough. Might as well go out with a bang and keep these babies on while he pistons you till kingdom come 'cause damn, do they look good on you.

"You'd let me do anything to you, wouldn't you?" Cas purrs in your ear.

"God, yes."

"Because you trust me that much."

You hesitate. Where's this coming from? "Yeah…sure, Cas."

"Sometimes, I can't believe I'm the one you let inside." He plants a line of kisses across your shoulders, slow and gentle, and for a second, you think he might've already reached that point where beer makes him all mushy and feely because it would be just your fucking luck to suffer through almost a whole week of Rosie Palm and her five sisters only to cuddle with the guy.

Then his fingers dig into your hips, breathing you in deep as his voice rasps in his throat. "Bed. Now."

You've never been so giddy about being wrong.

Cas stubs a toe and you nearly take out a lamp stumbling into bed, but the cursing explodes into laughter as he knocks you on your back, mounting you with all the grace of a newborn calf and Jesus fucking Christ, it only makes you want the dork even more. 'Cause after ten years of breaking each other in, he's easy and familiar and so un-fucking-believably right; because this is it and this is all it ever has to be and it's enough.

You're enough.

His dick flops against your stomach as he swoops in, his smile on your lips as he gives you a little mouth-to-mouth. "So, Cas…" You run your fingers down his back, bucking your hips for encouragement. "What's first on your marital to-do list?"

"Not Cas. Call me…Mr. Winchester."

The name makes you go rigid. And not in the intentional way. "Okay, second?"

He lazily ruts into you, his whining muted as he burrows his head next to yours. "Dean…"

"Dude, 'Mr. Winchester' is what you call my father. We're not turning this into some repressed daddy kink."

"So I guess that means you're not interested in any, mmm…pie because it would bring to mind your mother."

"Wait, what? You actually brought in the pie?"

His eyes glint in the lamplight, still looking a might off-kilter as he scoots off the bed. "A good husband—fuck!" Yep. That's the honor bar he just knocked his melon on. "Always…provides."

And somehow, you're still not getting any.

Unfortunately, it's nights like these where you know you just gotta let Cas do his thing—and apparently, that means bending ass over teakettle searching for who the fuck knows what—if you don't wanna end up in some stupid argument that lands you on the shitty pullout couch. And honestly, it's not the worst foreplay you've had by any stretch.


Evening's still young, though.

"I'm afraid I have a terrible announcement: one of the pies has met an untimely demise." Oh, God, he's giggling again. "That rhymes."

"All right, Dr. Seuss, why don't you just—wait, did you—is that a busted-up pecan pie in your bag?"

He spreads his duffle open by the handles and peers down inside. "I didn't want to risk dropping it."

Great. Now his clothes are gonna smell like glazed pecan all day tomorrow.

Which…okay, yeah, not really seeing the downside to that.

He pulls out one of those bakery to-go boxes and sits on the edge of the mattress next to you, inspecting its contents. "The cherry appears to be mostly intact."

While you're grateful for small miracles, assessing the pastry damage seems pretty trivial compared to, oh, you dunno…consummating your marriage sometime this century? "The fuck're you doing?" You swat at his arm. "Man, forget about the pie."

(Huh. That must be the sound of hell freezing over.)

"Patience, grasshopper." Yeah, and you're about to go kung fu on his ass. Till he sticks a finger into one of the goop-covered cherries and drags it along the curves of his mouth, locking you in his sights and making an entire show of licking every last bit of tarty goodness up. "You want some?"

You'll take twenty.

Cas steals another cherry and nudges you back down onto the bed, smearing pie filling across your lips and placing the chunk of fruit at the part of your mouth. "Bite into it. Slowly." A whimper catches in your throat when he thumbs at your bottom lip and you take the cherry between your teeth, the sweet, syrupy juices rolling over your tongue. He presses his thumb deeper into your mouth, a fuzzy grin spreading across his face as he watches you kiss and suck at the blunt tip of his finger. When you've got him all cleaned up, he grunts his appreciation, the bed creaking as he dips down for a taste of his own. He skates over the corners and bows of your mouth, lapping up the few traces of sugar till you huff into each other, tongues meshing as he devours you whole.

