Chapter Text
Dean’s hands twitch against the sheets, a grimace contorting his face as he tries to maintain at least some sense of dignity. The headboard in the other room slams against the wall rhythmically, not quite drowning out the loud grunts and pleasured moans that fill the air. He doesn’t begrudge his roommate the noise. Roommate, landlord, friend. Whatever. A guy should totally be allowed to get laid. In any case, Dean’s not mad at the dude. Envy might be the word. Yeah. He’s definitely envious of said hookup. That’s the problem.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” someone groans from the other room, and shit, Dean is losing his cool, because it is one thing to know your roommate is in the other room all naked and sweaty with God only knows who but it is an entirely different thing to hear it happening and get inexcusably, inappropriately turned on by the sound of it. Dean tries to tell himself that it could happen to anyone. It’s not like he’s fantasizing about his roommate. It’s not. He totally isn’t. It’s just, man, it’s been a while. Too long, really. And the sound of people fucking in the other room is so much different than the fake noises people make in porn. It’s not Dean’s fault he’s seen his roommate coming out of the bathroom when he thought no one was home and knows exactly what the guy looks like naked. It’s not Dean’s fault that his roommate’s headboard is lined up against their shared wall and the sound carries so well. It’s not Dean’s fault he has an overactive imagination and finds himself involuntarily picturing what’s happening in the other room right now. In vivid, meticulous detail.
It’s getting ridiculous, really. It’s Saturday, so Dean should have expected this. Castiel, his way-too-hot-for-his-own-or-anyone-else’s-good roommate slash landlord slash friend, always brings someone home on Saturdays. Dean has never actually seen any of these individuals, so he’s really got no idea if it’s always the same person and Cas has just never kept them around long enough to introduce him, or if it’s a flavour of the week and there’s no point in trying to keep track. But every single Saturday since Dean moved in, without fail, Cas goes to bed with someone, Dean hears every single sound, and—much to his own shame—he lies in bed trying to maintain the composure required not to touch himself.
Just to be clear, Dean is not some repressed soul who thinks he’s gonna go to hell for the ravages of sin. No. Definitely not. It’s just that, well, it’s one thing to accidentally-totally-without-meaning-to hear someone else banging, but it would be just totally, completely inappropriate to hear your roommate fucking (or getting fucked, Dean doesn’t know, he’s never actually asked if Cas is a top or a bottom, and it’s none of his goddamned concern, just for the record) and masturbate to it. That’s too far. It totally crosses a line.
The second they shut up though, if Dean happens to fire up his laptop, plug in some headphones, and fuck his fist to the dulcet tones and beautiful imagery of Pornhub Gay, well, that’s his business.
It wasn’t such a problem at first. When Dean first moved in and Cas was just some guy he was renting a room from, it didn’t really seem to matter. Okay, well, not renting, because money is not changing hands on this deal but like. Yeah. It didn’t make sense to Dean at first either but it works. Cas owns this old house across from the hospital, a single story thing with a chimney poking out the top, that shattered-glass stucco siding that Dean has never understood as a building material, and a yard that, frankly, should probably just be burnt to the ground rather than landscaped at this point. He doesn’t really like living alone although for whatever reason (he’s never really explained it to Dean) he doesn’t need the rent money, so he posted an ad for a roommate and Dean’s the guy that responded. And Dean may have turned up his nose at the knee-high grass swaying in the yard, dotted with thistles and looking dry and sere and desiccated. And he may have cast a side eye at the abandoned VW van in the driveway, wondering how long the thing had been sitting there for its tires to be that flat and giving a shudder at the knowledge that the boxes stacked to the ceiling were probably full of rats. And he definitely wanted to know the story behind the doorless safe in the back yard. But all his misgivings kinda faded away when Cas explained that he wasn’t looking for rent.
“Look, here’s the thing,” he told Dean, his bright blue eyes heavily lidded from the haze of marijuana smoke he constantly strolled around in, his smile crooked. “I don’t cook. And I don’t need the rent. And I hate living alone. So you get my spare bedroom, and it’s not even that small so it’s a pretty good room, and in return, you do the lion’s share of the cooking and you buy the groceries and occasionally, if you’re feeling adventurous, you can even keep me company. You know, laugh at my jokes or whatever. It won’t even be that hard. I’m kinda funny.”
And considering Dean had been splitting rent with Sam for the last few years while he finished his undergrad and was only moving because Sam got into Stanford out in California and therefore didn’t really have a ton of disposable income, that sounded like a pretty good deal. So he overlooked the fact that the bathroom just had a pedestal sink and no counter to put his toothbrush on, and he pretended it didn’t bug him that there was probably an entire rodent colony in the van (which he still needs to ask about one day), and he moved into Castiel’s front bedroom.
Dean doesn’t mind the cooking. He’s pretty good at it anyway, and it means he gets to have whatever he wants for dinner most nights. And Cas is pretty damned appreciative of his meals too. It’s possible that it’s just because Cas is perpetually stoned and therefore perpetually hungry. But he never passes up an opportunity to tell Dean how much he enjoys whatever is on the menu.
