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Dean hates getting his hair cut.
Well. That’s not entirely true. It’s just another mundane task, something that has to be done, a job that means people don’t blink suspiciously when he flashes his fake badge, or jokes about Sam’s hair being longer than regulation but getting away with it anyway because he’s good at his job.
But it’s never exactly been something that he enjoys, either. He’s seen the movies with the montages (although if you ask him he’d deny it, shut up, Claire). He knows that getting your hair cut can be a whole… thing. People make a day of it. They say, oh sorry I can’t do Tuesday, I’m getting my hair done.
Dean wishes he could be one of those people, instead of someone who’s had his hair clipped over and over by himself or his dad or Sam in motel bathrooms. Perfunctory, easy. Keep it short, no need for anything fancy.
He remembers, once, when they’d been in town for a couple of months and Dean’d been able to save up a bit of money from packing bags at the local grocery store, mentioning it to his dad. Maybe we could all go? he’d asked tentatively. Sammy’d like it. You know what he’s like. Laughing nervously, trying not to let on how desperately he wanted to go, to feel like a normal seventeen-year-old who did normal seventeen-year-old things like going to a fucking barber’s and getting his hair trimmed by someone who wouldn’t nick his ears and then not apologise for it, man up, son, a bit of pain is good for you. But John Winchester had just stared at him through narrow eyes, suspicious, and asked if Dean had been hanging out with faggots again. Dean had gone bright red and managed to stammer a no, sir before marching down to the supermarket and spending all of his hard-earned money on salt to refill the guns with.
He’d actually tried a couple of years ago, once they’d been settled in Lebanon for a while and the locals were less jumpy around the two guys who drove a black muscle car and lived in the run-down power station on the edge of town. He’d felt like the kid he’d never gotten to be, sitting in the chair with that weird cloak thing around his neck, almost trembling with excitement. But when George had leant him back into the sink and run his fingers through the short hairs on the back of his neck, Dean had nearly vibrated out of his skin at the shock of someone touching him so gently, so carefully. He’d jumped up, made a hurried excuse, thrown some notes at George, still standing there with the tap running, and made his escape. He’d gone straight to the liquor store, but couldn’t bring himself to even go in. Instead he’d just sat in Baby and tried not to cry in broad daylight on a high street. When he’d pulled himself together enough to drive home, Sam had remarked that his hair looked exactly the same, and Dean had snapped at him to shut it, and Cas had looked at him with something too kind to name. He’d ended up getting out the same clippers his dad had always used and doing it himself, the short hairs falling into the bathroom sink like snowflakes.
There’s a memory at the back of his mind— or perhaps it’s just a dream, just wistful thinking— of Mary cutting his hair when he was three, just before Sammy was born, when dad was at work all day and it was just the two of them. Her hands had been worn but mother-soft, and he thinks she’d been humming Judy Collins. The snip, snip of the scissors was whisper-quiet in their small bathroom. He hadn’t wanted it cut, but John had insisted. Mary had disagreed— Dean, sitting on the stairs in his footsie pyjamas and hiding behind the bannister, had heard them hissing at each other, like two cobras circling, neither willing to get close enough to strike the other. Mary had wanted to keep Dean’s hair long, said that there was no harm in it, but John had shut her down, spitting that he wasn’t going to raise Dean like a girl. Mary had fallen silent, and when she’d found Dean teary-eyed on the stairs, she hadn’t said a word, but had picked him up and carried him silently back to bed. When John left for work at the crack of dawn, Mary had led Dean into the bathroom to sit on the edge of the bath, a towel draped over his small shoulders. He remembers saying but it’s nicer long! Why doesn’t dad like it? Mary hadn’t replied, but she’d drawn him closer, held him a little tighter, when the soft wisps were sent hurtling down the drain.
There were so many times when she’d been here, before she’d left them for those British dicks, when he’d nearly asked her to cut it for him. Just to see if her hands were as soft on the back of his neck as he remembered. It still hurts to think of her, of all the time they lost, even when she was here. It wasn’t really fair on either of them, expecting them to fall into how they used to be, before Dean was older than his mother and didn't know what it was like to lose everyone he’d ever loved.
