Niagara Falls
Dean flutters his eyes awake, twisting them into thin lines as the high sun blasts through the windows; Castiel wasn't beside him. Dean knew that he wouldn't be, but he's hoped maybe, Cas would have changed his mind and called out of work. He tried to convince the guy to do it when the alarm went off a few hours earlier; but the groggy man with bags beneath his tired, blue eyes told him that one week off was already too much. Dedication like that is strange to Dean; but he understands that Cas lives by it, so he knew not to push him too hard. Dean pouted back beneath the sheets, falling back asleep before Cas could even tell him goodbye.
Now, in the cool blue of Castiel's room, Dean feels small and lonely. He should've pushed Cas more, screw understanding! Understanding doesn't make this bed feel any smaller. It certainly doesn't fill the void in Dean's arms. After their epic evening, both of them resolved to crawl straight into bed and pass out; brushing teeth and showers all fell to the wayside. They were beat and literally drained. Castiel did have just enough energy, however, to lay his head on Dean's chest like he did the night before; hugging tightly to his side, arms knotting them together like there has never been any other way to sleep.
Dean's arms ache for that closeness again; but the red numbers on the clock carelessly scream at the him to move. The thought of getting up seems too daunting; but his growling stomach finally convinces him after another fifteen minutes of denial. Dean pulls himself upright, shaking out his arms and stretching his toes, before sliding them onto the stark, hard wood floor. He shuffles around the bed to Castiel's bathroom, figuring a shower should come first. Eating, may very well put him to sleep again. He walks into the bathroom, wondering if he has ever been into the area of the house—not just this sink and toilet, but the dark oak inlays of Cas's bedroom as well. Dean looks behind him, back at the rumpled sheets and then around again to the mosaic tile and granite tops—it all seems so strange. The few times he has stopped by in the past has only been to pick Castiel up to go hang out with Sam; or to maybe watch the game since Cas has the biggest television of the three of them-a crime really, all the guy does is read.
This area of the house though, it's all new, and part of Dean hopes that it will become familiar in time. Not only because the shower that's in front of him now is giant and modern, and has a foot-wide shower head that looks like it could rain Niagara Falls down on his head; but because the idea of waking up with Castiel and making this shower and this room part of his normal routine is just too appealing to deny. Dean turns on the water and waits until the room is encased in thick fog. He finally climbs in; taking his time to adjust all the dials and settings- not sure how he has ever cleaned himself in any other way. How the hell can Cas be such a stick in the mud with a shower like this?
He stays beneath the water for the better part of an hour, addicted to the amazing pressure and endless heat. How Cas ever gets the nerve to leave in the morning is a mystery to him; but the steam builds to nearly toxic levels, making Dean's lungs heavy. With a sigh, the weary man shuts off the water and climbs out, already missing the consuming warmth the second it's gone. Dean dries himself off with perhaps, the fluffiest towel he has ever touched, before wrapping it around himself and heading back to the bedroom. Curling steam is sprouts from his skin as he reaches down to collect his red boxers from the floor, noticing how dry and stiff they feel. After such an amazing shower, Dean just can't bring himself to put the dirty things back on. Cas certainly wouldn't mind if he borrowed a pair of his boxers, would he? After last night, that shouldn't be too much, would it? Dean looks over to the dark oak dresser in the corner, perfectly organized an neat. The uncertainty eats away at him; so much so that Dean wears the towel all the way through breakfast, having to re-fasten the ends several times through scrambling his eggs. After accidentally flashing the toaster for the fifth time, Dean finally concedes to borrowing a pair anyway; just long enough to wash and dry yesterday's clothes. Hopefully they will be done long before Cas is off of work.
With a full stomach, and skin soft and clean, wearing nothing but one of Cas's numerous pairs of pristine white boxers, Dean settles himself onto the couch and turns on the television that overtakes the living room wall. The picture quality is enough to make him want to cry. No man should be without such a beautiful piece of machinery. If he could just have this and his baby, he would never want for any other gadget or gizmo the world could produce.
He flips through the channel guide, wanting to find something mindless and relaxing-a game of some sort might wind him up too much; and a morning like this one can't be ruined with hyperactivity. Talk shows and melodramas flip by in blurs, never given a second thought. Dean starts to lose hope, when he comes across a channel dedicated to nothing but cheesy, 1970's horror flicks—the exact kind he and Sam would sneak down and watch after their parents went to sleep. Part of him wishes Sammy was here to watch it with him. Dean smiles before taking a look down at himself, nothing but Cas's boxers keeping him decent—maybe it's good Sammy isn't here.
The poorly constructed werewolf costume and fake scenery start to blur with Dean's thoughts. What does he look like now? He knows, literally how he looks, but what is he doing? He loves this, he can honestly say that—he loves everything about this moment and last night, it's not like he's regretting it; but what does it mean for the rest of his world? He can't just walk out of this house with Castiel and pretend that everything that happened inside disappears. He knows Cas would never go for that and Dean would feel like a major ass for even trying such a thing; but what then? Should he . . . should he tell people? Does this mean he's gay now? What the fuck? Is he? He doesn't feel gay, not that he knows if there's a gay-feeling to feel. Should that matter anyway? He really likes Cas, more than he thinks he should, considering this all just started two days ago. Although, when Dean really thinks about it—he started caring for the guy the moment he met him. Maybe not in this way, but Castiel was different than any other person he knew, or came to know over the last seven years. Since that first moment he overheard that monster of a man, screaming at Castiel over a spilled beer, Dean felt the need to protect him. Does that mean he has felt something deeper since the very first day? He isn't sure and all the confusion is starting to hurt his still fatigued brain. He wants to say he can just play it by ear, but he knows it will never be that easy.
A knock at the door startles Dean out of his whirlwind of questions. He panics for moment, thinking that he should hide from the visitor, especially since he's only in some underwear and the rest of his clothes are currently submerged in suds. Dean slides up and off the couch, doing dodgy little swerves and turns, trying to see who's outside. The panic quickly fades with the faint but familiar outline of a delivery truck shines through the living room curtains. The need for formality and clothing disappears from Dean's mind as he bustles over to the front door. He swings it wide— with a smile on his face to match, hand reaching out for whatever package the person is dropping off for Castiel.
"Dean? What the hell, man!"
Dean tilts his head back, eclipsed by the tall shadow being cast over him by his gigantic little brother, looming on the porch.