#marriedvibes

[sigyn-foxyposts]

📺 Kid me watching Rodde and Kikkan on NRK Super:

“so when are they dropping the we’ve actually been husbands this whole time plot twist??” 👁️👄👁️

You can't tell me they weren't a married couple.. like. just kiss. PLEASE!!

[vintagedean]

john missing dean while on a case, calling him up, maybe phone sex or incredibly sappy sweet nothings?

When the phone rings, Sam answers.

Dean watches his brother's body language as the voice on the other end speaks. Clocks the way Sam straightens up, the way his disinterested frown stiffens.

Dad.

"Yes, sir," Sam says, confirming Dean's assumption.

Dean watches the clock as Sam talks to John, minutes ticking by slowly. John hasn't called in five days, and Dean's been thrumming with anxiety and anticipation. Now that his father is on the other end of the line, it's a new kind of torture that Dean can't hear him.

Still, he knows it's good that Sam talk to their father. That John is asking how school is going, how the soccer game went. If Sam's keeping up with training, if he's getting along with Dean (dumb question: they're inseparable as always).

When Sam finally pulls the phone away, handing the receiver to Dean, Dean has to fight to tamp down the urge to yank it towards himself. “Get lost,” he tells Sam, itching for some privacy.

Sam rolls his eyes, but grabs his jacket and the room key and heads for the door. He doesn’t really want to stick around, either.

“Hey,” Dean says as the door shuts.

“Dean,” John answers, and Dean can just tell he’s exhausted.

“Yes, sir,” Dean says softly.

“How you been, kiddo?”

Dean smiles, cheeks warming. “Good, Dad. Missing you.”

He can hear the smile as John replies, “Good, good.” Then, throat clearing, “Me, too.”

It’s a thrill to hear him say it. Makes Dean a little breathless, feeling like he’s just run a mile. “Wish you were back. How’s the hunt?”

“All done,” John answers. “Nearly killed me, but done.”

Dean swallows. “You okay?”

“Yeah, honey, I’m fine.” A pause. “Sammy gone?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says quickly. “Out for a walk.”

“Drop the sir,” John says. “I want my wife.”

Dean’s eyes flutter closed. He takes a breath. “I’m here.”

“Tell me how you are, really.”

Dean sighs. Fiddles with the silver ring on his right hand. “Tired. My ankle’s giving me trouble still. But Sammy’s taking care of me. Keeping the place neat, running a few of my errands.”

“Sammy’s a good kid, but you need a doctor,” John says. “Stop being stubborn.”

Dean laughs a little. “You’re one to talk. And I’m fine. I’ve got it wrapped, and I stay off it when I can. It’s feeling better.”

“The hell it is,” John says, and Dean can hear the scowl. “Don’t lie to me.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but he’s touched. “I’m not lying,” he says.

A sigh from John. “I’ve been thinking about you both a lot. Wish I was there with you.”

“You coming back tomorrow?”

“Yeah. First thing. I’d come tonight, but I need to sleep.”

“Yes, you do,” agrees Dean. “We’ll be here for you when you get back.”

“Bed’s cold without you.”

Dean nods, even though John can’t see it. “I know. It’s the same for me.”

“You sharing with Sammy?”

“Sometimes. He’s a furnace, like his daddy.”

John snorts. “Don’t tonight.”

“Wasn’t going to. I’m sleeping in our bed tonight.”

“You gonna think about me?” John says, voice low.

Dean presses the heel of his palm into his groin. “Thinking about you already.”

A quiet laugh. “I’m fading, but I want you to keep doing what you’re doing and come up with some ideas for when I’m there.”

Dean squeezes himself. “I already have a few.”

“Love you, kiddo,” John says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Love you, too, Dad,” Dean replies. “See you then.”

And then he hangs up the phone.

[vintagedean]

Dean sits at the table across from John and stews. He stews in the strange amalgamation of feelings that John’s return has brought up for him. The relief. The joy. The anger. The grief. John looks just the same as he did the day he died, hasn’t aged a minute, but Dean is four years older--newly thirty. He’s been to Hell and thwarted the Apocalypse; He isn’t the same person he was when he burned John’s body on the pyre. Dean is a new animal, and he’s learned new things. He doesn’t know how he fits with the man who raised him any more.