~~~
Four minutes— otherwise the bergamot is overwhelming, Dean— and a splash of oat milk, because Sam has been getting on their ass about saving the planet. As if they haven’t already done that a handful of times.
He hears more than sees Cas wander into the kitchen, humming Rain Song quietly under his breath. He’s rumpled and bright in that fresh morning way, and Dean’s chest aches and swells when Cas kisses him on the cheek, picking up his tea with a small smile. A sip, a contented sigh. "Your hair’s getting long," he murmurs, running a warm hand through it. Dean leans into him. He’s only human. "What would you like to do today?"
"Gotta make a run to the store, but not much else. Sam wanted us to help him with the archives again." Cas’ nose wrinkles in distaste, and Dean laughs. "Yeah, yeah, I’ll try to get us out of it. You know what he’s like, all we have to do is get our freak on somewhere he can hear us and he’ll leave us alone for the rest of the damn week." Dean wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, grinning, and Cas blushes.
"Not that I’m opposed to that," Cas says, still blushing, and Dean laughs again, "but perhaps we could walk around town a little? I have a few errands I need to run. I could help you with the groceries afterwards."
"Sure," Dean shrugs, sipping at his coffee. "Whatever you want, sweetheart." Christ, he’s so whipped. "What sort of things do you gotta do?"
"Oh, just the odd thing here and there," Cas says vaguely, waving a hand around and nearly spilling his tea. "A few things to pick up, some things to post. Nothing particularly exciting."
"What time do you want to head out?"
"I’m in no rush."
"Well, in the meantime," Dean says, putting down his coffee and pulling Cas closer, "what do you say we scar Sam some more, hm?"
Cas’ answering smile makes Dean beam. And the way Sam yells at them, fifteen minutes later, for defiling the kitchen for the third time this week, guys, and it’s only Tuesday! makes Dean laugh so hard that his jaw aches.
~~~
"I think I would like to get my hair cut," Cas says out of nowhere, and Dean nearly walks into a lamppost.
Lebanon is quiet today, a random day in June. The pavement is sun-warmed and the breeze is cool on Dean’s reddening neck.
He sips his coffee, trying to act nonchalant. These are deep waters for him. "Hm? Where’s that come from?"
"I’m not sure," Cas replies thoughtfully. "I’ve never had my hair cut properly before. I’ve done it myself, of course, when I was human the first time. I think it was longer than Sam’s at one point."
Dean snorts. "Impressive."
Cas hums. "Indeed. And you’ve always done a wonderful job. But I’m human for good, now, and I think getting my hair cut at the proper establishment is a good way of celebrating that." He takes Dean’s hand, swinging it between them like schoolgirls in the playground. "You could come with me, if you’d like."
There’s a buzzing in Dean’s ears, a thousand wasps in his head. Cas can’t— he can’t know, can he? Can’t know that this is the one thing Dean can’t wrap his head around, let himself do?
Cas is smiling at him a little sadly. Of course he fucking knows. Cas knows literally everything about him. Sometimes, that’s a good thing. Other times, it drives Dean up the friggin’ wall.
He’s not sure what this time is.
"I’m good, Cas," he manages to choke out. "'m more than happy with my own clippers, thanks. Don’t gotta pay for some random to shampoo my hair or worry about him dyeing it pink when I piss him off." He forces a laugh.
Cas sighs a little. Because of course he does. "Alright, then. Shall I meet you at home?"
"Nah, I’ll wait for you. It can’t take that long, right?"
~~~
It doesn’t take that long, in the grand scheme of the universe, but it definitely takes longer than Dean was expecting. It’s warm in his Baby, even with all the doors open. He’s parked on the outskirts of town, just off the side of the road. No one has driven past him in a while. The breeze has died down, and everything is still. It’s nearing mid-afternoon, and everything has that sleepy, sun-drenched feeling of a summer’s day. Time feels slow and thick, like honey, like it does when you’re a kid and you just wanted it to go faster, faster! Everything to do, everything to see, the world at your fingertips— but you have to wait for the summer to be over, first.
Dean doesn’t think he’s ever felt like that.
