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Dean Winchester had only raked leaves once in his life. And back then, when his eyes and heart were full of Lisa and Ben, he had never imagined a reality in which he might be repeating those actions under completely different situations.
He’d hoped that he wouldn’t have to go back to the life of a hunter; but if you had told him that he would go back, be reunited with Sam, and survive everything from the Mark of Cain to the Darkness before realizing that all he wanted was to make a life with Castiel, he would have laughed. He’d never pictured himself bunking down with a former Angel of the Lord in a house with a white picket fence, eating pie every evening and having fantastic sex.
But here he was, in the backyard of their picturesque house, raking leaves like a normal person. The house was protected, of course, with every sigil and sign imaginable, hidden under the paint and the rugs and dug into the ground beneath the grass. Just because they had left the life didn’t mean the life hadn’t left them. Sam reported in once a week, telling them about vamps he’d ganked and yetis he’d fought. Cas still tapped into Angel Radio once in awhile, when the voices got too annoying to ignore. But for the most part, they tried to stay off the grid. Sam called Dean “Bobby” sometimes, and Dean guessed that was pretty accurate, as far as nicknames go—he was hardly in the field now, and when he did get involved it was to look up something for Sam in the library, or lie his ass off over the phone. Dean missed Sam more than anything, but Sam claimed he wasn’t ready to settle down yet. Their spare bedroom was Sam’s, though, Dean insisted. One day, Sam would be ready for it, and when he was, it would be waiting.
As Dean raked, he wondered briefly who had taken care of this yard before him, and if Sam would help when he came to stay. Who had left the push lawn mower and rake and leaf blower in the shed? Surely it was someone whose dad had been there to teach him how to do these things. Dean hadn’t known how to do any yard work, not really—thanks, John—and had felt like an idiot when he’d had to learn by trial and error. But raking wasn’t so bad. Raking was therapeutic, repetitious, a well deserved break from all the shit going on in the world. He’d liked it at Lisa’s house, but he loved it at his and Castiel’s.
The pile of multicolored leaves slowly grew as he worked, and he felt a surge of satisfaction. This was what regular folks did, right? Surveyed the mounds of orange and red and yellow and felt at home?
“How is it going?”
Dean smiled. Cas had taken to using what he called “everyday phrases.” They still sounded angelic and stilted when he said them, and a little bit sexy. Dean turned and saw his boyfriend standing on the back porch, a mug cradled in his hands. Despite all his years on Earth and in a human vessel, the angel still hadn’t gotten used to cold weather. At least it wasn’t snowing yet.
“It’s good,” Dean replied, leaning on the rake.
“You have accomplished a lot,” Cas remarked, taking a long sip from the mug.
Dean’s heart swelled at the sight. What he had once thought of as rom-com bullshit, domestic bliss, the whole kit and caboodle—as it turned out, it was pretty great. And it was the little things, like seeing Cas standing under the awning in a pair of old jeans and drinking hot chocolate, that made Dean the happiest. “Yeah,” he replied, a little too late. “These trees sure do shed a lot.”
Cas nodded sagely before tilting his head. “Do children really leap into piles of raked leaves?” he asked. “They always do in commercials and films. It seems rather unsanitary.”
Dean shook his head in silent laughter. “Only you would think of playing outside as unsanitary.”
“Did you ever jump in the leaves?”
“Uh. Not really. We never had a yard or anything, so...no.”
Cas's face became pensive, as it often did when he began to compare Dean's childhood to those of other Americans. Although the angel had watched multitudes of children grow in varied home-life scenarios over his eon-long existence, he sometimes found it difficult to come to terms with the strange upbringing of the Winchesters. Sam said it was because Cas loved Dean, that he wished their lives had been easier. Dean thought it was because Cas watched too much television.
"Do you—"
"Do I what? Regret not having a house and a yard with a dad who didn't hunt monsters for a living?" Dean interrupted. He twirled the rake in his fingers, feeling the smooth wood. Not a splinter to be seen.
Cas was silent for a moment. "Yes. Do you regret that?"
Dean didn't have to think twice before answering. "Of course not. Otherwise I would never have met you."
