Chapter 23: A Morning of Divine Worship
Dean woke to the smell of coffee and the solid, familiar heat of a body against his back. The room was bathed in the soft, gray-gold light of early morning. The fire had burned down to embers. Jesus’s arm was a heavy, comfortable weight across his ribs, his breathing slow and even against Dean’s neck.
He shifted slightly and felt the hard line of Jesus’s erection pressing against the small of his back. A sleepy, satisfied smile tugged at his mouth. He’d barely moved when the arm around him tightened.
“Morning,” Jesus murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He nudged his hips forward, the motion a languid, unmistakable suggestion.
“Someone’s up early,” Dean said, tilting his head to give Jesus better access to his neck.
“In more ways than one.” Jesus kissed the skin behind Dean’s ear, his beard a pleasant scratch. “Feels like a good morning for it. Quiet. No one’s expecting us to be anything but here.”
On Dean’s other side, Chuck let out a soft snore and rolled onto his back. Samandriel was a silent lump of blankets on a large armchair by the window, one wing-tip just visible, feathers rustling gently in some unfelt breeze.
Jesus rolled Dean onto his back, coming up over him, his weight braced on his elbows. His brown hair fell around his face, a messy curtain. His hazel eyes, even sleep-softened, held that particular intensity that made Dean’s breath catch. He leaned down and kissed him, a deep, unhurried exploration that tasted of night and shared skin.
“Yeah,” Dean agreed when they parted, his voice rough. “Real good morning.”
Jesus kissed his way down Dean’s jaw, his throat, over the freckled plane of his chest. He took his time, his mouth hot and devoted on every scar, every inch of skin, as if re-memorizing the map of him. Dean carded his fingers through the long hair, his hips lifting off the mattress in a silent plea.
When Jesus’s mouth finally closed over the head of his cock, Dean hissed, back arching. It wasn’t fervent or frantic. It was a slow, wet claiming, Jesus’s tongue tracing every vein, hollowing his cheeks to draw him deeper. His eyes were open, locked on Dean’s face, watching every flicker of reaction.
“Christ,” Dean breathed, his head pushing back into the pillow.
“Also here,” Chuck rumbled from beside them. Dean glanced over. Chuck was propped on one elbow, watching them with a fond, sleepy smirk. His hand was lazily stroking his own length over the sheets. “Don’t mind me. Just enjoying the view. Carry on.”
Jesus hummed around him, the vibration shooting straight to Dean’s core. He set a slow, devastating rhythm, one hand cupping and gently rolling Dean’s balls. The dual sensation was overwhelming in its patience. This wasn’t about getting off; it was a form of worship, a breakfast communion. Dean’s fingers tightened in Jesus’s hair, not guiding, just holding on.
The room filled with the soft, wet sounds of Jesus’s mouth, Dean’s ragged breathing, and the rustle of sheets as Chuck continued his leisurely stroking. Light strengthened, painting stripes across the bed.
Just when Dean felt the coil in his gut tighten unbearably, Jesus pulled off with a soft pop. He kissed the inside of Dean’s thigh, his own need evident in the flush on his chest, the hard line of his cock against Dean’s leg.
“Turn over,” Jesus whispered, his voice dark with want.
Dean moved, his body pliant. He got onto his hands and knees, the silk sheets cool under his palms. He heard the click of the oil bottle again, the sound now intimately familiar. He expected Jesus’s touch, but instead, felt Chuck’s broad hand splay across the small of his back.
“Easy, tiger,” Chuck said, his tone light but his touch grounding. “Let him.”
Jesus’s oil-slick fingers pressed inside, working him open with the same infinite care as the night before, but quicker now, driven by a shared urgency. Dean pushed back into the touch, a wordless demand.
“So eager,” Jesus breathed, removing his fingers. He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging insistently. “My soulmate.”
He entered him in one long, smooth thrust that punched the air from Dean’s lungs. Dean dropped his forearms to the bed, a deep groan tearing from his throat. Jesus sheathed himself fully and held there, letting Dean feel every inch, the perfect, stretching fullness. He leaned over Dean’s back, kissing his shoulder blade.