He’s lying across the front bench of the Impala, dozing, when Cas finally comes back. He hears the crunch of the gravel getting louder and louder before it stops suddenly, and he knows that Cas is staring at him. He pretends to be asleep. Cas isn’t an angel anymore, and Dean’s spent the past however many years perfecting the art of lying to him. The thought makes him feel cold all over, and he sits up, blinking. Cas is leaning against the open door of the passenger seat, on his phone. There’s a furrow in his brow, the one that can only mean Claire has sent him a meme he doesn’t understand. When Dean lets out a loud yawn he startles, and slips his phone into his coat pocket.
"Sleep well?" He asks, amused.
Dean climbs out of the car. "Baby was a lot more comfortable when I was in my 20s," he admits, stretching. There’s a crick in his lower back that he knows is gonna cause him hell later. If he can find the courage, maybe he could ask Cas to help him with it. "How you doing? Enjoy yourself?"
"Oh yes," Cas says happily. "They were very kind." His hair is shorter at the sides, now, and seems fluffier at the top. Dean runs his hand through it, and Cas leans into him, humming. "Maybe you could come with me next time?" he asks, his voice so hopeful.
It takes every bone in his body for Dean to not immediately snatch his hand away, but Cas notices how he tenses. He always notices. "Dean," he says quietly, his blue eyes so wide and so earnest, "are you alright?"
There are two paths in front of him. The first is easy, the false bravado coming naturally to him at this point. He can tell Cas that he’s never understood why people spend so much money on a fucking haircut when they could do a perfectly good job of it themselves and not have to feel like a prissy girl when they sit in a chair and someone runs their fingers through the short hairs on the back of their neck and ask if they’d like it any shorter.
That path leads to John Winchester. Dean doesn’t want to be anything like him anymore.
The second option is a lot harder. But that’s the point, isn’t it? To be better than his dad is taking more effort than he ever thought it would. But Cas is there, waiting for him at the end of the road. The things he has to hurdle to get there are all worth it if it means he gets to be with Cas. Cas, who waited and waited for him to get his head out of his ass. Cas, who tries every day to be a better human than the day before. Cas, who brakes for birds and loves bees and visits the local dog shelter just to keep them company.
Cas, who saves Dean more and more every single day.
Dean can still feel Cas’ eyes on him. He drops his hand from his hair and Cas catches it with his own, his calloused palm rubbing gently against Dean’s thumb. "Dean," he murmurs, "it’s alright. Everything is alright."
Inexplicably, Dean feels like crying. He closes his eyes and leans into Cas, their foreheads thunking together. He can feel the heat radiating off Baby, the chirping of the crickets in the bushes, the stubble of Cas’ jaw against his cheek as Cas kisses him. "It’s alright," he murmurs again into Dean’s open mouth, "I’ve got you."
There’s a weight in Dean’s chest, but it’s different to the grief he’s been carrying around his whole life. This is more of an ache, the realisation that he gets to have this, gets to be happy, gets to live out the rest of his days with this man right in front of him. This man, who chose Dean and chooses him over and over and over. "I love you," he whispers, and Cas smiles against him, pulling him closer, sighing into him. "Christ, Cas, I love you."
"Dean Winchester," Cas breathes, pulling away to look at him. "I love you."
And the look in his eyes is so wondrous, so joyful, that Dean has to bury his face in Cas’ shoulder to hide the shining in his eyes.
~~~
It’s late, now, and Cas is tucked under about twelve different blankets when Dean pads in, teeth brushed and face clean. He smiles at the dark, ruffled patch of hair just visible on a pillow. "Heya, sweetheart," he grins, reaching under the end of the comforters and rooting around for a foot. "You nice and toasty in there?" There’s a faint rumble that Dean takes to mean yes. "Would sure be a shame if something messed that up, huh?" He grabs Cas’ ankle, warm under all the layers, with a cold hand.
"Dean!" Cas yelps. "No! Get off me!"
Dean chuckles to himself as he withdraws his hand, before crawling over the comforters and laying directly on top of Cas. "Heya, sweetheart," he says again, still grinning. "You doing alright?"
Cas pokes the top half of his face out of his cocoon and glares at Dean. "I was," he pouts, "but then you betrayed me, and my comfort was revealed to be nothing more than an illusion."