"Not so creepy now, is it?" he asks, nuzzling your chin.

"Well, my dick's quiverin', but it's got nothin' to do with fear."

He snorts under his breath and reaches for the pie again, this time slopping a handful of the gooey filling onto your chest. And yeah, so you're headed back in the direction of creepy (not that you wouldn't be willing to return the favor because you're just that much of a loving, sacrificial partner—also, pie), but then again, who are you to question your lush for a husband's methods when he's going to town on your nipples and being an all-around fucking tease because God, he's good at this. Truth is, he's probably had your number since walking into that damn barn, all fire and ice just like the heat of his open mouth and the cool burst of A/C nipping at your skin. And as he finishes up a full stomach sweep, slipping his tongue down your treasure trail and sneaking it right under the lace of your panties, shit, it's not like cherry sauce is the only sticky substance you'll be marinating in tonight.

'Specially when he mouths at the satin, licking up the length of your pulsing dick and setting off sparks behind closed eyelids as he circles 'round the head where you're already wet as hell for him. "Jesus, Cas."

He leans back on his haunches, his lips a thin line, but they ain't hidin' the particularly pleased glimmer in his eye. "Pull them down. Show me how hard you are."

He's seen you naked a million times, but you still get that flutter in your gut when you hook your thumbs around your panties. Almost like you're crossing a line of temptation that shouldn't be crossed, but fuck, do you love being a sinner, and repentin's half the fun. You bite at your lip as you inch them south, revealing the bend of your heavy, swollen cock as a string of precum dangles from the pearly tip. You arch your hips, cheeks burning as he ogles you head to toe; that bone-deep ache you've got for him goes from bad to worse when he flicks his tongue over his lips and starts jacking himself off. You wrap a hand around your own dick, mirroring his motions and needing that touch so bad you're prepared to stroke it out till you're both spilling into your fists.

"Stop." He clamps down on your wrist and your heart leaps up your throat, swallowing hard as you watch him kiss the inside of your knee and up the stretch of your thigh. His stubble rubs up close enough to your crotch to make the anticipation coursing through your dick almost painful, and fuck, you're about to grab him by the hair and—and fuck!

He seals his lips over your cock and hums as takes you into his mouth, greasing you up with his spit as the vibrations nearly drive you out of your mind. Unfortunately, it's only about ten seconds of heaven before he gets a little too reckless with the teeth and a little too loose in the mouth for any real suction…and, well, shit. You don't want to hurt his feelings, and you know it's just those few soused-up brain cells screwing up his performance—because sober, he'd have you trippin' the light orgasmic by now—but you also really don't want to end up with a chafed dick. If he keeps at it like this, fucking a tin can would probably be more pleasant.

Lucky for you, though, he decides he needs a change of scenery, his mouth grazing along your hipbone and wandering down your other thigh until he comes to a pause. "What's this?"

You lift your head, realizing Cas' eyes are fixed on the garter resting just above your knee. Oh, right. That froufrou thing Donna put together for you. She's pretty handy with a needle and thread, actually. Even used a bit of flannel from one of your old shirts to make the band. Wasn't exactly your idea, especially not the Chantilly lace (or whatever it's called; not like you remember half the stuff Donna was yakking on about), but you couldn't not wear it when she did a real nice job on it. The bow with the anti-possession charm and tiny pair of wings is kinda cute, you guess—and hey, nothing wrong with wanting to feel a little pretty once in a while. If Sam can grow his hair out, you can have your damn lingerie.

"Figured I should put on somethin' special for the occasion." The corner of your mouth crooks up as his fingers brush over the stitching. "Considering you're about to deflower me and all."

"I've never understood the floral connotations of that term. It's not as if I have the ability to impregnate you."

Ten years, and you still haven't learned that this is one of the many, many reasons why you should never attempt to have an actual conversation with Cas during sex.

"It's deflower, not—" Oh, for chrissakes, this is ridiculous. He probably doesn't even know what to do with a garter, anyway. You fumble for the lube and condom on the bed space next to you before your erection completely powers down. "Would you get in here and fuck me already? I didn't get myself all squeaky clean for nothin', angel."

