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Sunday. The day of worship and rest as Castiel calls it. While Dean might not buy into all the religious mumbo-jumbo, he can get behind a weekly lazy day. A judgment-free day where Dean and Cas can laze around in bed for as long as they want, sleeping in after a night of wandering hands and shaky breaths. Dean wouldn’t have it any other way if he’s being honest.
The day only gets better when Cas joins him in the kitchen, cooking alongside him, attempting whatever fantastical breakfast extravaganza they’ve decided on for the special occasion. It’s almost like they’re a normal married couple. Not angel of the lord to hunter, but husband to husband. It’s peaceful, and more importantly, happy.
But the best part of Sundays? Easy, it’s that Cas enjoys them too.
As Dean sets the dirty dishes in the sink, Castiel rises from their cozy kitchen table. His chair lightly scraps the hardwood floor as he pushes it back in. Holding his breath, Dean raptly watches as Cas wordlessly heads towards the living room. The dark-haired beau settles into his favorite armchair, an upholstered, leather wingback that’s become Cas’ very own reading nook. It’s sturdy and timeless, strong and beautiful like someone Dean knows too well.
Dean waits, no matter how much he wants to move, because this is how Cas likes it. This pretense of pretend, as if neither he nor Dean knows what thrilling game they’re playing. The moment Cas cocks his head, arched eyebrow expectantly beckoning, Dean’s stumbling over his own feet, across the room. Without hesitation, Dean rotates, climbing into his husband’s spread lap, back to chest. Even through their layers of clothing, the heat of Cas’ body licks at his.
Dean does his best not to fidget as Cas passes him the nearest book, intent clear. Cracking the text open, Dean’s tongue quickly swipes over his chapped lips, swallowing dryly before he begins to read out loud. As the first word echoes through the room, Cas’ hands finally move, indulgently running down Dean’s sides and over his thighs, his thumbs drawing intimate circles across his husband’s heather gray sweats. Dean barely manages to hold in his whimpers. His breath periodically hitches as he speaks, but he’s always quick to steady himself, needing to please his husband.
Meanwhile, the bastard is humming a random slow tune in his ear, undisturbed as Cas torturously massages Dean’s tense muscles, never actually touching his bare skin. Dean’s focus on his husband’s possessive hands has him struggling to get through basic syllables, but he endures. For Cas. Always for Cas.
After an unbearable amount of time, Cas’ calloused fingers skim Dean’s waistline, dipping beneath his old, ratty T-shirt. The feather-light touches grow rough as Castiel rakes his nails up Dean’s vulnerable stomach to his chest, pushing the clothing up with it.
Exposed, goosebumps trail Cas’ sensual caresses. Dean preens under the attention. His usually gruff voice raises an octave as the tip of Cas’ index finger skirts past Dean’s right nipple, barely evading the pebbled pink. Doing his best to be subtle, Dean slowly arches his back, hoping Cas will mistakenly graze his perky nubs. An amused huff tickles the nape of Dean’s neck.
Pointedly ignoring Dean’s needs, Cas drags his hands away, relishing in the pathetic whine Dean releases. A tiny tap to his hip has Dean scrambling up, lifting his hips, just enough so Cas can pull Dean’s frumpy sweats down, mid-thigh. The force of the tug, slaps Dean’s dripping cock against his abs, dirtily smearing his wanting. Cas fondly swipes his thumb through the sticky substance, massaging it into Dean’s hypersensitive skin. He startles as Cas’ other hand possessively grips his freckled asscheek, affectionately squeezing the muscle before delivering a quick swat.
Dean’s stopped reading.
It’s not his fault. His husband’s distractions can be very compelling.
Another harsh slap has fire burning across dotted cheekbones. With shaky hands, Dean raises the thick text back up to his eye-line. It takes him longer than it should to find his place, earning him yet another spank. Jerking, Dean moans out the first verse on the page. Better safe than sorry.
Resuming his quiet hum, Cas trails his rough fingers against the heated flesh of Dean’s rear, tracing the fading imprints of his own handprint. Almost like that first one Cas left on his shoulder all those years ago. So much has changed since then. They’ve changed.
