a rosy-cheeked pre-series!dean rides s8!dean in his cushy room in the men of letters bunker ;u;
"keep your gutter soul," she'd saidand i still hear it today; when i'm alone.
color inspired by thimblings’ fantastic art uwu
I was such a curious kid, I was always looking for trouble, looking for the next big adventure…
Tucked in the corner of a bustling, artsy college town, where it’s rarely bothered or given a second glance, rests a shoebox apartment. It’s decrepit, all red brick walls and squeaky wooden floorboards, but dirt cheap and bearable. It’s the kind of place that grows on you, that is as quaint as it is old, and it’s where Dean and Castiel (and Castiel’s cat) have been taking up residency for the past year or so while Dean finishes up carpentry school, and Castiel works on his art.
Based off of this post and written to prove, I CAN DO FLUFF.
The first snow of the season comes in early December. It flutters to the ground in big icy flakes, coating the pavement and streets in a fresh blanket of white and eliminating all hope the locals had for a mild winter.
Just days before the world had been awash in bright yellows, and oranges, deep reds, and browns and the air had been crisp and smelt of earth and change, the small town clinging to autumn with a fierce optimism.
Now all that’s left of fall are piles of soggy leaves collecting in the gutters and winter has officially announced its presence.
Dean blinks his eyes open against weak beams of sunlight that pour in through the windows and cast a soft glow across the double bed and doing little to warm the space.
Next to him, Castiel stirs in his sleep. He’s got vestiges of paint in the scruff on his jaw; smudges of royal blue and a brilliant turquoise that he’d spent hours swiping onto his canvas the night before.
Dean hardly recognizes Cas without some form of paint or artist’s chalk on him anymore.
They’d argued about it once, Castiel coming to bed covered in his work, soiling their originally white down comforter and ivory cotton sheets. But when Castiel had agreed to try and be better, had scrubbed himself raw of all traces of his talent, something longing had twisted inside of Dean’s chest and it had only taken him a few days to come to the realization that a Cas covered in paint and smelling of pencil led was his Cas. After that he never said another word about waking up to yellow finger prints pressed into his skin or charcoal smudges on their pillow cases.
Castiel shifts again, burrowing deeper beneath the covers with a slight scowl on his face. “I can feel you looking at me, Dean,” he mutters without opening his eyes, “go back to sleep.”
Dean chuckles softly and winds an arm around Castiel’s waist, pulling the other man against his chest and pressing soft, attentive lips into Castiel’s unruly hair. Castiel pushes chapped lips sleepily against Dean’s collar bone in return, his bare chest warm against Dean’s own, as he slots a thigh in between Dean’s and yawns.
Dean traces his fingers along the valley of Castiel’s spine, sweeping over vertebrae and sliding to just above the waistband of Castiel’s underwear before ascending again to where his hair hangs too long, curling at the base of his neck.
"You need a haircut," Dean tells him.
"And you need to stop talking while I’m sleeping."
Dean tangles his fingers in Castiel’s hair and guides the other man’s face away from where it’s buried in Dean’s throat until Castiel is blinking up at him with sleepy, irritated eyes.
"Must you?" Castiel asks when Dean smiles down at him.
Dean nods, “I must,” he answers. He tilts Castiel’s chin up, his own face canting downwards and their lips meet somewhere in the middle.
They pull away when Vincent, Castiel’s mangy, calico cat, leaps onto the bed and sniffs curiously at the mounds their bodies make underneath the covers, mewling at them pathetically to be included. The cat paws its way up onto Castiel’s side and then teeters precariously until he can push a cold nose up against Castiel’s cheek.
Cas bats gently at him with the few fingers he’s willing to allow from beneath the comforter, and Vincent climbs down and settles against Castiel’s back, a fierce purr rumbling from his chest once he’s comfortable.
Castiel settles back against Dean, scratching fingers along the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck and sighing deep and groggy.
Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, Dean rests a hand on Cas’s hip, “Not that I don’t enjoy this,” he says then adds, “immensely. But I’ve gotta get up. I have class in thirty minutes.”
"Skip," Castiel suggests, the word muffled against Dean’s chest. It’s a tempting thought with Cas so warm and heavy beside him and snow still drifting down from the thick grey clouds outside, but he’s trying to maintain a good rapport with the instructor and Castiel’s Christmas present is still underway at the school.
"I can’t," he says after a minute of hesitation, "but I’ll be back, okay? Don’t sleep all day without me." He presses a kiss to Castiel’s forehead and then forces himself to roll from the other man’s grasp.
"Mphm," is Castiel’s response.
Dean sits up in bed, the cold air curling around him in an icy grip causing goose bumps to form on his bare flesh. He shivers when his feet hit the frozen wood flooring of their apartment and complains all the way to the bathroom.