Dean knew the rhythm of Cas’ footsteps from the kitchen all the way to their bedroom. Knew it better than the pulse of his own heart; as familiar to him as the scent of the warm coffee that carried with his husband every morning like clockwork. He found himself smiling against his pillow, feeling the early sunshine through the lake house window heat the frosty February air.
So the routine goes; any minute now Cas would pause to bump the door open with his pajama-clad butt, scooting backward into their bedroom, two coffees in hand. Dean would fake the grouchy attitude as if the gentle interruption had pulled him from sleep. As if, minutes earlier, Cas hadn’t waited until his spidey senses told him Dean’s REM sleep was done and he was ready for his daily stubbled kiss at the back of his neck. For the arm that tightened around his waist, sinking suggestively lower until Dean cracked open an eyelid. Falling for the same old trick every day, before Cas would rise his heavenly ass out of bed to start on coffee. Leaving Dean tethered between the land of sleep and this world of dreams.
Same old, same old.
And wasn’t that a hell of a thing.
Dean scooched over to Cas’ side of the bed. The warmth had faded but it was the scent he chased; like rich earth pounded by the heavy rain of a thunderstorm, the charged promise of lightning still to come. Like honey and ether and so like home, Dean could drown himself in it. Smother himself in his husband’s pillow with a smile on his face and a bulge in his pants.
And so, it began.
The gentle clink of the spoon dropped into the sink. The ceramic scuffling on the kitchen countertop. The first bare footstep on the warm wooden floor.
Three years of this, Dean thought, and he knew he could go a thousand more.
A squeaking sound broke the routine, and Dean perked up his bedhead to listen to the audible eye roll and soft sigh that accompanied it. The footsteps and squeaking drew nearer, and Dean propped himself up on an arm to watch the regularly scheduled show.
The ass that greeted him was familiar, but Dean’s eyes bulged out of his head like Donald Duck at the first sight of Daisy. Cas backed into the room, letting the door swing softly shut behind him.
Dean’s husband paused, breakfast tray in hand and a look of genuine surprise on his face that quickly morphed into a feigned innocence.
“Sweetheart,” Dean managed to say with a tongue that now weighed an ACME ton. “Are you wearing leather pants?” He was dreaming, right? Had to be. If the next words out of Cas' mouth were "tell me about it, stud" in Olivia Newton-John's voice that would surely confirm it. A laugh threatened to burst all the way from his belly, born of shock more than anything, because this was Cas. His Cas. In tight leather pants. Like he was Jon Bon fucking Jovi and Dean was eighteen, alone in his motel room and realising some shit.
But Cas ignored the question, setting the breakfast tray safely on the bedside table. When he turned to find Dean’s gaze still locked on his broad thighs, mouth hanging open like it didn’t know where to start, he placed his hands on his hips.
“The third wedding anniversary gift is leather, is it not?”
Dean glanced up from his stupor, feeling his heart swell like a damn balloon at his husband’s words.
Leather. Anniversary. Right.
How Cas heard "leather" and thought "pants"... actually, he didn't need to know how or why, because this was happening. Somehow this was real life.
Dean licked his lips. Didn’t mean to, but he did.
He’d tell Cas about the new leather couch he’d secretly set up in the Cas Cave later. Right now…
“The salesperson insisted this was the perfect gift,” Cas frowned down at himself. “Perhaps this was a mistake.”
“Whuaa-“ Dean started, tangling in the sheets as he struggled to sit upright. “No, no, they’re – hell of a – gotta tip the guy… god, Cas.” Only the need to defend these pants with his life gave Dean the strength to tear his gaze from them a second time.
He’d expected to find that frown he loved so much – the one that crinkled Cas’ brow, and tugged his soft lips into a flat line. Instead, his husband grinned at him, eyes blazing with that smugness that was the bane of Dean’s life.
Son of a bitch. He played him.
“Happy anniversary, Dean,” Cas said, stepping forward to crawl on his knees across the mattress, caging Dean in between his thighs.
Dean pulled him closer, sunlight glinting on the band of his wedding ring as he ran a hand through Cas’ hair. Three years of this. Already three. Only three.
And he could never have enough.
“Happy anniversary, Cas.” The words were a whisper against his husband’s lips.
Kintsugi (金継ぎ, "golden joinery"). As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.