"Aw, Cas, don’t be like that." Dean folds his arms on Cas’ chest and rests his chin on them. There’s a glow of warmth in his chest. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this happy. "Promise I’ll make it up to you."
Cas cocks an eyebrow, and that warm glow immediately burns hotter. "Oh? And how do you plan on doing that, exactly?"
"Well…" says Dean, drawing it out and pretending to think. In truth, he’s been caught up in Cas for so many years that there’s a long list of things he wants to do with him. To him. Have done by him…
They’ve already ticked off quite a few things. It took Dean a while to come to terms with it all; he’s comfortable calling himself bi, but the things he had to do to take care of Sam when he was a teenager still haunt him. Cas, though, because he used to be a massive fucking ball of light who literally rebuilt Dean atom by atom, already knew all of that. So when Dean had choked up, unable to get the words out, Cas had known. Cas had understood. Cas had held him so gently as he’d cried, ashamed, for hours. Not exactly the grope-fest he’d imagined that night, but he’d needed it. And the things they’ve done since? Just thinking about them makes Dean’s inside squirm. More than once, when they’re out in town, Cas has dragged them off to a side alley just to push Dean up against a wall and kiss him breathless, digging his thigh into Dean’s crotch and letting him ride down on it. Sometimes he lets Dean finish, panting into Cas’ mouth as he comes in his pants like a fucking teenager. Other times he leaves Dean aching, pushing away from him with a smirk, his own trousers tented and hidden under that god-awful trench coat. Dean always complains, blushing and rumpled, about being left hanging, but they both know that he secretly loves it. Know that there’s a silent promise there that Cas will finish him off when they’re back at the Bunker and don’t have to worry about being arrested for public indecency. Those times, when Dean is patient, Cas will whisper how good he is into Dean’s ears as he opens himself up, Dean tied up and begging underneath him. Most times Dean is the one bottoming, but he can never deny Cas, who feels amazing around him, hot and wet and tight. He knows that Cas needs it sometimes, needs reminding that they’re both here, surviving, alive. Living. Plus, the look on his face when he sinks onto Dean has been the subject of more than one wet dream. He could write sonnets, spells, about that look. Even better is when he refuses to let Dean touch him, riding his cock hard and fast until he comes untouched all over Dean’s chest. It always makes Dean come so hard he sees supernovas, pulsing into Cas with his hips pinned down and his head thrown back. If he’s really lucky, Cas’ll lick his chest clean and feed it to him with his tongue. It’s the filthiest thing he’s ever done, but it feels like Cas is washing his sins away, like he’s burning out all the bad and leaving only the good behind.
It makes him feel pure.
Dean thinks all this in a blink of an eye. Cas is still looking at him, head cocked to the side and eyebrows raised like he knows exactly what Dean is thinking about. "Hm," Dean says, "there are a whole handful of things we haven’t done yet. Want to try something new?"
Cas hums. "I’m not sure if I have the energy for anything too extreme, my love. I just want you."
Dean feels his ears burn pink. "Uh," he says intelligently, swallowing. "Why don’t we stick to the basics, then? You take such good care of me, sweetheart, let me look after you for once," he murmurs. "As an apology for disturbing your warmth."
There’s a dangerous glint in Cas’ eye. "No," he says simply, and before Dean knows what’s happening he’s on his back, his hands pinned above his head, Cas hovering above him. The thousand blankets are forgotten, half hanging off their bed onto the floor. "I think I’ll do what I want."
"Oh, fuck, Cas, do you know what you do to me?" Dean breathes. His cock, which was only at half-mast, is now hard and throbbing, the tip peeking out of the top of his pyjama bottoms. Thank fuck he didn’t bother putting any underwear on after his shower.
"I have a fairly good idea," Cas says airily. There’s space between their bodies, and Dean can’t thrust up high enough to make contact. He groans, low and guttural, when Cas leans down and kisses him hungrily.
" Fuck, Cas," he pants when Cas moves to his neck, pulling the skin between his teeth. "God, the things I want to do you would make all the Popes pass out."