He palms up your thighs again, neatly tucking your dick back into your underwear. Well, much as physically possible. The way he's staring you down, sex-starved and broiling with lust, you're liable to pop right back out. "You always look gorgeous, Dean, but something about you tonight…" He lowers himself onto you, trailing kisses up your chest. "You'd be nothing short of stunning writhing beneath me. Pounding into you until you're coming into those lovely panties of yours."

Oh, fuck, yes, please.

"Except…" He turns his head up, a new thought flashing across his face. "No. Want you on your stomach instead."

You roll over without a single objection, groaning into your pillow as he kneads away the kinks in your back muscles, toes curling when his dick traces over the curve of your ass. He gives both your cheeks a good working over with those magic hands of his, and sure, it feels nice, but if you wanted a Swedish massage, you would've married that Helga chick from that day spa trip. Which, for the record, you only went on 'cause—well, you were just making sure those fish tacos hadn't reared their ugly-ass heads again, and—shut up, there's no law against having smoother, younger-looking skin.

"You just checking out the produce, babe, or you gonna put your money where my ass is?"

Is that a sigh he just blew up your tailpipe? "You talk too much." The mattress bounces as he slides off, shuffling around in the dim light of the room for…hell, like you even know anymore.

"Get up. Open your mouth."

He suddenly appears at your side, a low, simmering heat pooling in your gut when he snaps his tie in his fists. It's a game you know well: he hammers out an order, and you follow it. Or you don't, and suffer the consequences.

Personally, you prefer the consequences.

Every bone in your body itches for his next move, throwing him your best rebellious glare. "You know that ain't gonna keep me—mmpff!"

He crams the tie between your teeth, yanking you back as he secures it with a double knot. "Perhaps when you've learned to behave and let me take care of you," he says, seizing you by the hair and sending shivers down your spine, "you'll be allowed to speak again. Do you understand me, Dean?" His hand cups your chin, rubbing a thumb over your cheek as he kisses your temple. "I'm going to take care of you."

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut and leaning into the touch. You're not so sure you'd be able to choke out a "Yes, sir" even without the gag.

Cas maneuvers back into position behind you, and you screw your jaw tight, tie growing damp with saliva while you wait for him to crack open the lube and get you all oiled up. He spreads your ass cheeks again, pulling your panties to the side as his breath prickles against your skin, and—oh. Oh, God. He's using tongue.

A wave of—fuck!—euphoric fucking bliss crashes over you as he licks around your hole, flicking his tongue incessantly over that little pucker of flesh till you're moaning face-down into your pillow. Probably a good thing he's got you corked up or you'd be babbling the sailor's dictionary from cover to cover, especially when he catches you humping the mattress and marks you up with his teeth so you'll have those nice ugly shades of purple as a souvenir in the morning.

"Quiet, Dean. And no cheating."

He orders you up on all fours, smacking you in the keister hard enough to leave a print and you clawing at the bedsheets. Fuck, you love it when it stings. Makes it that much more gratifying when he goes Deep Ass Nine, tonguing at your balls and teasing your taint to the point that the slightest bit of pressure ends up being the absolute worst kind of agony. You whimper as you bite into the gag, trying your damnedest not to clench up when he pries you apart and spits into your hole. Cas is a noisy fucker when he eats you out, sucking and lapping away at that tiny bundle of nerves until he's got you worked open. And when you feel him swipe his tongue around the rim one last time before slipping it inside of you, God, you want him bad. So friggin' bad, you've got tears welling up in your eyes, the bunched-up necktie doing a weak-ass job of stifling your pleas. Dammit, what's a girl gotta do to get laid around here? You never used to be a man who's willing to stoop to his knees and beg, but all that changed after you met Cas, and since you're gonna be literally ninety before he decides to give you a proper shagging, you prop your ass up far as you can manage and start doing that twerking thing or whatever the shit kids call it these days.

Cas eventually backs off, grunting like he's the annoyed one. "Your eagerness is duly noted."