John looks at him, peeling at the label of his beer bottle. Uncharacteristically fidgety. Dean wants to kiss him or hold him. Take the man to bed and try to wake up in the morning like the last four years didn’t happen. But he also wants to sock John in the jaw, make him bleed. Make him hurt. For leaving him and Sam the way he did, for leaving with the words If you can’t save him, kill him ringing in Dean’s ears. For not telling Dean shit about, well, anything.

For sleeping with another woman. For having another child.

Dean thinks about Adam sitting in the next room with Sam. He knows the agreement they made at the time to get two rooms and have Sam and Adam in one, Dean and John in the other, had made the most sense. Dean’s got unfinished business with all three of them to some extent, but his shit with John has to come first. But he can’t help but regret it now, too overwhelmed by John’s presence to stay trapped in a room with him.

It’s all too much. Dean leans over in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, head resting in his hands. He wants to scream or cry or hit something. He wants his dad. He straightens back up and heaves a sigh. Then he looks at John.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

John looks away and then back again. “You think I do? Not like I make resurrection a habit.”

Dean snorts. “That’d make one of us,” he mutters. He takes another breath. “A lot of shit has changed since you died. I’m not the same person I was.”

John shakes his head. “I don’t expect you to be, Dean.”

“I don’t know what we’re supposed to be to one another.”

He stares at John with his breath held.

John stares right back.

“If nothing else, I will always be your father.”

It’s not what Dean wants to hear, but then he thinks he doesn’t really know what he wants to hear. If John had said he wanted to share Dean’s bed again, Dean thinks that would have frustrated him just as much.

“You fucked another woman,” he chokes out. “You had another baby.”

It’s not what he means to say, but the words move past his lips of their own volition. It’s not their biggest problem, Dean knows, but it’s the only thing he can think about with Adam only a room away.

“You were eleven,” John says, voice flat. “You and I weren’t even close to starting the shit we did.”

“But you fucked her after we started, didn’t you?”

“Dean--”

“You did,” Dean interrupts, something vile and vicious pooling in his guts, taking away his ability to breathe. “You’d leave me and Sam with a kiss goodbye and your hand on my ass, and then you’d fuck the mother of your secret child while I took care of the other one.”

John looks down at his beer bottle. When he looks back up at Dean, there’s a defiance in his eyes Dean doesn’t expect. “I fucked more than just one, Dean.”

Dean’s a man, and he won’t cry over this. He won’t. He was never really John’s wife, no matter how much they played at it. John never pledged any fidelity to his oldest son. Dean isn’t going to cry that John broke a promise he never made.

Dean stands. “I can’t stay here.”

“Because you're so innocent in all this,” John snaps, standing himself. “What about Cassie? Lisa? You think I don’t know?”

Dean jerks back, mouth dropping open. His two moments of weakness, both taking place after the only two real fights he and John ever had while they were together. The only two times he and John had called it quits. The first, after Sam had disappeared in Flagstaff. The second, after Sam had left for Stanford.

“We weren’t together,” he whispers. “And I didn’t knock them up. The moment we got back together, I stopped.” He shakes his head. “You can’t hold those against me. I didn’t….”

John shakes his head. “And you think they didn’t still hurt?”

“No, I--”

But Dean had known both times that sleeping with those women had hurt John. He’d done it to hurt John. Things had gotten carried away with Cassie, he knows that. But it had been real rough after Sam left, and with John icing Dean out like he’d planned Sam’s whole escape instead of being completely blindsided by it just as John had, he’d been momentarily looking for his own way out.

“So we’re both terrible people,” Dean grits out. “Glad we cleared that up.”

“Dean,” John says heavily. “The women I slept with didn’t--”

“If you say they didn’t mean anything, I’m going to hit you.”

That earns a frown. “Dean,” he tries again. “Shit, I can’t fucking talk about this.”

Which is when John cuts the distance between them and presses his lips to Dean’s.

It’s a dearer thing than Dean expects. John’s mouth doesn’t feel so different against his own, despite the years that have passed between kisses. He tastes like Dean remembers, too, and the rush of familiarity has Dean melting against his father without a thought. His hands move automatically to John’s waist as he kisses him back, chasing the memories of the last time they were together like this.

He doesn’t stop John when he feels his hands tug at Dean’s shirt. They part long enough for the both of them to take off their button downs, and then Dean lifts John’s shirt off his chest, letting John do the same for him immediately after.

John is as beautiful as Dean remembers, hands going immediately to the hair on John’s chest, fingertips grazing his nipples. He bends awkwardly to capture one in his mouth and sucks at it gently.