"Now who has been watching too much television?" Cas teased, setting the mug down on the porch railing.
Dean chuckled. Sam would rake him over the sibling coals for the sentiment oozing from their conversation. But Dean didn't care. For once in his life, Dean was happy. And it wasn’t a lie—he didn’t regret a moment of his hunter life, except maybe not realizing his feelings for Cas sooner rather than later.
"C'mere," he said to Cas. As the angel stepped forward, Dean let go of the rake. "I'll jump if you do."
Cas eyed the pile with a note of skepticism in his blue gaze.
“Chicken?”
“You know very well that I am not a chicken,” Cas said.
“Then c’mon,” Dean grinned before launching himself into the large pile of multicolored fronds. The smell of earth rose up around him, mixed with the sweet and sultry aroma of the fallen leaves. They crunched beneath his weight, both soft and prickly, and he had never felt such a sense of autumn in his life.
Cas hesitated a moment before joining Dean, his arms spread wide to keep his balance as he leapt into the pile. Laughter filled the air, as light as the leaves that still floated down from the tree branches above. Dean turned on his side to watch as one orange blade flitted down to land on Cas’s forehead. He picked it up and twirled the stem between his fingers before letting the leaf join its compatriots below them.
“No wonder kids do this,” Dean said. “Sam would have loved it.”
“I must admit that there is an element of gratification.” Cas swept a hand through the leaves cushioning them, and Dean listened to them crinkle. He closed his eyes, breathed in the honeyed scent of soil and Castiel. All that’s missing is Sammy and a cold beer.
Then a finger brushed across the bridge of his nose, tickling and teasing, a stroke that spoke of things to come. Dean promptly pushed all thoughts of his brother aside.
“This makes you content,” said Cas. “A steady life. Working in the yard.”
Dean wanted to say that it meant nothing without Cas by his side, but something seemed to be stuck in his throat. Instead, he entwined his fingers with those of the angel, and raised his lips for a kiss.
Kissing Castiel was both familiar and strange. A tingle raced from Dean’s lips to the tips of his toes as his heart beat faster. Cas pressed into him, human hands rough from living cradling his face. Dean’s stubble caught against Cas’s skin, a reminder that he’d forgone shaving in favor of getting outdoors.
Cas’s hands wandered down Dean’s body, clutching the same hips he had bruised that very morning. Dean hissed into Cas’s mouth at the slight pain. He was still sore from their earlier activities, but that didn’t keep his cock from stirring. He grabbed Cas’s shoulders, his neck, his arms, anything to get closer.
Cas pulled away, peppering kisses along Dean’s cheek and throat. “Are we doing this now?” he asked. “Aren’t you—”
“Sore? Yes. But I was thinking…”
Cas laughed, a giddy whisper against Dean’s skin. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Dean grunted as he flipped them over in the leaves. Flat on his back, Cas grinned up at him. Dean knew that Cas enjoyed bottoming, but they didn’t usually vary from their typical arrangement. In the heat of the moment, Dean always bottomed—not that he minded. But once in awhile the idea of being submerged in Castiel’s human heat, of being part of another person, was too good to ignore.
Dean began to work at Cas’s fly, desperate to get his hands on his boyfriend’s intimate heat, but Cas pushed against him. “Not here. Inside.”
Dean had to admit that Cas was probably right. The pile of leaves seemed to grow colder by the minute as they sunk deeper into it. He surged to his feet, and extended a hand to the angel. Cas hobbled a little as they walked to the porch, encumbered by the erection he likely hadn’t expected when he’d first come to check on Dean’s raking.
Clothes were left in their wake as they made their way through the house, exchanging heated kisses and rough caresses. It wasn’t far to the bedroom they shared, but Cas turned out to be just as fast an undresser as Dean was. They collapsed onto the bed, angel beneath hunter. The Winchester braced himself up on his arms as he moved down Cas’s body, kissing and licking. He could feel Cas’s hardness against his stomach as he swiped his tongue over a nipple. After all this time, it still amazed him that the warrior of God melted under his touch.
