Castiel isn’t exactly a morning person.
Dean’s got no clue where the former angel picked that up, but for some reason Castiel tries to win a fucking award for crankiness in the early hours of every single goddamned day since he moved into the bunker for good. And he stays that way until there is enough coffee or black tea rushing through his system for him to behave like a moderately decent person.
Dean already wondered whether Castiel perhaps just needs some time to adjust – after all, he’s human for less than two months now – and come to terms with all the sleeping and eating and breathing. It’s quite a change, so it’d be totally understandable.
But deep down Dean is convinced that this is simply Castiel’s normal behavior. He had been a little piece of shit since day one after all.
And Dean can’t help finding it kinda endearing.
So he’s unable to fight a slight smile when he sees Castiel shuffle into the kitchen that morning like a zombie just recently raised from the grave, his lids half-open, just barely enough to spot the coffeemaker. His hair is more of a mess than usual, his sweatpants are hanging quite low and showing off some sharp hipbones and his rumpled shirt is inside out as if Castiel didn’t give a fuck and merely put it on because of the incident one week ago when he walked completely bare chested into the kitchen one morning, almost giving Dean an aneurysm, and was immediately forced to listen to a speech by Sam about decent clothing at the breakfast table while Dean fought with death in the background.
“Hey, Cas,” Sam greets, looking up from his phone for a second, and flashes the ex-angel a smile, though he knows fairly well that it won’t be appreciated anyway.
Castiel just grumbles something inaudible underneath his breath and takes a mug out of the cabinet without destroying the better part of the kitchen.
And Dean just smiles like a stupid idiot.
Castiel doesn’t notice anything that’s going on around him, his gaze only fixed on the coffee. He downs it in one go, black and hot, his poor throat obviously used to that kind of treatment, and squints at the opposite wall as if there’s some hidden secret he’s contemplating to solve.
But in the end he drops the issue and turns toward the brothers at the table instead.
“Morning, Cas,” Dean says, grinning brightly. “Need more coffee?”
Castiel grunts an incoherent reply and studies the other man intently for a moment.
And then he leans down and presses a warm and quick kiss onto Dean’s lips.
Dean freezes up, but he’s got no chance to respond in any kind before Castiel pulls back again, smiling fondly, and strolls out of the kitchen as if all of this had been a perfectly normal occurrence.
And Dean merely gapes after him, his eyes impossibly widened.
Did that seriously just happen?
“Um … did Cas just kiss you?” Sam asks, his huge forehead wrinkled like he’s deeply in thought, but at the same time there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Uh …” Dean answers very eloquently, not sure what to say. His lips taste intensely like Castiel, even after that short contact, and he’s got no idea what to do with that. It feels as if his brain had been fried.
“'Cause, man, it really looked like Cas just kissed you,” Sam goes on, now clearly amused. “I didn’t know that you and him –”
“We’re not!” Dean cuts in instantly, suppressing a blush and failing spectacularly. “Um, I mean … you saw him, Sammy. He was half-asleep. He probably thought he was dreaming or something …”
Sam’s smirk becomes even wider hearing that. “Then it’s interesting to know what Cas is dreaming about, don’t you think?”
His eyes glint teasingly and Dean is having a very hard time ignoring him or coming up with some plausible excuse.
All he can think about are the soft press of lips and the fluttery feeling inside his stomach.
“I guess you’re screwed, Dean,” Sam says, laughing aloud.
And Dean isn’t able to deny it.
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