“Dean,” John sighs above him. “Baby.”

They struggle as they get each other’s shoes and socks and pants off next. They’re moving too quickly, too frantically, to do anything efficiently, and they keep bumping heads as they go, knocking teeth as they kiss desperately.

There’s a pause once they’re both on the bed, John on his knees between Dean’s legs. His eyes drink Dean in, his straining cock up to his face, and Dean lets it happen without a word. John’s looking at him like he’s never seen him before, and it hits Dean that, in a sense, that’s exactly the case.

“Kiss me,” he asks, feeling young again. Feeling for the first time since John’s resurrection that he’s his wife once more.

John does as he’s asked.

After, Dean lays his head on John’s chest like he’s done a thousand times before. He runs a hand up and down John’s torso, reveling in the solidity of the man beside him. His husband is back.

“I don’t know this body,” John says quietly. “Your body. It’s a stranger to me now.”

Dean frowns and turns himself on his belly so he can better look at John. “I’ve changed,” he agrees. “I’m not the same person I was four years ago. But….”

John smiles at him and runs a hand through Dean’s hair. “You’re still Dean.”

He nods. “I’m still Dean.”

[vintagedean]

here's one we all agree on.

[vintagedean]

wrote a follow up scene to this snippet.

-

Sam knocks on their door, waiting with nervous impatience to be let in. Adam had wanted to come with him, but Sam had convinced him to stay back in their room. He’d made up some excuse about wanting a minute alone with his dad and brother. It’s not exactly a lie—Sam does want some time with them on his own—but it’s not his real motivation for coming over alone right then. His real concern is how decent he thinks John and Dean will be.

He’s glad it’s just him when John opens the door dressed only in his underwear; Sam can see Dean is still naked in bed. The whole room reeks of sex.

“Morning,” he says awkwardly, stepping inside.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, voice low.

“Adam in your room?” John asks as he sits on the edge of Dean’s bed.

“Yeah,” answers Sam, taking a seat at the table. “Figured that was best.”

Dean snorts. “Good call.”

John looks back at him, face unreadable. Sam doesn’t bother trying. He never could understand his father, and he certainly can’t relate to him now.

Sam clears his throat. “So, I just wanted to see what the plan was for today.”

“I don’t know.” Dean’s voice is flat, tired. He looks beaten down in a way Sam didn’t expect. He can’t imagine how Dean’s handling having three people raised from the dead at once. Can’t imagine how he’d feel about any one of them alone coming back, let alone the whole lot.

Sam waits for Dean to look at him before saying, “How about you and I take the day?”

Sam notes the way Dean’s face relaxes, the way the smallest of smiles tips up the side of his mouth. “Yeah, Sammy.”

John’s face tightens at the words, and he stands from the bed. “I should spend some time with Adam,” he says.

Sam nods. “Why don’t we all meet back up for dinner?”

“Sure,” John agrees, bending over to pick up his shirt off the floor.

Sam watches Dean watch John as he moves across the room collecting the items of clothing he abandoned last night, presumably as he readied to sleep with Dean. Sam shakes his head at the thought, disinterested in thinking further about the fact that Dean and their father are fucking again. He knows he’s going to have to talk about it with Dean, but he doesn’t want to think about it until then. So he pulls out his phone instead and starts scrolling through his newsfeed. He’s not hunting, but it’s a habit he doesn’t bother curbing.

When John is dressed, he walks up to Dean and leans down. Dean doesn’t hesitate, face tilting up so John can easily catch his lips in a kiss. Sam is hit by the comfortable familiarity of the action, his countless memories of Dean and John doing this exact act all rush back in a whirl.

“I’ll see you later,” John whispers, and Dean nods.

Then John is leaving the room to go collect Adam.

Sam tries to avoid zeroing in on Dean the moment the door closes behind their father, because he doesn’t want to be predictable, but it’s hard to resist. He’s dying to ask Dean what the fuck is going on, despite how he might be able to guess. He’d like to hear it firsthand.

“Guess I’m back with Dad,” Dean says without prompting, and Sam finally looks at him.

“You don’t sound so sure.”

Dean shrugs. “We haven’t really talked about it. I yelled at him about Kate and Adam. He yelled at me about Cassie and Lisa. Then we fucked. A lot.” He looks at Sam. “Does that sound ‘together’ to you?”