You crane your neck back to shoot him a dirty look, but you realize he's just as revved up as you are, that beautiful cock of his at full attention, thick and meaty and leaking at the tip. You feel him press against your backside before his fingers slink down your thigh, making you squirm with want—need—as he snaps the garter and slowly drags it off with his teeth.

"There," he says, a sly smile warming his face. "I believe the 'deflowering' can officially commence."

Well, halle-fucking-lujah.

Your entire body shudders as he drizzles the cool lube down your ass crack, gently inserting a pair of slicked-up fingers and turning you all but inside out with one little flex of the knuckles. Two digits become three as he pushes deeper, and jesusfuck, but you're aching something fierce for it now, fucking yourself back onto his fingers and nearly doing a goddamn cheer when you see him reach for the condom. He bats his dick a few times against your cheek and rubs the head up against your asshole, something electric zapping through you when he leans forward and grits out, "I want you on top."

He don't need to tell you twice; you've got him on his back in two seconds flat, but before you can saddle up, he nudges you into reverse for a front-row view of your ass. Palms smoothing over your raised hips, he moves your panties out of the way and takes hold of his dick, finally—fucking finally—letting you sink down onto—ahh, oh, God!

Full-bodied gasps fill the room, barely able to control the trembling as you ease yourself into it. Your head lolls back, closing your eyes and concentrating on nothing but how goddamn hard he is inside of you; how the heat coils up in your gut because of how fucking full he makes you feel. And as he brushes a hand over your back, allowing yourself to relax around him as the pain melts into pleasure, fucking Christ, you're pretty damn sure you've just achieved nirvana.

Cas is right there with you, lightly touching your arm and already sounding like a total wreck. "Good?"

Yeah, if you call cloud nine trippin' on ecstasy "good," but all you can do is grind your hips back into him while moaning into your gag. Maybe shake those frilly little ruffles on your caboose a bit and hope he gets the message—and oh, boy, he does, making all sorts of breathy noises as he pulls you in closer to himself and grates out, "Lean back."

It actually kills the mood for a brief moment because the lack of balance leaves you disoriented as fuck and worried that Cas is about to Kama Sutra your ass (wouldn't be the first time), but after a bunch of awkward shifting and grunting as he directs you to rest your arms atop the headboard, one glance up is all it takes for you to remember why you booked this joint in the first place.

Mirrors. On the ceiling.

You knew there's a reason you got hitched.

Slowly, he starts to move inside of you as he works his way up to a decent rhythm, slipping his palm up and down your side and—Jesus—tweaking your nipple. "Touch yourself, Dean. I want to see you jerk off in your panties while I fuck you."

You're not gonna last long with that kinda talk, but you're not about to deny the guy his fantasy (which may or may not happen to be the same as yours), and when you shove aside satin and lace to take your dick into your fist, timing your strokes with his thrusts, oh, God, you're so glad you married him.

"You look absolutely sublime like this, Dean: your pretty little cock so wet for mine. Is that how I make you feel, Dean? Wet and pretty?"

The headboard bangs against the wall when he gives it to you in two swift bucks of the hips, his dick grazing right over your prostate as you arch your neck and let out a strangled "Fwwf, yeff!" Somewhere in the depths of your doped-up brain, you spare a thought for whoever the poor bastards might be next door, but any neighborly concern don't last because whoops, turns out you spent all your fucks on getting fucked.

"Good," Cas pants. "So good, Dean. Because you're—aah!—you're never anything less. You're exactly…exactly what I want." He rubs a hand over your thigh, hoisting your leg up—"Never want anyone but you, Dean…Dean!"—and slamming into you so deep, you'd wake up fucking Asia if your piehole weren't stuffed. "I want…I need—I need you closer."

He guides you down so you're both lying on your back, cradling the other side of your face as he draws you in and kisses your cheek. He's whispering something in your ear (probably more of that sappy shit), but honestly, all you can really hear is him smacking up against your ass and you beating off while he drills you six ways from Sunday. You've got a literal nuclear ball of sex growing inside of you, pushing you further and further towards the edge as he keeps hitting that sweet spot, and God, you're so close—so fucking close—

And then he completely loses steam on you.

