Chapter 6: The Lazy Morning
Dawn in the bunker was a theoretical thing. The guest suite had no windows, only the persistent green glow of the exit sign and the occasional blink of a server light in the hallway. Time was told by the ache in Dean’s bones, the slow return of sense to his limbs, and the warm, heavy weight of eternity draped over him.
He woke by degrees.
First, to the solid pressure of Samandriel’s head on his chest, the angel’s blond hair tickling his chin with each shallow breath. Then, to the distinct, grounding weight of Jesus’s arm slung across his waist, a hand splayed possessively over his hip. Finally, to the cool, almost metallic touch of God’s clawed fingers resting lightly on his thigh, a point of celestial chill amidst the human and angelic heat.
He didn’t move. He barely breathed. This was a stolen thing, this quiet. In the past, waking up meant checking salt lines, loading guns, chasing coffee. Now it meant this: the rhythm of four heartbeats (or their divine equivalents) syncing in the dark. The scent of last night—sweat, sex, ozone—had mellowed into something comforting, like the air after a storm.
Samandriel stirred first. A small, unconscious noise escaped him, and he nuzzled deeper into Dean’s chest before his breathing changed. Dean felt the exact moment he woke; the relaxed body on his chest became subtly more present, more aware. Then, blue eyes flickered open, catching the faint green light.
A slow, unguarded smile spread across Samandriel’s face, pure and radiant. He shifted, tilting his head up, and pressed a soft, closed-mouth kiss to the base of Dean’s throat. It wasn’t a demand. It was a statement. I’m here.
“Morning,” Dean rasped, his voice shredded from disuse and other things.
Samandriel didn’t reply with words. He stretched, a sinuous movement that made the muscles in his back ripple, then turned his attention to Jesus. His hand, which had been curled near Dean’s ribs, reached out and traced the line of Jesus’s shoulder, up to the nape of his neck, his fingers threading into the dark, sleep-tangled hair.
Jesus inhaled sharply, his body tensing for a second before melting into the touch. His eyes opened. In the gloom, they held their own soft light, weary and warm. He looked from Samandriel to Dean, his smile lazy.
“Did we miss the resurrection?” Dean muttered.
“Always the comedian,” Jesus sighed, but he was smiling. He shifted his arm from Dean’s waist, instead propping his head on his hand to look at them both. His free hand came up to cover Samandriel’s where it rested on his neck. “Sleep well?”
“Like the dead. The really content dead.”
On Dean’s other side, a rumble started, deep and vibrational. God’s eyes opened, and the room didn’t brighten so much as the shadows gained depth and dimension, speckled with impossible, distant light. They observed the three of them, Their gaze a physical caress.
“You are loud,” They murmured, but the words were thick with affection. Their clawed hand slid from Dean’s thigh up to his stomach, the points drawing faint, harmless lines on his skin. “All this thinking. It buzzes.”
“Sorry the internal monologue bothers you, Almighty,” Dean said, but he covered God’s hand with his own, pressing it flat against him.
God turned Their head, nuzzling against Jesus’s shoulder before looking back at Dean. “I prefer the other noises you make.” They pulled Dean closer, until his back was against Their front, Their long, cool body spooning him. Samandriel adjusted seamlessly, now half-draped over Dean’s front, his leg sliding between Dean’s.
‘Again,’ God had whispered last night. The word hung in the air now, unspoken but palpable.
This time was different. No tidal urgency, no cosmic claiming. This was slow, syrupy, a deliberate rediscovery in the emerging awareness of morning.
Jesus moved first. He leaned over Samandriel to kiss Dean, a deep, tasting kiss that spoke of shared sleep. Then he turned his attention to God, kissing Their shoulder, Their throat, while his hand found Dean’s under the sheets, guiding it. Dean let himself be led, his fingers intertwining with God’s, then being placed on the sharp angle of God’s hip.
Samandriel watched for a moment, his eyes dark. Then he ducked his head, his mouth finding Dean’s nipple, sucking gently before scraping his teeth over the peak. Dean arched into the twin sensations—the rough heat of Samandriel’s mouth and the cool, textured skin under his palm.
“Yeah,” Dean breathed, a helpless exhale.
They moved like that for a long time, a slow choreography of touch and response. Jesus worshiped God with his lips and whispers, while God’s hands, trembling slightly, roamed over Dean, and Dean, in turn, reached back to anchor himself in Samandriel’s hair. It was a circuit of pleasure, given and received in a lazy, endless loop.
When Jesus finally slid into God, it was with a sigh that seemed to loosen something in the room’s very atmosphere. God’s head fell back, a choked-off sound of pure satisfaction escaping Them. Their movement was a slow, deep rock, each thrust measured and profound.
Samandriel, sensing the shift, rose over Dean. His strength was still a quiet shock—the way he could hold himself so perfectly still, suspended, before lowering himself with infinite control. Dean looked up at him, at the angelic face flushed with concentration and desire, and felt a surge of possessiveness so fierce it stole his breath. He grabbed Samandriel’s hips, not to guide, but to feel the power there.
“C’mon,” Dean urged, his voice rough.
Samandriel obeyed, setting a pace that was merciful and devastating in its consistency. It was not the fierce claiming of the night before, but a thorough, loving occupation. Dean met each movement, his world narrowing to the blue eyes holding his, to the sounds from beside him—the wet, rhythmic slide, God’s increasingly fractured moans, Jesus’s steady, encouraging murmurs.
The climax, when it came, didn’t crash over them. It rose, a warm tide, and gently lifted them all. Samandriel shuddered first, his grace sparking like static against Dean’s skin. Dean followed, biting down on his own lip to stifle a shout that became a long, broken groan. He felt God’s body tighten and convulse against his back, a silent, radiant explosion that made the emergency lights flicker. Jesus lasted three more thrusts before stilling, his forehead pressed to God’s spine, his prayer this time a single, exhausted word: “Abba.”
The silence returned, richer, deeper.
Samandriel collapsed forward, his sweat-slicked chest heaving against Dean’s. Jesus shifted, pulling out and curling around God, who had turned to face him, Their galaxies-smudged eyes heavy-lidded. They were a mess of limbs and slow-dimming light.
Dean traced the wing-shaped scar on Samandriel’s shoulder blade. “You’re gonna kill me, Cas Junior.”
Samandriel huffed a tired laugh against his collarbone. “You are remarkably resilient for a human.”
“Damn right.”
God’s voice was a sleepy vibration. “The mildew is back.”
Dean blinked. “What?”
“In the bathroom. While we were… occupied. It has reclaimed the eastern wall. It is… ambitious.”
A laugh bubbled up in Dean’s chest, unbidden and pure. It shook through him, through Samandriel, and Jesus joined in, his shoulders shaking silently. Soon, the four of them were lying in a tangled heap, laughing at nothing, at everything, at the absurd, magnificent reality of their existence.
“I’ll get the bleach,” Dean finally gasped, wiping his eyes.
“After coffee,” Jesus amended, untangling himself with a groan. “I require caffeine to face divine fungal warfare.”
They extracted themselves from the bed, a process of gentle shoves and sleepy complaints. Dean pulled on a pair of discarded jeans, heading for the door. He paused, looking back.
Samandriel was helping God sit up, his touch reverent. Jesus was pulling on his own pants, his hair a magnificent disaster. They were, in this moment, not cosmic principals. They were his. Messy, ridiculous, his.
“Move your asses,” Dean said, his tone fond. “I’m not making all the coffee.”
He left them to follow, the sounds of their quiet conversation and moving bodies a promise echoing down the bunker’s hall. The day awaited, with its mundane battles and its incomprehensible love. He was ready for both.