Sam’s lips narrow. He’s not sure the answer Dean is looking for. Sam’s not even sure how he feels about the pair of them.

“Do you want to be together?”

Dean scoffs. “How the fuck should I know.”

He seems so small in the bed, his shoulders hunched and his eyes downcast. Sam looks at him and feels his chest constrict. He hates to see Dean this way.

“I don’t think either of us are the people we thought we were the last time we were really together," says Dean.

Sam offers a jerky nod. “I could see that.”

Dean cracks a mirthless smile. “Sex was still good though.”

Sam lets the comment hang a moment before taking a breath and saying, “You don’t seem happy, Dean.”

Dean looks at him. “I should be though, right? I got my brother back. My brothers. Got my dad, too. I should be over the fucking moon.”

“Dean,” Sam says with a sigh. “I think whatever you’re feeling is what you should be feeling.”

Dean scoffs again. “Sure, Sammy. What do you think about Dad and I?”

Sam wishes he knew. It’d been easy once he’d left for Stanford to condemn John and Dean for their relationship. To feel with every mile he put between them and himself more certain that John had corrupted the pair of them and brainwashed Dean like some evil cult leader. To revise and reimagine the very nature of their coupling until Dean had been reduced to nothing but a set of influences. John’s influences.

But reconnecting with Dean after John had gone missing had challenged that. He’d been forced to contend with a Dean who was multidimensional, who could function without John, even if he didn’t like to do it. Who was still funny and brave and stupid and kind. And who happened to miss their father like a wife might miss her overseas soldier husband. Dean wasn’t brainwashed. Wasn’t out of touch. He was in love, and lonely.

Dean still seems in love and lonely now, even with John back before his very eyes. And Sam doesn’t know what to think about that.

“Dean, I’ve never known what to think about the fact that you and Dad had the relationship you had,” he finally says. “Everything was so fucked up about our life; you sleeping with our father hardly seemed out of place at the time.”

“But it’s different now,” Dean says softly.

Sam sighs. “Yeah.”

Dean wipes at his eyes, and Sam does him the honor of looking away as it happens.

“Shit, I need to get dressed,” Dean says. He shifts on the bed and grimaces. “Maybe shower first.”

Sam tries to temper his face, but he doubts he manages it. “Get cleaned up and then we’ll get some breakfast, okay?”

Dean nods. “Okay, Sammy.”

[vintagedean]

so, there’s been a bolt of inspiration.

[vintagedean]

june prompt: 23 - buttons

:)

heeeeey a million years later i filled this!!! thank you for sending it (and the delicious mary prompts)!!!

this can also be read as the latest chapter for "tender like a bruise" if anyone is interested in reading on ao3/commenting.

It’s hotter than sin in Austin, Texas, and Dean can’t fucking stand it. The humidity only compounds his discomfort, and as John drives them back to the motel, Dean can’t even take pleasure in their successful salt-and-burn for how miserable he is so soaked in sweat.

In the driver’s seat, John seems wholly unbothered by the weather. His forehead shines with perspiration, but still he hums along with the tape player and taps along on the steering wheel. It makes Dean madder, John’s decent mood, and every tippy tap of his father’s fingers lands in his ears like a blow from a hammer.

“What’s your problem?” John eventually asks, looking sideways at his son like Dean’s problem isn’t already obvious.

“I’m hot,” he snaps back.

He half expects John to cuff him on the back of his head for his tone, but John only quirks a brow. Dean counts himself lucky, and is determined to keep his temper in check from here on out. He thinks as long as he doesn’t open his mouth, he’ll be fine. John’s not usually the chatty type anyway.

Still, it doesn’t take long for Dean to break his own rule when John wordlessly pulls into a Whataburger drive-thru.

“What are we doing here?” Dean certainly feels too hot to eat.

John doesn’t answer. Doesn’t speak until he’s at the window to order.

“Two of your biggest cups of ice water,” he says. “And two large cokes.”

Oh, Dean thinks. He makes himself take a deep breath and wills his anger away. He doesn’t want to waste John’s tenderness on a shitty attitude.

John pays for and collects their drinks at the second window, handing the heavy cup tray to Dean to hold. “Drink that water first,” he says firmly, and Dean nods.

The ice water is a revelation that beats back the heat with every swallow. Dean feels it travel down his throat, burning an icy trail that’s almost painful for how fast he drinks it, but he can’t find it in himself to stop.