That shouldn’t really come as a surprise, given Castiel’s roommate-wanted ad. Dean read a lot of those while he was trying to find a place to live when Sam moved, and most of the ads were the same. That is to say, they were boring. Quiet chemistry student seeking quiet roommate to be quiet in my quiet apartment. No parties. Or something equally exciting. And it’s not that he needed to find somewhere that was going to be mile a minute intrigue and excitement, but Dean had no desire to live with someone who had a stick up their butt. He needed fun or at least an environment that wouldn’t suffocate his desire to find it. So it’s only natural that out of many ads, Cas’ is the one that caught his eye.
Can you cook? Do you like zombie movies? Does the idea of living on campus make you physically ill? Then I have a room for you. I own this house and I don’t really need a roommate but it’s way too quiet when I’m the only one living here. Must be willing to cook for me at least a couple nights a week. Vegans need not apply. I’m entirely serious about that. If you think you’re going to convince me that a veggie burger is just as good as ground beef you’re the wrong kind of crazy.
So when Dean makes burgers and Cas makes pornographic noises around mouthfuls of meat and cheese and bacon, Dean tries to pretend he doesn’t recognize those noises from Saturday nights, takes the compliment, and reminds himself that he is living here rent free and maybe, just maybe, he should invest in some ear plugs.
The fucking always stops eventually anyway.
~*~
Sunday morning, Dean sits at the kitchen table sipping his third mug of coffee and tries to control the urge to look up when the door to Cas’ room swings open. He manages to stifle his curiosity long enough to listen for the sound of the bathroom door latching, but all that tells him is that someone (possibly Cas) is up and about. A few minutes later, Cas strolls out in boxer shorts and a pair of fuzzy bear-foot slippers, yawning and stretching as he shuffles into the kitchen.
“Is there more coffee?” he asks blearily.
“There’s about a cup,” Dean informs him. “I can make more if you’ve got company still, though.”
“What? Oh, uh, no. Didn’t stick around.” Cas shakes his head like he’s dispelling a fog and shuffles over to the coffee maker, draining the carafe into one of the many novelty coffee mugs he favors so strongly. This particular morning he selects a mug with an adorable cartoon fox on the side, emblazoned with the words For Fox Sake. Cradling the mug in both hands, he makes his way over to the table where Dean sits, trying very hard not to stare at his naked chest and barely concealed crotch as he does.
“Sorry to hear that,” he offers, dropping his eyes to the newspaper splayed out on the table in front of him. Reading the paper is more habit than anything. He doesn’t really absorb much of it, but the act of sitting down with the paper on weekend mornings is so deeply ingrained in him that it’s never really occurred to Dean not to.
“I’m not,” Cas scoffs. “Saves me having to offer them coffee.”
Alright then. Not the same person every Saturday. Still not entirely sure if it’s guys or girls or a mix that Cas is messing around with, but it settles the question of whether he’s getting down with the same someone every time Dean has to pretend he’s not listening.
Maybe Dean should stop worrying about who his roommate is fucking and start putting some thought into his own sex life. Or, you know, the lack thereof. He’s an attractive guy, reasonably charming when he feels like it. And there have been enough positive reviews in his past that even if some were falsely inflated, he has reason to believe he’s pretty good in bed. Why the hell not go out and pick himself up someone to get acquainted with? There’s plenty of bars, what with this being a university town, and at least some of them are bound to have guys close to his age that are interested in a little bit of fun. It would be easy. He’d barely have to try.
He would, of course, spend the entire time knowing that his roommate could hear every single sound coming from his room.
Perhaps Cas would have less patience for it than Dean would. Maybe he’d bang on the wall. Maybe he’d bang on the door, demand Dean shut the fuck up. Or maybe, and Dean knows even as he thinks of it that he’s beyond reaching here, but maybe Cas would just lie there and listen, pretending like he’s not listening. You know. Just like Dean does.
This is not what Dean should be thinking about while Cas is sitting there in his underwear, nursing a mug of coffee and…
Oh shit.
And talking to Dean.
“Sorry, what was that?” Dean asks. “I was daydreaming.” Yeah. Daydreaming. No need to mention what he’s daydreaming about.
“I asked if you could be convinced to make waffles,” Cas repeats, eyes still open such a tiny sliver that they might as well be closed.
“I could do that,” Dean replies. He was just going to have toast, but really, Cas is letting him live here rent free (and also apparently providing him with entertainment). Breakfast is the least he can do.
It’s kind of a Sunday tradition anyway, albeit unofficial. Dean makes all the meals anyway except on days that Cas decides he’s going to fend for himself and make a grilled cheese sandwich or cereal or canned soup or something. He’s basically incompetent when it comes to anything that happens in a kitchen. In any case, whether Dean makes all the meals or not, he definitely does Sunday breakfast. It’s always something bready and delicious, either pancakes or waffles or French toast. Sometimes he even does toast and hashbrowns and eggs. Basically, breakfast staples, in large quantities. Cas is appreciative regardless of what he cooks, but Sunday breakfasts are always Cas’ favourite. Perhaps he builds up an exceptional appetite during his Saturday night escapades (which Dean tries very hard not to think of) or maybe he just really, really likes maple syrup. Either way, it’s no surprise that it’s waffles on his mind right now.
Dean gets out the waffle iron.