"Not necessarily," Cas replies, moving lower. Dean’s hands are still pinned above his head. Even human, Cas is freakishly strong, and he knows exactly how much it turns Dean on to be overpowered by him. "Some of them were very… raunchy." He bites down hard on Dean’s nipple, and Dean’s shocked laughter turns into a moan. "I’ve met all of them, remember," Cas continues, licking the welt he made before moving to the other side of Dean’s chest. "I’ve seen all of human history, Dean. I know everything that has ever happened." He kisses Dean’s sternum before returning to his neck. His hips are still just out of reach, and Dean’s cock is throbbing in anticipation. His tip is wet and glistening as he thrusts lamely against his own pants, but it’s nowhere near enough pressure to really do anything. "I know you, Dean," Cas murmurs. "I know what turns you on. What makes you beg ."
"Oh Christ, Cas, please," Dean groans, low in his throat, and Cas hums, mouthing wetly at the meat of Dean’s neck, teeth scraping raw against the tense muscles.
"Just like that," Cas rumbles, and Dean could come from the open desire in his voice. "What do you want, Dean? What would you like me to do?"
"Please, Cas—"
"Shall I tell you what I want? To give you some ideas?"
Dean manages to swallow. His entire body is taut and trembling on this tightrope that they’re walking, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life. "Okay," he manages to choke out, and Cas kisses him deeply, pushing him into the mattress and finally, finally, dropping his hips.
Dean groans loudly at the sudden contact, and Cas smiles wickedly into his open mouth, pulling at his lower lip with his teeth. Dean thrusts unashamedly against Cas’ boxers, his cock weeping in sympathy at the hardness he finds there. Cas kisses down Dean’s neck to his clavicle, Dean’s head tossed back as he breathes heavily. "One of these days, Dean," Cas murmurs into his skin, "I’d like to really fuck you in that alley of ours. We’ll put sigils up so that no one can see us, but they’ll still be able to hear us, so you’ll have to try and be quiet. Oh, but you’re so loud when I take you, my love, so open and wonderful. Would you be able to keep your voice down when I swallow you down and let you fuck my face? When I fuck yours? I know you love it, you love the feeling of my cock deep in your throat, so hard for you. You could come just from that, couldn’t you? Just from knowing that you’re pleasuring me. And oh, you’re so beautiful when it makes you cry, Dean, when I’m so deep in you that you can barely breathe."
Dean thinks he might cry now. Cas’ voice is low, murmuring in his ear as they rock together, and he honestly believes he might explode. He knows his face is bright red at being exposed like this, but what’s the point in being embarrassed? Everything Cas is saying is completely true, and they both know it. "God, Cas, you treat me so good," he manages to choke out. "I want— I want you to fuck me in that alley, Cas," and he feels Cas’ breath hitch. "I don’t care who hears us. I want the whole fucking town to know that I belong to you, and you belong to me. I want to come all over myself as you pin me against the wall, but you won’t stop fucking me raw. I want you to pound into me until I’m screaming, until you come inside me and let it all drip out. I won’t be able to walk for days, and everyone’ll know why, but I don’t care. I need you all the time, Cas, God, please, please just touch me, fuck —" He knows he’s babbling, but he doesn’t care. He’s half out of his mind with how turned on he is, knowing that Cas wants him just as badly as he wants Cas.
But Cas stills suddenly, and Dean almost wails. They’re so close to one another that Dean’s eyelashes are fluttering in Cas’ breath. "Dean," Cas pants, and Dean feels an odd sense of smugness at his breathlessness, "can I fuck you?"
"God, sweetheart, I thought you’d never ask," Dean whispers, and Cas lets go of his wrists to cradle his head and kiss him deeply. Dean takes advantage of his freedom to reach down and wrap his fingers around Cas’ hard, dripping cock through the material of his boxers. Cas groans deep into Dean’s mouth, and Dean grins against his teeth. "That good, baby?"
"Fuck, Dean, you have no idea," Cas grits out, thrusting into Dean’s hand before pulling away sharply. Dean whines at the sudden cold air that Cas’ body had been protecting him from, and makes pathetic grabby hands at the space where his boyfriend has disappeared to. "But I need to fuck you now, my love, before my plans for ruining you go up in smoke." He kneels back on the bed with the lube, and Dean almost swallows his tongue.
"Cas, uh— I don’t—"
The wicked glint in Cas’ eyes disappears, replaced by concern. "Is this too much?"