“Slow it down, sweetheart,” John mutters as he pulls into the motel parking lot.

Dean wipes at his lips and nods. He’s already got the edges of a brain freeze. Still, he’d take the brain freeze over the wretched heat any time.

“Carry the drinks; I got the bags,” says John before exiting the car, and Dean follows suit with his precious cargo in hand.

At least, he tells himself, the motel room has air conditioning. It’s a piece of shit machine, but it gets the job done, and as Dean steps into the room he feels himself relax a little further. Anything is better than the muggy heat from outside, even the muggy coolness of a poorly serviced AC unit.

“Are you feeling better?” John asks as he follows Dean into the room.

Dean’s cheeks heat in embarrassment. “Yeah. Thanks.”

John nods. “I know it’s fucking miserable.”

Dean sets the drinks down on the nightstand and sits on the bed. “It doesn’t seem to bother you.”

John shrugs. “It doesn’t hit me like it hits you.”

Dean tries not to feel like a failure for being touchy about the weather, but even that’s difficult when he’s as worn out as he is. The job had been easy enough, but the heat had taken most of Dean’s fight out of him, and he feels like a wrung out rag despite the simplicity of the hunt. And the fatigue makes him sensitive, much as he wishes it didn’t.

John knows it, always has, and he snaps in Dean’s face to knock him out of his internal spiral. “Cut that shit out.”

Dean sighs, leaning his head back. Then he nods. “I know, I know.”

John grabs one of the cokes out of the tray and presses it into Dean’s hands. “Sugar for my sugar,” he says.

“Oh my god,” Dean mumbles with a roll of his eyes. “Never say that to me again.”

John snorts and sits on the bed beside Dean, his own cup of water in his hands. “Since when do you make the rules?”

He leans into Dean, head tilting.

Dean leans in too, eyes closing. “Since you started saying shit like that.” Their lips meet.

With cold, sweating cups in their hand, things don’t get too heated. Besides, Dean’s still feeling wiped out. He does feel better, though, for the water and AC and John’s mouth against his own.

“Lay down,” John murmurs a few minutes later. He puts his cup back in the tray, and then takes Dean’s and puts it back, too.

Dean does as he’s told, laying on top of the blankets and looking at John through half-lidded eyes. He watches as John moves to fit himself between Dean’s legs. His hands slip under the hem of Dean’s shirt, making the muscles of his stomach flutter.

His fingers push up the fabric, exposing Dean’s stomach and chest, nipples hardening at the touch. Dean closes his eyes and lets John do as he pleases, hands roaming where they will. He gasps when John’s beard scratches against his right pectoral, lips taking a nipple gently between his teeth. Dean’s hands go immediately to John’s hair, pressing him further against his skin.

He sighs when John unlatches and pulls back, forcing Dean’s hands to let go of John’s locks. John’s arms go to either side of his torso, caging him in, and Dean readies for another kiss as John’s face lowers to meet his own.

“Haven’t tasted you in too long,” John whispers against his cheeks before connecting their mouths.

The kiss feels almost as transformative as the ice water had. John’s tongue is deft as it slips into Dean’s mouth and licks against his own, and though he isn’t hard, he moans in pleasure as John grinds his hips against Dean’s.

Dean is still too hot and worn out to get it up, but he enjoys the solid length of John through his jeans anyway. Loves knowing John finds Dean’s body so arousing, even when he doesn’t feel particularly sexy himself.

“Up for anything?” John asks softly.

Dean’s hands drift to John’s sides. “Not right now.”

John leans in and kisses him again. “That’s okay.”

John adjusts himself so he’s sitting back on his heels. He pulls off his shirt, and leans back over Dean to help him tug his own top off given his reclined position. Then his hands go down to the button of Dean’s jeans.

Dean watches as John rubs at the small round of metal, the pad of his thumb circling the edge of it, toying with the idea of slipping it through the button-hole. Dean thrusts up gently in encouragement.

“Are you going to play all day or actually help me undress?”

John gives him a look. “Thought you weren’t up for anything?”

“I’m not,” Dean says with a grin. “Just like pushing your buttons how you’re pushing mine.”

John huffs at that, and then presses the palm of his hand against Dean’s crotch. Dean’s cock fills feebly, still hobbled by fatigue.

“How’s that for button-pushing?” his father asks.

Dean groans. “Come on, Daddy.”

“All right, all right.”

