once & done: destiel one shots

unscripted (S11-ish)

Inspired by Cas's offer to take Dean's temperature in 11.10, but contains no spoilers. This is mature-ish. 

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He hears the knocking a little after midnight—quiet but insistent, three taps in a row. Cas always knocks in the same manner but doesn't try the knob until Dean finds his voice and mumbles that he can come in.

"Leave the light off," Dean says without opening his eyes.

Cas lingers in the doorway, probably wondering if he's supposed to come closer, even though Dean's lost count of how many times he's fallen asleep with Cas at his side. He thrusts a hand out from the covers and pats Cas's empty half of the bed.

"You were sleeping," Cas says, as though he hadn't considered that possibility at this hour.

"Not yet. Come over here." Dean pats the bed again, hardly lifting his palm from the mattress between each tap. The bed dips next to him, forcing Dean to shift his weight to his left side to keep from rolling into Cas.

"How are you feeling?" Cas rests a warm hand on the back of Dean's exposed neck, carding fingers into his hair. They're at an undefined point in their relationship. And it is a relationship, if Dean's being honest with himself—the last one he plans on having. Cas isn't his boyfriend (horrible term) or his lover (worse), not yet, but Dean's grown comfortable with Cas sitting on top of the covers in a suit and socks, watching Netflix while Dean sleeps. Watching Dean. It's incredible that Cas's staring habit, which unnerved Dean just a few years back, has become a comfort. He prefers sleeping with Cas nearby.

"You feel warm," Cas says.

"Fightin' off a fever."

"Sam told me. Can I bring you something?"

"Nah, it's not bad. Rather let it burn out."

"Do you mind if I stay?"

He always asks.

In reply, Dean fists a hand into Cas's shirt and pulls him down onto the mattress. Cas lies on his side and positions himself so that he curves around Dean's body—unconsciously possessive. His skin cold is from being outside. Sam said they were expecting a winter storm. Dean didn't realize it started; they can't hear the wind howl underground.

"Missed you," he says.

Cas nuzzles his hair, moving his cheek against it in slow circles, and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. Dean's never been handled so tenderly. There are times he's uncertain whether he's comfortable with it, but here, in the dark privacy of his—their—bedroom, he makes a pleased noise and crowds into Cas's chest. He puts a hand inside Cas's suit to touch him through his shirt.

They haven't been skin-to-skin yet. Cas's touches hedge intimacy but never push beyond chaste—Dean sets the pace between them. Whatever they are to one another, whatever they become, Cas is not a one-night stand. Dean wants to unravel him over time, earn every heated look, coax moans out of Cas that he's never made for anyone. To fall asleep next to Cas for the rest of his life.

Cas's heart beats a promise against his palm.

If Dean feels better tomorrow, maybe they can take a drive. Replenish supplies, see a movie, grab dinner. Make a date of it, like normal people. He's got a button-down shirt that would look good on Cas—it's still got the tags on it, and Cas fits his jeans. They're a little loose around his waist, but his thighs fill them out nicely. Dean thinks of them together in public, Cas dressed in his clothing like a claim, and shivers.

Cas mistakes it as a symptom of his fever and palms Dean's forehead. The bedroom is dark, but Cas's frown is etched in the blue glow from the alarm clock, one Cas spotted at a warehouse store and insisted they buy for his room. It migrated to Dean's without fanfare a few months ago, along with Cas's spare phone charger. His striped tie got mixed in with Dean's, and Dean wore it a few times without thought—that's how he inadvertently outed their unofficial cohabitation to Sam, who laughed at Dean's obvious discomfort and confessed he'd suspected for a while. When Dean asked how, Sam shrugged.