“Okay?” Jesus asked, his breath hot.
“Better than.”
Jesus began to move, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in, each stroke a deliberate, piercing reclaiming. It was different from the night before—less reverent, more hungry. Dean met each thrust, driving back against him, the bedframe giving a faint, rhythmic creak.
Chuck moved then. He shifted off the bed and came to kneel on the floor in front of Dean. He cupped Dean’s jaw, his thumb tracing his lower lip.
“My turn,” Chuck said, his blue eyes sparkling. He guided himself into Dean’s waiting mouth.
Dean took him in, the taste of salt and skin filling his senses. Chuck was thick, stretching his lips, and Dean relaxed his jaw, letting him set the pace. It created a circuit, a loop of sensation: the deep, driving rhythm from behind, the solid presence filling his mouth. He was the connection between them, bound to both. Chuck’s fingers threaded gently through his hair, not forcing, just holding.
“Look at you,” Chuck murmured, his voice a low vibration Dean could feel. “Perfect conduit. Taking us both so well.”
The praise, the sheer physical reality of it, burned through Dean’s veins. He was making sounds he didn’t recognize, muffled around Chuck, raw and open for Jesus. Samandriel had woken; Dean could see him from the corner of his eye, still in the chair, watching with parted lips, one hand moving slowly beneath the blanket over his lap.
Jesus’s pace increased, his thrusts losing their measured control, becoming harder, faster. His breaths were sharp puffs against Dean’s sweat-slick skin. The slap of their bodies was a staccato beat in the quiet room.
“Gonna come,” Jesus gritted out, his voice strained. “Dean—”
Chuck pulled himself from Dean’s mouth with a wet sound. “Then come. Claim him. Let him feel it.”
The permission was all it took. With a broken cry, Jesus drove in one final, searing time and held, his body bowing over Dean’s as he pulsed deep inside. The heat of his release, amplified by a cresting wave of gentle, golden grace, triggered Dean’s own climax. He came without a hand ever touching him, spasming violently, stripes of white painting the rumpled silk beneath him. The intensity stole his vision, leaving him aware only of the two bodies connected to his, one flooding him with warmth, the other cradling his head.
As the last shocks trembled through him, he felt Chuck shift. Still kneeling, Chuck took himself in hand, his gaze fixed on Dean’s wrecked, pleasure-drunk face. It only took a few rough strokes before he followed, groaning low in his throat as he came across Dean’s chest and stomach.
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by their uneven breathing. Jesus carefully pulled out and collapsed onto the bed beside Dean, one hand still possessively on his hip. Chuck stayed on the floor for a moment, catching his breath, before leaning forward and kissing Dean, deeply, sharing the taste of all of them.
“Breakfast,” Chuck announced, slapping Dean’s thigh lightly as he stood. “I’m thinking pancakes. The kind that’ll give a mortal a heart attack.”
Jesus laughed, the sound rich and warm. He nuzzled into Dean’s neck. “You heard him. Pancakes.”
Dean just grunted, his limbs feeling like liquid. He heard Chuck pad toward the kitchen, whistling. Samandriel rose quietly from the chair and slipped from the room, likely to give them a moment or to start the coffee.
Dean rolled onto his side, facing Jesus. He traced the old scar on Jesus’s side with a fingertip. “Never gets old.”
“It shouldn’t,” Jesus said, catching his hand and kissing his knuckles. “It’s not supposed to.”
From the kitchen came the clatter of a bowl, the sizzle of butter in a pan, and Chuck’s off-key humming. Sunlight now streamed fully through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The world outside, Sam’s world, felt a million miles away. Here, there was only this: the smell of sex and impending pancakes, the ache of well-used muscles, and the absolute certainty of belonging.
Dean closed his eyes, a deep, contented sigh flowing out of him. For the first time in maybe his entire life, there was nowhere else he needed to be, and nothing else he needed to do. The thought was as terrifying as it was peaceful. It felt, finally, like a beginning.