Finally, John works Dean’s button open, then moves to release Dean’s zipper. He rests his hands on Dean’s thighs and rubs the muscles there.

“Feels nice,” Dean says, eyes closing.

“Yeah?” John murmurs. “You want these on or off?” He hooks his fingers under Dean’s boxers.

Dean pushes up on his elbows. “Off.”

He wants to feel John, skin to skin.

He watches John finish undressing him, removing his boots and socks, tugging down his pants and underwear. Then he gets naked himself and lays back on the bed.

Dean’s still a little warm, but he doesn’t let that stop himself from pressing up against John. They’re both sticky with residual sweat and gritty with grave dirt, but it’s worth it for the closeness.

“You did good today,” John says, voice gone soft with his own growing tiredness.

Dean smiles. “Learned from the best.”

A quiet snort from John.

“I think you’ve earned a nap,” John whispers.

“You, too,” Dean slurs, already feeling sleep overtake him.

“Me, too,” John agrees.

And so they settle in to rest.

[vintagedean]

part 1, part 2, part 3

“Hello, Dean.”

John hears the gruff voice and whips around to find its source.

“Cas!” he hears Dean say as soon as his eyes land on the figure who’s suddenly entered their room.

He wills himself to stay calm at the unexpected intrusion. “You know this man, Dean?”

The answer is obvious, as Dean has bridged the gap between himself and the stranger in no time flat, and drawn him into a tight hug. The man’s arms wrap around Dean more slowly, but when they enclose him fully, John can see the way they tighten. The way his fingers grip into Dean’s shoulders. Dean does just the same.

Dean pulls back far enough to look at the man face to face. “God, it’s good to see you, buddy.”

“Dean,” John barks, tired of being out of the loop.

Dean’s eyes snap to him. “Right, sorry.” He steps back from the man. “Dad, this is Castiel.”

The name catches, but John’s heard so many new names in the last week that it takes him a second to place it. Then it clicks. “The angel who pulled you out of Hell?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers. “I am the one who gripped Dean tight.”

There’s a peculiar look to his face, to the small smile that plays along his lips. To the faint tilt of his head. John feels uneasy in his presence, and he doesn’t like it.

Dean looks back at Castiel, affection blatant. “He’s also my best friend.”

John says nothing to that, instead going to sit at the table.

Dean watches him, nodding. “Yeah, let’s sit.”

He settles at the table by John, and Castiel takes the still-made bed that neither of them has touched since taking the room.

“Not that I’m not glad to see you, Cas, but what are you doing here?”

John can’t help but notice the warmth in Dean’s eyes, the pleasure in his voice. This angel is important to him.

“I heard about your father and brothers,” Castiel answers, and John makes sure to keep his expression neutral. “I wanted to come immediately, but there were things I needed to attend to in Heaven.”

Dean smiles at him. “Can’t wait to hear all about it. But first, any word on my family’s getting the Jesus treatment?”

John watches Castiel narrow his eyes at Dean’s phrasing, but his amusement is evident though his expression is otherwise unchanged.

“Not much,” the angel says. “I’ve been to see Joshua, but all he would tell me is that the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“That so,” John says, voice hard.

Dean looks at him sharply. He knows John well enough to tell that he’s on edge, John’s sure. He wants to know why Castiel is there.

“Well,” Dean says with a little last. “After our last visit with him, I’m surprised he told you anything at all.”

“I think it’s God’s parting gift to you, Dean. Your family back, as you have longed for.”

John doesn’t like how familiar Castiel seems to be with his son, though he isn’t overly interested in examining why. He tells himself it’s simply because John doesn’t trust anything or anyone to do with either Heaven or Hell, and Castiel certainly qualifies.

Dean sighs at that. “Guess I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

John can’t help himself. “You could sound a little more enthusiastic about it.”

Dean gives him a hard look, the kind of look John still isn’t used to seeing on his son’s face, and certainly not directed at him. He holds Dean’s eyes steadily, unwilling to give an inch. But when Dean finally looks back at Castiel, it doesn’t give John the satisfaction he’s expecting.

Dean clears his throat. “So then tell me about Heaven, Cas.”

John listens to them talk. He pours himself a cup of coffee and sips at it in silence, no interest in contributing to a conversion he has nothing to do with. He focuses instead on Dean’s body language, at his obvious comfort with the strange angel before him. He laughs at things John doesn’t understand, and hangs on every word out of Castiel’s mouth.

