Work Text:
Dean wakes up to three simultaneous realizations. First, there is coffee brewing, and he would give, if not his entire soul, at least half his soul for a cup of it. Second, he's so warm and loose and indolent that he wants to stretch like a cat in the sun, and he does. Third, Chris is not in bed with him.
It feels like it should be afternoon, but it's really only about eight a.m.—they fell asleep around midnight, which sounds early until you factor in that they'd taken off their clothes around four in the afternoon. Now that, thinks Dean, is some marathon sex worthy of memorialization. Granted, they dozed off a few times between rounds, and they got up at one point to stand naked at the island in the kitchen and eat a typically random selection of fruit, cheese, vegetables, and bread.
Chris had also pulled out something called prosciutto; he said that it was a type of Italian ham and that Dean would like it, especially with certain kinds of cheese. This turned out to be true, but when Dean said that Chris should try it, Chris had shaken his head and reminded him, "Fish-etarian only."
"How'd you wind up with ham in your fridge, then?"
Chris's expression clearly said, Don't be an idiot, but it still took Dean a second to parse that Chris had bought the prosciutto solely because he thought Dean would like it.
Dean said, "Oh," and Chris kissed him. Shortly thereafter, they'd started to make their way back to bed, but wound up rerouting to the couch for reasons of expediency.
At some point they finally managed to reach the bedroom, though not before a frolic and detour on the stairs. The food, Dean was happy to discover, functioned as an excellent energy boost.
They fell asleep for the night after a long, thorough kiss, legs tangled together, Dean's hands in Chris's hair, Chris's hands on Dean's back and shoulders, tracing the topography of muscle, pulling him closer. Everything seemed OK, Dean's little freakout earlier notwithstanding: Dean, exhausted and satiated, had rolled onto his stomach while Chris stretched out on his side, and they drifted off warm and close.
Given that Chris had actually done the sex-with-dudes thing before, Dean wouldn't have thought he'd have issues, but now, waking to an empty bed, Dean can't help but wonder. Then he decides it's pretty fucking gay to be obsessing over shit like that, but then he contemplates that he very recently spent a not insubstantial amount of time sucking another man's cock and enjoying it, and that maybe he needs to rethink what "gay" means.
Then he gets disgusted with himself and gets out of bed.
Their clothes are tidily folded, Chris's on the armoire and Dean's on the chair—Chris, Dean knows, is compulsively neat. Dean considers getting dressed, but if Chris folded their clothes, that means he didn't put his back on. Dean finds his boxers and puts them on, then girds his loins (to the extent that they're girdable, having been devoted to other and strenuous activities in the recent past) and goes downstairs.
The smell of coffee strengthens. He follows it like a homing beacon.
Chris is loading the dishwasher—cleaning up from when they'd eaten earlier. They hadn't exactly taken the time to pick up after themselves. Chris straightens, and Dean sees that he isn't, in fact, dressed: He's wearing a bathrobe that may be the rattiest known to man. At some point it was probably plaid, but now it's just sort of a collection of varying shades of gray. The edges on every hem are shot. It must date back to the Clinton administration, and probably his first term.
Chris turns around to see Dean, and the smile on his face goes a long way to dispel any fears of a freakout. Dean thinks he should say something here, something sensitive, caring, even sexy, but the only words that bubble to the surface are, "Is that coffee?"
"Yeah, it's almost ready. You want breakfast?"
Rather than answer, Dean decides to take his own proactive steps in completely eradicating any possibility of a freakout or awkwardness or whatever. He pushes Chris against the counter and says, "Good morning," then kisses him. It goes on for a while, enough time for Dean's hands to wander inside Chris's robe and for Chris's fingers to make their way underneath the waistband of Dean's boxers and stroke his hips, just a couple more inches and they could be stroking his cock—
Dean's stomach growls.
Chris laughs and then kisses him again, lightly. "You do want breakfast."
"Among other things," Dean says.
Chris traces Dean's spine, and Dean shivers. "Oh, I want those things too. Have no doubt. But if I don't eat, I'm going to start gnawing on you, and not in a sexy way."
"Fine," Dean says, stepping back. "But there better be some eggs in this haven of bean sprouts and tofu."
"There's even some prosciutto left to put in yours."
Dean covers Chris's hand with his. They stare at each other for a moment like lovestruck morons.
Then Dean says, "That is the ugliest bathrobe I've ever seen."
"Haven't you learned not to insult the person who's cooking you food?"
"That's not an insult, man. That's just a statement of the facts."
"It's comfortable," Chris retorts, and turns his back on Dean to take eggs out of the refrigerator.
Dean leans against the counter. "I'm just saying, I think you'd look better without it."
Chris turns back around, eyebrow arched. "Well, God knows your cock would look better without those garish paisleys covering it up, but I wasn't going to say anything."
Dean shrugs, pulls the boxers down, and kicks them to the side. "How's that?"
Chris's eyes widen, and his gaze travels the length of Dean's body and back again. This time it's Chris who pins Dean against the counter, and Dean moans as Chris wraps a hand around his cock. "How am I supposed to concentrate on eggs," Chris murmurs into his ear, "when I just want to drop to my knees and suck your gorgeous cock until you scream?"
"Please," Dean breathes, then gasps as Chris teases the head and the slit with careful, skillful fingers.
And then he pulls away. "But we need to eat first. And you wanted coffee."
"Not as much as I want your mouth on my cock."
"Patience is a virtue," Chris says primly, and turns on the stove to heat up a frying pan.
"Virtue is way overrated," mutters Dean. He walks over to stand beside Chris, but just to run light fingers up and down Chris's back as he waits for his eggs.