Oh, he makes a valiant effort with the few thrusts he's got left, and at least his dick's still standing strong, but he sounds like the chubby kid that couldn't even run the quarter mile. Guess that camping trip really took it out of him…which means it's time for you to step up and do your own fair share of "matrimonial duties." Otherwise, you're never gonna get laid.

Cas, the big sex baby that he is, starts whining and clinging to you soon as you try to rearrange yourself, so much that you have to break protocol and tug down your gag. "Hold your fucking horses; I'm try'na—ugh, goddammit, where'd your dick go, Cas?" You swivel around into a good ol' fashioned cowboy position, and—oh…oh, there it is. "Better, right? Now your lazy ass can be the one to lie there and look pretty."

His eyes get all flinty—dude's definitely not amused—but when you put the gag back on, he stops you. "No. I want to hear you beg me to let you come."

Fuck, just the thought of you shooting your load all over his chest gets you—


He motions for you to undo the gag, taking the soggy tie and ordering you to put your hands behind your back. You can't even pretend to bitch at him 'cause of the way your body betrays you, flinching as he loops the tie around your wrists, every single square inch of you buzzing at the idea of fucking yourself down on him so hard that you bust a nut on his dick alone.

"I want to split you open, Dean," he says, running his fingers over your stomach as you begin to roll your hips. "Get inside of you, fill you up till you're overflowing. I want to give you…everything, Dean. All of me. All I have. It's yours."

Teeth digging into your bottom lip, you fight back a whimper. Fuck, Cas; he should know better than to say shit like that. You've already taken so much, but God, he makes you so fucking greedy, especially when he's like this: head tilted back, coated in sweat with hair all disheveled, eyelashes a-flutter as he exhales countless renditions of your name. Fuck, he looks so goddamn sexy like that, just moments away from unraveling right underneath you. And you'll take every last fucking bit he'll give you, just because you are that much of a greedy fucking bastard.

"I've never…I've never felt so connected to you, Dean." He grabs your ass cheeks and jerks you towards him, slowly sliding out to tease the entrance of your greased-up hole before pushing that big, fat cock back in. "Fuck, you're so tight."

"You're gonna come before me, you asshole!"

"I won't. I'm with you…with you every step of the way. I won't leave you. Ever."

Shit. Shit, fuck, shit—your dick's throbbing for him now, a fucking dribbling mess craving even the teeniest bit of relief. "Cas…Cas, touch me…please."

"Look at me, Dean." His hands grip you at the waist, the cool, round surface of his wedding band pressing into your hip while the heat licks at your skin. "I love you…so, so much."

"Oh, GodJesusMaryandJoseph"—seriously, your thighs are really startin' to feel the burn here—"I love you, too, sweetheart, but you really gotta—"

"Do you want to come for me, Dean?"

"Jesus tap-dancing Christ, yes!"

"Then come," he says with ragged breaths. "Come for me, my beloved."

And for a second, time spins to a halt as you shut your eyes. Focusing on the sound of his voice.

"I…you…we'll do it."

Rocking your hips.


And you let yourself fall into him.

"I…I—Dean, I've got you; I've—Dean!"



Every muscle clenches as you feel him pulsing inside of you, nailing your prostate one last time before you're pumping thick, hot cum all over his stomach, and fuck if the sight of those bright blue eyes as he shakes and stutters beneath you isn't the most beautiful fucking thing you've ever seen. It's the kind of moment that clears the head; where everything makes sense.

And you'll be damned if Cas don't make the most perfect fucking sense in the world.

He groans as you slip off of him, taking his hand and shuffling him towards the john for a quick scrubdown. One towel-off and two doses of mouthwash later, both of you collapse back into bed, a giant mess of limbs that you don't intend on untangling anytime soon.

Or ever, if you have it your way.

But Cas puts your cuddling skills to shame, burrowing right up against you and sighing into your chest. "I've missed this. I've missed you."

"Dude, it hasn't even been a week." Hey, far as you're concerned, those texts you never sent him last night are just between you and your phone. "God, you're so hung up on me."

"I am," he says, like it ain't even a question. Like he never got the hint that someone like you ain't meant to be taken as more than a joke. "I love you. I love that I know what it means to love you. I love that I know how it feels to love you."