Dean shakes his head. "No! No. I just— I already, um…"
Understanding dawns on Cas’ face, his eyes shining in wonder. "You wicked thing," he murmurs. "You prepped yourself without me?"
Dean shrugs, his face burning. "I— I was already in the shower, and I had an idea of where I wanted this evening to go," he admits, and Cas pounces, peppering his face with kisses.
"You’re incredible," he says when he pulls away, "I love you, Dean Winchester."
"I love you too, Cas," Dean whispers, and leans up to capture his lips in a soft, sweet kiss. "But if you don’t get your cock in me in the next two minutes I will love you decidedly less."
"Fair enough." Cas shuffles down to the end of the bed, staring ponderously at the dark stain atop the twitching tent in Dean’s pants. He bends down and licks it through the material, and Dean wants to cry with how good just that tiny touch feels. But Cas pulls up and away again, climbing off the bed and stepping out of his boxers. It doesn’t seem to matter how much they do this, just the sight of his boyfriend — boyfriend — gloriously hard and dripping for him makes Dean’s mouth go dry.
"Fuck, Cas," he says hoarsely.
Cas bares his teeth. "That’s the plan," he says, before pulling Dean’s pyjama bottoms off so quickly that the seams nearly rip. Not that Dean cares; after all, he’s about to get deliciously railed by his incredible boyfriend.
Cas is stood stock still, staring at Dean in abstract wonder. His eyes are shining. Dean can almost hear the white noise in his head. He reaches down and frames his cock with his fingers. "See something you like?" He teases, and Cas snaps back to reality, meeting Dean’s eyes with a smirk.
"Oh, just a few things," he purrs, and Dean shivers.
"Come here please," he says impatiently, and Cas crawls on top of him again, so that they’re pressed against one another, skin to skin, from head to toe. Dean moans at the feeling of Cas’ cock grinding down against his as his lips are captured in a bruising kiss. Dean whimpers when he feels a stray finger circling his hole, fluttering in anticipation. Cas presses one, then two in easily, and Dean whimpers. "Pleasepleaseplease," he manages to say, "please, Cas, come on, I’m ready, just get in me already—"
"Don’t rush me, Dean," Cas says sternly, and Dean’s mouth snaps shut. "Be patient, and I’ll give you what you want."
Dean nods weakly, and swallows. "Okay."
"Good boy," Cas rumbles, before shimmying down and swallowing Dean’s cock whole.
Dean arches off the bed, his breath caught in his throat, as his cock hits the soft palate at the back of Cas’ throat. His heartbeat is beating so loudly in his chest he’s not sure he hasn’t cracked a rib. His breath is coming in short, sharp pants as he reaches down to fist Cas’ hair. Cas swallows around him, and Dean lets out a groan so guttural he can feel it in the small of his back. "F— fuck, Cas, 'm gonna come," he manages to spit out. His cock is throbbing, pulsing in the wet heat of Cas’ mouth, and he just needs a little more—
But Cas pulls away, eyes mischievous, wiping his mouth and holding a hand tightly to the base of Dean’s cock. It twitches violently for a second before realising that it’s going to have to wait a bit longer.
"Caaaas!" Dean wails. He was so close — "Please, baby, I need you to let me come, please—" He might shake out of his bones with the pure want coursing through him.
"Dean," Cas is saying, "what did I tell you about being patient?"
Dean’s mind races. "That you’d give me what I want?"
Cas smiles at him dangerously. "Precisely."
Before he knows what is happening, Dean’s legs are being hoisted up onto Cas’ shoulders, he’s lining up, and shoving in. Dean barely has the time to say, "Oh, fuck!" before Cas is pounding into him in the short, intense strokes he knows set Dean alight.
"Christ, Dean, you feel so good," Cas gasps into Dean’s mouth. They’re not so much kissing as panting into each other. "You’re so tight, Dean," he says brokenly. "I love you."