Dean bit at the nipple softly, and Cas’s fingers dug into his hair in appreciation. He laved at it to help disperse the sting before lowering himself to Cas’s hips. His mouth ached at the thought of sucking Cas down, of taking his length down the back of his throat as far as he could stand, but he knew what the angel preferred when bottoming. He satisfied himself with one lick up Cas’s stiff length before nudging at his legs. Castiel hooked his arms around the back of his knees, drawing them to his chest to expose his pale backside.
Dean gently kissed both mounds of Cas’s ass, working his way to the puckered hole that tightened with anticipation when Cas felt his lips come nearer. He pressed his mouth to Cas’s center, and suckled lightly before licking at the furrowed opening. He could hear Cas moaning and panting, and almost laughed at the idea of the other angels accidentally overhearing their former comrade-at-arms in the throes of the most human passion.
Castiel’s musky scent enveloped Dean’s senses until he could hardly see straight. He lapped harder, Cas’s muscles relaxing against his mouth. He slipped the tip of his tongue inside, stroking the pink rim just enough to make Cas’s legs shudder.
“Dean,” said Cas in a raspy voice. Dean glanced up from his handiwork to see that the angel was holding out their bottle of lube. “Please.”
Dean poured a good amount of lube onto his fingers and warmed it for a moment before smearing the residue over Cas’s asshole. “Is this what you want?” he asked as he carefully inserted two of his slick fingers.
“Ughhh. More, Dean.”
Dean’s cock throbbed at the sound of his lover’s erotic distress, and he twisted his fingers in search of Cas’s prostate. A delighted gasp from up above and the pebbled skin beneath his fingers told him he was successful. He stroked the patch of nerves until Cas’s cries and his own desire were too much to ignore. He hastily wiped his fingers on the coverlet as Cas lowered his trembling thighs to the bed.
“How do you want me?” Cas asked. Dean looked at him; the sheen of sweat on his brow, the crease on his stomach from being folded practically in half, the eyes dark with want.
“Just like this,” Dean answered, leaning down to ravage Cas’s mouth with his own. He slipped between Cas’s legs and rubbed the remainder of the lube over his leaking prick. He gave himself a few extra strokes while Cas made himself comfortable with a pillow under his hips. And then he was sliding into a tight, white heat, and Jesus Fuck, if his eyes didn’t roll back into his skull a little bit.
“You okay?” he had the presence of mind to ask. Cas wasn’t nearly as used to bottoming as he was.
“Just move,” Cas said through gritted teeth, and Dean didn’t need to be told twice. He thrust in even strokes, trying to tease Cas’s prostate with each pass. He held on to one of Cas’s legs to keep himself steady. He could feel his own thighs quivering with the effort to deliver uniform plunges into the slickness of his lover’s body. He leaned down to brace himself over Cas’s chest, a leg sticky with sweat trapped between them. He buried his head in the crook of Cas’s shoulder, breathing in the lingering smell of autumn, now overpowered by perspiration and sex.
It had been some time since Dean had been inside another person, surrounded by Cas’s divine heat, and before long he felt the familiar tingling at the base of his spine. “Cas,” he managed to grunt, delivering a sloppy kiss to the angel’s shoulder. “I don’t think I can—”
“It is...fine, Dean…” Cas gasped, fingers digging into Dean’s buttocks, where they would surely leaves bruises to match those on his hips. “Give me everything.”
Dean did.
When the stars had subsided from his vision, he pulled himself together enough to encircle Cas’s swollen, neglected cock with his lips. Cas jerked into Dean’s mouth and groaned something in Enochian. He gripped what he could of Dean’s short hair and thrust upwards. Dean gagged, but swallowed down as much of the thickness as he could. Saliva and precum dribbled from his lips, and he knew the sight would be too much for Cas.
The angel cried out, and with one more thrust down Dean’s throat, he came.
Later, when the bed had been stripped and the pair were curled around each other under a new blanket, Dean realized he had forgotten to finish raking. He listened to Cas’s deep, even breaths, and pressed closer to the angel’s warmth. The leaves would still be there tomorrow.