About Last Night (a Destiel ficlet)
"Cas, are we gonna talk about last night?" Dean asked, idly prodding at the eggs in the frying pan. Cas was perched on a stool beside Dean, paging through an old book.
“What is there to talk about?” Cas replied. Dean shrugged and turned off the burner of the stove.
"I dunno," he said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "I mean, we…well, we fucked. This is pretty important. We should talk about it, at least a little, don’t’cha think?" Cas glanced up from his book, scrutinised Dean’s slightly questioning eyes and mismatched pyjamas, and shrugged back.
"I suppose, we do, yes. What usually happens, following such an occasion?" he asked. Dean paused for a moment. That was a good question-usually, he wasn’t there for too long on the morning after, if he even waited that long to leave. He hadn’t had much experience in post-sex etiquette, but damned if he wasn’t going to try for Cas’ sake.
"I guess we talk about what exactly that was, and what it’s going to change for the two of us," he said.
“I think the alcohol was largely to blame,” Cas supplied. “It-what was it you said? “Released our inhibitions?”“
“Yeah,” Dean agreed.
After what, in retrospect, was probably not enough thought, he said, “Lemme ask you something-and, be honest. Have you ever wanted to do that before? With me?” He cast a sidelong glance Cas’ way.
“Honestly, yes, I have. Frequently. Thoroughly. And I must admit,” he added with a laugh, “that is not at all how I expected it to play out.” Dean couldn’t help but smile back.
“Yeah? What’d you expect?” Cas raised his eyebrows.
“You really want to know?” he asked tentatively.
"Course I do, Cas," Dean replied earnestly, because it was true. He had his own ideas of how last night, in a perfect world, would’ve gone-they would’ve driven out together, someplace quiet and beautiful, and talked until the sun set. They would’ve sat in the backseat together and kissed, and the kiss would’ve developed into handprints on fogged-up windows and hastily pulled off clothes, and they would watch the sunrise from the hood of the Impala, and Cas would attribute the events of the night not to alcohol, but to true love, or at least something remarkably like it.
That, naturally, was not what happened. What happened was a lot of beer during a late night research session at the bunker, and Sam turning in early with a splitting headache and no desire for a hangover the next morning, and Dean’s overwhelming urge to kiss him, kiss him, just lean over and kiss him, which turned too quickly into hands and mouths and tongues and clothes on the floor and poorly stifled moans. It wasn’t to say that Dean regretted it-far from it-but Cas deserved so much more than being kissed sloppily at two in the morning, surrounded by still-opened books and empty bottles.
"Well, in all of the thinking I’ve done about this," Cas said, "and believe me, I’ve done a considerable amount, it would be evening. Sam would be preoccupied-away, somewhere, but safe-so it would be just us. We wouldn’t have any concerns, or distractions, so we would go back to your room, and you would put on a record. We would kiss, and I, being much more coherent and much less drunk than I was last night, would tell you in no uncertain terms how beautiful and perfect and exceptional you are. And the kiss would become the most unforgettable night of our lives, and we would fall asleep in each other’s arms." He paused, suddenly embarrassed, and looked at his bare feet, wrapped monkeylike around the bars of the stool.
"Nevermind. It sounds absurd," he said with a self-deprecating shrug.
“No, Cas,” Dean reassured. “I don’t think it sounds absurd. I think it sounds perfect.” Cas lifted his eyes to Dean’s face and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“I-thank you, Dean. I only wish last night could’ve been different.”
They didn’t mention any part of that morning for the rest of the day, mostly because all they would’ve said was communicated in smiles and exchanged looks. Neither of them even approached the subject until later that night, when they were sitting at the bunker, around the table. Sam was reading, like always, Dean was on the laptop and Cas was (per usual) trying to translate some ancient text or another.
Dean closed the laptop and said, out of nowhere, “Sam, I think you might need to run to the store.”
“Dean, we just went shopping yesterday, and there’s no reason to-” Sam began to argue. Dean shot him a very pointed look.
"I really think you should," he repeated. "We’re running out of pie." Cas looked at Dean, smiled imperceptibly, and added, "It’s a very pressing issue. An emergency situation. It needs to be rectified immediately." Realisation dawned on Sam’s face.
"Finally," he muttered, largely to himself. "Alright. I’ll take my time. You two have fun," he teased, snatching the keys off the edge of the table.
“Trust us,” Dean replied, “we will.”
When the door was shut and the house empty, save for the two of them, Dean said plainly, “Cas, you wanna listen to a record with me?” Cas stood up out of his chair and walked over to where Dean waited.
“You do not know how many times I have thought about you asking me that,” he said, grinning eagerly.
“I’ll take that as a “yes,”” Dean replied, taking him by the hand and leading him to the bedroom.
“You can take it as a “definitely,” Cas said, easing the door closed behind them.
It was just as Cas had imagined-they kissed, long and slowly, and Cas whispered distractedly in Enochian about how amazing and worthy Dean was as they pulled off each other’s clothes impatiently. When they woke up the next morning, with Dean’s arms wrapped Cas’ waist and his face buried in the crook of his neck, Cas murmured sleepily, “That definitely exceeded my expectations.” Dean smiled and pressed a kiss into the base of his neck.
“Yeah, mine, too.” After a second, he added, “I love you, Cas.” Cas rolled over lazily and kissed him, gently and chastely.
“I love you, too, Dean.”