It drives John up the wall.

When Castiel finally leaves an hour later in a flurry of invisible wingbeats, John is in a foul mood.

“What is your problem?” Dean asks once Castiel has gone.

John looks at him. “He going to make a habit of just appearing out of the blue like that?”

Dean pulls a face. “And if he does?”

John leans back in his chair. “I don’t trust him.”

The eyeroll takes John back a bit.

“Sure,” says Dean. “Sure you fucking don’t. It’s not like he helped save the world. Not like he gave up everything to do it. Not like I trust him.”

“That’s not what I meant, Dean.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” snaps Dean, standing up. “You want to get along with me now that you’re back, you’re going to have to trust my judgment about some of the shit that happened while you were gone.” He heads for the door.

John stands, too. “Dean, don’t you walk away from me.”

Dean looks back at him, with his mouth dropped open. He shakes his head. “Watch me.”

Then he’s out the door.

John collapses onto the bed they share and rests his head in his hands. The reality of the years between them shifts more sharply into focus. He doesn’t have Dean’s unyielding fealty anymore. He is his own man.

Dean’s attitude is still on his mind hours later. It’s long since gone dark when Dean finally renters the room. John watches him move quietly through the room, shedding outer layers of clothing and tossing his keys on the table. He’s still silent when Dean sits gingerly on the side of the bed and undoes his boots, toeing them off. And he’s still quiet when Dean sits beside him up against the headboard, settling in with his eyes closed and deep sigh.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” Dean says quietly. “I just don’t know how to be myself around you right now.”

John knows the feeling. He clears his throat. “Guess I have to accept I’m not the man of the house anymore.”

Dean opens his eyes and looks at him. “What fucking house?” he says with a sad smile.

He looks beautiful like this, head leaning back to expose the pale column of his throat. Features softened in the half-lit motel room. He seems more like the Dean that John remembers. Younger and more open. John raises a hand to the side of Dean’s face and leans in for a kiss. Dean welcomes him, melting into the gentle press of their mouths.

They part to undress themselves, returning to the bed quickly. Dean settles on his back so John can get between his legs. They’ve been having a lot of sex in the missionary position, and John knows it’s symbolic. That’s it’s a way they’re both trying to get back to what they had before. He lays on top of Dean, cock pressing insistently against Dean’s thigh, and wonders if Dean still has the hope chest.

“I want to be sweet for you,” Dean confesses. “I want to be--I want to be how I was. For you.”

“My best girl,” John says as he moves his hips, overwhelmed at Dean’s words. “Always my best girl.”

“Oh, god,” Dean whispers. “Yes.”

After, John rolls off of Dean, out of breath and content. Dean still remembers everything he likes. He still knows how to sigh like the sweetest blushing bride when John first enters him. How to wrap his legs around John’s waist and bury his hands in John’s hair as they fuck. How to let John take control and show his perfect wife how to feel good. How to trust that John is going to make him feel good.

It makes John’s chest ache to know Dean this way. To know that, despite his assertions that he isn’t the same person, in this regard, he really is still John’s best girl. He takes Dean's right hand in his own hand and brings it to his lips for a kiss, which is when the glint of silver catches his eye.

He swallows. “You’re wearing the ring again.”

Dean shifts beside him. “Yeah,” is all he says.

“Why?” John can’t help but ask.

He feels Dean shrug, even though he’s not really looking at him. “I’m still in this. With you.”

John sits up. He looks down at Dean, who avoids his eyes. “In what, Dean?” he pushes.

Reluctantly, Dean sits up as well. He keeps his eyes down on his hands, the fingers of his left hand twirling the silver ring on his right. “You’re my dad,” he says. “And my--my,”

Say it! John thinks.

“My husband.” Dean’s tongue trips over the words, his cheeks a vibrant red.

But John feels a bone-deep satisfaction at hearing Dean say it, however hesitantly. At Dean calling John his husband.

“And what are you to me?” he asks, licking his lips in anticipation of hearing the other word out loud.

Dean looks up at him finally. “And I’m your wife.”

He says it with more confidence, and John figures that shouldn’t surprise him. They played with the word extensively when Dean was younger. But it feels like it carries a different weight now. Like Dean is committing to something different than when he said it at seventeen, at twenty, at twenty four. At twenty six.

“Till death do us part?” John asks with a chuckle.

Dean’s mouth cracks into a shy smile. “Maybe even after.”