Wordlessly, Cas moves on. A thick finger momentarily teases Dean’s entrance before sharply sinking into the first knuckle. Dean’s still loose from the night before but the surprise has him gasping on his words.
Struggling to regain his unaffected composure, because FYI, there’s a finger hammering his backdoor, determined to drive him crazy enough to disobey after coming so far. Dean babbles through the written word, hoping it’s enough. It’s only after Dean starts shaking in anticipation, teased out of his mind, that Cas finally gestures for his husband to sit up.
There’s the slight rustle of clothing before the snap of a bottle opening. A few slick pumps and something much larger, harder, not to mention hotter is forcing its way into Dean’s rear. Instead of thrusting up, Cas gently pulls his husband down onto his cock, letting gravity do the work, almost like this is the natural order. Husband seated upon husband, bodies connected as one as Dean struggles to read from a book he has no actual interest in.
But if it pleases Cas, Dean will do it.
Methodically angling Dean, Cas’ erection rakes over his husband’s prostate, sending a shockwave of pleasure through the green-eyed lover. Dean almost drops the book with his shudders. Clicking his tongue, Cas’ calloused palm draws Dean back against him, tipping Dean’s stubble-covered chin up from his chest. Dean sucks in a few painful breaths, no faith that he can resist. His needy body wants to rise up, only to slam his heavy hips down, again and again, until the furling coil within him snaps.
And it’d be worth it. The relief would ease the desperate desire consuming Dean. Hell, a part of him wants to scream fuck it and end this twisted game of sexual torture. But Cas… Cas wants this. Wants him. Dean will be damned before he denies his perfect husband anything.
So Dean stays put. Teeth clenched, he remains motionless as Cas calmly resides within him. Dean bears the burden of blinking through fuzzy blurs to recite the bullshit text despite his runaway thoughts. All it would take is thirty seconds for Dean to wrap his own hand around his aching erection and let go. But he never will. If Cas wants him to sit here, stuffed full of his dear husband, Dean will persevere.
Fully submitting, Dean hoarsely rambles through the pages, not even sure what he’s saying, but determined to be good. Cas soothes him, kissing his way up his shoulder, his throat, his ears, simultaneously stroking up his sides. He patiently works Dean’s shirt up to his chin, tucking the material there to stay. Cas spreads his open hand across Dean’s abdomen, just holding Dean as the dark blonde fights off his basic instincts. Pressing in on his stomach, Cas hums, almost like he can feel himself through Dean’s warm body. Dean clenches down in retaliation, which drives a shuddering breath out of Cas.
Serves the bastard right.
The action earns a sharp flick to Dean’s left nipple. He keels, crying out, but Cas forces him back, threading a hand through his spiky locks. Lightly thrusting, Cas nips Dean’s exposed throat, biting harshly when he reaches the sensitive junction under Dean’s jaw. Dean jerks again, only to spasm as Cas drags his prickled cheeks over the irritated spot. The text hits the floor with a heavy thud, and all bets are off.
Cas grounds Dean’s hips down into his, hammering Dean’s inside without mercy. He purposely avoids hitting the right spot until Dean is begging with stray tears rolling down his cheek. Grabbing Dean’s chin, Cas pulls his husband into a dominating kiss as he finally twists just right to nail Dean’s prostate, swallowing the anguished groan as Dean fully comes undone.
Hot streaks shoot across Dean's toned stomach as Cas’ other hand comes up to feverishly drain Dean’s erection of everything and anything he can take, and Dean gives and gives until he has to pry Cas’ demanding fingers from him, overstimulated. Panting against his full lips, Cas’ heavy-lidded eyes stare into Dean’s as he slams up into Dean’s limp body, once, twice, and groans out his own release within his love.
Collapsing against the chair, Dean twists around to curl into his husband, not giving a crap about the mess this cuddle session is going to cost them. Cas eagerly accepts him, lightly petting Dean’s hair as they catch their breath.
Spotting the forgotten Bible on the floor, Dean will happily read it every Sunday.