Chapter Text
Dean wakes slowly. His body’s the first thing to speak. There’s a dull ache in his thighs and a pull in his muscles from being used hard. He doesn’t move right away. He basks in the afterglow. Behind him, Castiel is solid heat, an arm heavy around his ribs, a leg tangled over his own. It feels… good. Dangerous.
He’s glad he took the day off. He’d told himself it was for recovery, though at the time he had no idea if his plan would work. Now, every part of him is grateful. He’s sore, sure, but not hurt. A little bruised, (very) stretched, and tender in ways that remind him exactly what they did. But he’d wanted every second of it.
The blindfold’s still on. He could take it off but he wants to wait. Let Castiel be the one to choose honesty this time. Dean’s forced the issue before, and yeah, it got them here, but maybe they could’ve found this (whatever this is) without so much wreckage in between.
He exhales and shifts, feels the remnants of pain and pleasure. Castiel murmurs in his sleep and his stubble scrapes against Dean’s ear. It makes him smile.
He still doesn’t know what last night was. Punishment, jealousy, or some kind of test. Maybe all three. The man’s mind is a labyrinth, and Dean’s done pretending he can map it. What matters is that it ended here. Castiel finally let go, stopped trying to prove or protect and just took. And Dean let him. Asked for it. Needed it.
It had been magnificent, in the truest sense of the word. Wild and mean and real. Proof that Castiel finally understood him, that Dean’s not just talking a big game. He meant every word. Every bruise.
Dean’s just starting to drift again when his alarm goes off, sharp against the quiet. He fumbles for it on the nightstand. Behind him, Castiel grumbles and lets him go, his arm falling away in defeat.
“I’m going to the bathroom so I can see what I’m doing,” Dean murmurs. His legs are unsteady when he stands, muscles trembling under him even after a full night’s sleep. Every step reminds him what they did. It’s a nice kind of sore, if a little humbling.
He shuts the bathroom door and peels off the blindfold. The world rushes back in—muted daylight, white tile, his own reflection looking well-fucked and half-feral. The clock on his phone says 9:03. Seven a.m. for Charlie.
She picks up on the first ring. “You’re late, Winchester.”
He sinks down onto the bath mat, back to the cabinet. “Sorry, Red. Little shaky this morning.”
“You okay?”
“Great. Perfect.”
The sigh she gives him is pure Charlie: part concern, part judgment. “So that means you and your stalker boyfriend made up?”
Dean grins, staring at the grout line between his feet. “We did indeed. He spent the night. Left him in bed while I called you.”
“Holy shit. Did we finally get the identity reveal?”
“Not yet, but I think he’s almost ready.”
“Don’t let him drag this thing out forever,” she grumbles.
“He won’t,” Dean says, too easy, still smiling. “But honestly? If the sex is anything like last night, I think I’d let him. I’d get married in a blindfold.”
There’s a moment of silence before she asks, “He’s still following all your limits?”
Her tone is a little judgmental and it makes something in him deflate. They used to talk like this all the time with no filters. At one point they had known every detail about each other’s sex life. Now every conversation feels like a checklist. He gets it. She’s worried. But Christ, sometimes he doesn’t want to dissect everything. Sometimes he just wants to bask in it. Smell the fucking flowers.
“Yes, Charlie,” he says, flatly. Not even the part about Castiel setting new boundaries, getting him to fill out a damn kink inventory, had reassured her last time.
“Just be careful,” she says. “I worry.”
“I know. I’m gonna brush my teeth and get ready. Love you, Red.”
“I know.”
She hangs up before he can answer, and he stares at the phone, incredulous. “Did she just Han Solo me?” he mutters.
Dean splashes water on his face, leans in close to the mirror. Same green eyes, same half-crooked mouth. He looks the same, and somehow that feels wrong. After a night like that, he thought there’d be a mark, something visible, a shift he could point to. But no.
He brushes his teeth with one hand and scrolls through headlines with the other, half awake, when the door handle turns.
“Hold up!” he blurts, choking on toothpaste foam. He fumbles to set the brush and phone down, snatching the blindfold from the counter. “Okay, safe now,” he says once it’s back in place.
The door opens. He hears bare feet on tile, the soft slide of skin against cotton. Then Castiel’s fingers trail up his spine and back down again. Dean shivers, breath hitching around the mint in his mouth.
The toothbrush is pressed back into his hand. He finishes, spits, rinses. He can feel Castiel’s gaze on him the whole time, quiet and heavy. Doesn’t know if the guy’s just standing there watching him like a total creeper or what.
When he finally wipes his mouth, Castiel asks, “How are you feeling?”
“Good.”
“Not too sore?”
Dean shakes his head. “Sore, yeah, but nothing hurts. Still feel good. Kinda floaty.”
Castiel hums and leans in, nuzzles against his neck. “Good. You mind if I stay here today? For you, and for me. We had an especially intense scene.”
Dean smirks behind the blindfold. “Does that mean I’ve gotta keep this thing on all day?”
There’s a pause before Castiel answers, “Until the next scene.”
“Promise?” Dean teases.
A whisper close to his ear: “Cross my heart.”
***
The day unfolds soft around the edges. Castiel stays, just like he said he would. He’s attentive, quiet, and impossibly gentle.
He makes breakfast while Dean sits at the counter in his tshirt and boxers, the blindfold still in place. The smell hits first: coffee, butter, a hint of pepper from the eggs. When Castiel returns, he presses the fork to Dean’s lips and murmurs, “Open.”
Dean obeys, grinning around the bite. It becomes a rhythm: open, chew, swallow, another mouthful waiting. There’s something absurdly intimate about it, the quiet scrape of the fork, Castiel’s patience, the way Dean can feel the man’s gaze like a hand on his skin.
When Dean suggests they could fool around, Cas only says, “No. You need to recover.”
Dean licks his lips. “My throat didn’t get any action last night. Pretty sure it’s good to go.”
Castiel’s hand lands in a playful swat across his ass, firm enough to make him yelp and laugh. “Eat your breakfast.”
Afterward they drift to the couch. Dean listens while Castiel watches movies, the sound washing over him in waves of dialogue and background score. They keep changing positions: Dean’s head pillowed in Castiel’s lap, then sprawled across his chest, then Castiel stretched out between Dean’s legs while Dean toys lazily with his hair.
It’s easy.
By afternoon, the day has settled into something quiet and golden, the kind of domestic peace Dean’s only ever borrowed from other people’s lives. He lets himself have it.
Which is why the quiet in the following days throws him.
Castiel isn’t ignoring him exactly, but something’s changed. His messages are shorter. His tone, cooler. Not distant enough to call it avoidance, just… restrained.
Dean doesn’t know what the hell to make of it. Maybe Cas is having second thoughts about the identity reveal. Maybe he’s spooked by how close things got. Either way, the change itches under his skin.
They’ve got a scene tentatively planned for the weekend. Dean had tried to nudge him into screening earlier but Cas shut it down fast. He said Dean’s body needed a full week to recover. Fair enough. He is still tender in places. But dammit, he wants to see him. Wants to feel that voice pressed against his skin again.
He’s even rehearsed it in his head: Oh my god, Jimmy, you’re Castiel? Complete with fake shock and a hand to his chest. It’s stupid, but the thought makes him grin every time. No, when it happens, he’ll make it believable.
He keeps wondering how it’ll happen. If Cas will just show up at his door one night, or if he’ll start another scene with Dean blindfold first. Either way, Dean’s ready. Whatever the man has planned, it’s going to be good.
He can feel it.