Something gets stuck in your throat, almost too big to swallow, but your knee-jerk reflex comes to the rescue, coughing out a chuckle as you waggle your brow at 'im. "I kno—"

His eyes pop wide open. "Don't you dare," he says, doing a piss-poor job of suppressing a grin. "Don't you dare Han Solo me, Dean Winchester."

The little snot tries to tickle you. "Hey, hey, hey! No, stop, stop! You want me to shit the bed?" You end up wrestling each other as you attempt to pin him down, but dude can hold his own. "I know…I know," you heave out, waving the white flag. "That I'm…" Cas immediately sobers up, hanging on your every word. "The second luckiest guy on the planet."

He slaps you right in the left pec. "You ass."

"Ow, Jesus! And a damn fine ass, it is, you dick."

One look at each other is all it takes for you to bust up in stitches again, Cas and that ridiculous laugh of his snorting into your shoulder until you're too tired to smile anymore.

Great. So basically the soundtrack of your life's gone from AC/DC to Huey Lewis.

Can't say you hate it, though.

"Hey, Cas," you say after a while, nudging him to see if he's still awake.


"Why would you think getting married is selfish?"

He doesn't answer at first, almost in a trance-like state as he stares at his hand and thumbs at his ring. "Ever since I became human, I can't see it anymore."

"See what?"

He places his palm on your chest, and your cheeks rosy up at the touch. "Your soul."

"So what? Bein' married all of a sudden gives you X-ray vision?"

His eyes flit up towards you. "No, that's absurd."

Sorry you asked.

Enough silence passes that you think he dozed off, and you're about to reach over and flip off the lamplight for some shuteye of your own, but then you feel him stir. "I suppose I just…wanted to remember what it feels like to be bound to you again."

He fumbles for your hand and laces his fingers through yours, squeezing them tight. It's stupid, you know, but you're actually afraid to squeeze back. Like maybe it'll trigger you awake, and you'll realize this is only a dream.

And you can't risk losing this. Ever.

Instead, you force yourself to swallow, blinking away the sudden wetness in your eyes. "Yeah, and now look what you've gotten yourself into. Stuck with me for good. Should've really thought that one through, Cas."

"Your brother is right. You are an idiot." He shifts up onto his pillow to level with you face-to-face, scooting in for a quick peck on the lips. "Though I guess you're my idiot husband now."

You chuckle as you lean in for another kiss, slower and deeper this time—like you mean it—until that warmth blooming up in your chest turns into a lump in the throat, and you don't know what the hell you're even supposed to do with that kind of feeling except… "Fuck."


"Just…this. I dunno…everything? Hunters don't usually get happily-ever-afters."

"I suggest you get used to it," he says, pressing his forehead to yours, cupping your jaw. "Because there's nothing I'd rather do than spend the rest of my days seeing you happy."

Get a load of that: your life really is a damn romcom. Well, till it isn't. Till you wake up the next morning, and it's just more of the same. Cas drooling on your shoulder. Hogging the bedsheets and the hot water. Leaving toothpaste in the sink and picking his nose when he thinks you aren't looking. And talking to him before he's had his coffee—yeah, that's a losing battle.

But then there's the moments where you're cruising down the open road with your arm curled around him; when he gets this soft little grin flipping through all the dumb selfies he insists on taking at each place you stop. How he approaches every day with this weird, dorky sense of excitement—well, as excited as someone like Cas can get—'cause even though he's millennia old, everything's a fucking eighth wonder of the world to him. And despite all the sighs you're heaving and the Oh, God, can he be any more embarrassing? thoughts you're having, it's actually sorta…contagious. Like he's given you a fresh new set of eyes; knows the right kind of ways to wind your ticker back up after your entire life's done nothing but beat you down.

And maybe you won't always feel like this. Maybe some days, you're gonna get so pit-stinkin' mad at each other that you're not gonna be able to remember why you fell in love in the first place. Hell, after ten years, that's practically routine for you.

But when he slips his hand into yours, like a key opening a rusty lock, maybe forever ain't gonna be so bad after all.