"Oh, God, Cas, just like that, don’t stop, please —"
They manage to kiss each other properly, teeth clashing together, as Cas fucks Dean into their bed. His cock is letting out a steady stream of pre-come. Cas reaches down and swipes his hand through it, never slowing his pace, before pushing his fingers into Dean’s mouth. He moans around Cas’ fingers, his eyes blown wide as he sucks them in. Cas just gazes at him, and Dean knows he’s thinking about the last time Dean sucked him off. (They’d been driving down an empty road, which is dangerous and all, but Dean had been convinced he would explode if he didn’t get to suck Cas off that instant. They hadn’t crashed, but it had been a near thing.)
"Fuck, Dean." Cas’ blue eyes are completely black, all pupil and awe. "Fuck, I— I need you to come soon. Can you do that for me?"
"God, Cas, that’s not gonna be a probl— oh, fuck! " Cas has found his prostate and is targeting it with each punch of his hips. Dean wraps his arms around Cas’ back and digs his teeth into the meat of Cas’ shoulder to muffle his whimpers. Cas licks a long stripe up the tendon of Dean’s neck, sinking his own teeth in and sucking, marking him harshly. "Ah, ah, ah, Cas— Cas— help, please! " He all but sobs, and Cas, the glorious love of Dean’s fucking life, understands. He reaches a hand down, bypassing Dean’s leaking cock, to tease at his rim before slipping an extra finger inside, hooking it and tugging.
Dean explodes. He can taste blood in his mouth as he comes hard, his orgasm rippling through him like a prayer. Behind his shut eyes he can see the planets and the stars and the galaxies that the man still fucking him into their bed created, so many aeons ago. His cock pulses and pulses and pulses, what seems like a never-ending stream of come pouring out of it, and Dean shakes and shakes and shakes at the bruising his prostate is still receiving. He cracks an eyelid and finds Cas gazing at him like a flower at the sun. "Come on, sweetheart," Dean whispers, voice raw, "Come in me."
And Cas does. With a broken cry, he buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck as his hips piston once, twice, three times, before collapsing completely on top of Dean. He can feel the warmth of his own come sticking to their chests even as Cas rides out the aftershocks of his orgasm, little tremors inside Dean. They’re both breathing heavily, clinging to one another. After what seems like an age, Cas finally speaks.
"I would like to cut your hair, Dean."
After everything they’ve just done, that simple act of intimacy suddenly seems so childlike and innocent, and Dean wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. "Would that make you happy, Cas?" He murmurs.
Cas manages to raise himself up enough that he can look into Dean’s eyes, that eye contact so intense and familiar that it almost feels like coming home. "Every day that you love yourself a little more makes me happy, Dean Winchester. I would like to help you, to do this for you, as an act of my devotion to you. It would be an honour I would not take for granted. But only if you want me to."
Dean blinks away tears, and pulls Cas close. "Yeah, sweetheart. I— I want you to. Cut my hair for me, why not. I’ve come this far."
Cas squeezes him. "Thank you, Dean," he whispers. "I love you."
"I love you too, Cas," and the only thing that stops Dean from bursting into tears is the feeling of his boyfriend’s soft cock slipping out of him. He clears his throat. "Want to get started? Be easier with wet hair, and I could really use a shower."
He feels Cas pout against him. "And here I was hoping to clean you up myself."
Dean laughs, a bright thing. "Come on and join me, then."
Cas sits up. "That’s not entirely what I meant, but yes, I would very much like to shower with you, Dean."
Understanding dawns. "Oh. You meant like— like that?" Cas nods. The dangerous glint is back in his eyes. "Next time, then?"
"Yes, please," Cas says immediately, and Dean laughs and laughs and laughs.
~~~
There’s still a lot to work through, Dean thinks as the soft shush, shush of the scissors sounds close to his ears. There’s no way that this is anywhere near as difficult as going to a proper barber’s. But it’s progress. These small acts of defiance; that’s what living is.
They’re clean, and warm, and tired. Dean’s hair is falling in soft waves to the tiled floor of the bathroom as Cas runs his fingers through the shorter hairs at the back.
Later, when everything has been tidied away and Dean has been threatened several times to sit still, Dean, or I’ll give you a mullet, they crawl shyly into bed, curling towards each other like commas. Whispered promises and silent vows drift in the air as the room falls into darkness. The luminescent stars that Cas stuck on the ceiling glow faintly, the last galaxy he’ll ever create.
They’re not perfect, but it’s enough that they’re trying.
They hold on to each other.