Title: Anything for Love
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Less than 1k, exercises in domestic!destiel, pink panty alert, happy valentine's day
Summary: Wherein Dean has a little surprise for Cas.


Valentine's Day is rainy this year, the roads dark and slick as Castiel carefully navigates out of the city and onto the tollway. It's slow going in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and the third time he rolls to a complete stop he lets his head fall on the steering wheel with a groan.

Dean picks up on the fourth ring, sounding out of breath. "Hey, Cas. Will you be here soon?"

"Dean." Just hearing his voice makes Castiel smile, and then sigh regretfully. "I'm going to be late for dinner. I left thirty minutes ago and I'm not even halfway."

"Is it bad out there?"

Traffic has started moving again, a slow grinding crawl that Castiel barely has to take his foot off the break to maintain. "Awful."

Dean makes a sympathetic noise. "Poor baby. I'll hold off on the bread, then. Did you have a good day at work?"

"It was completely unproductive."

"Yeah?" Dean is doing something in the background, clanks and scraping noises coming in muffled through the phone.

"There was a party. The administrative assistants brought in cupcakes. Not as good as yours, of course."

"Damn straight," Dean mutters. "Hope you saved room."

"Always. What are we having?"

"Champagne risotto, espresso panna cotta, and— if I can get this damn fryer ready—"

"Oh, the clams?"

"Got it in one."

They lapse into silence, Castiel concentrating on maneuvering three lanes over to make his exit. On Dean's end of the line, there's a series of thumps and clattering and metallic screeches. Dean hums while he works, little snippets of song working their way out here and there.

"—and I would do anything for love—"

"You would?" Castiel teases, putting his turn signal on.

"I would," Dean confirms. "Ouch! Damnit. But I won't do that."

"What's 'that'?"

"You've got to listen to the song, dude. The full twelve minutes, not that crap they put on the radio."

Castiel makes the turnoff, coasting down the wet road towards the stoplight at the bottom of the hill. "I'm on Sycamore."

"Awesome. See you soon?"

"Yes."

When Castiel opens the door to the mudroom the house smells amazing, the warm buttery herbiness of the risotto with an hint of sweet chocolate riding underneath making his stomach grumble pleasantly.

"In the kitchen," Dean calls unnecessarily.

Castiel calls back, "Be there in a minute!"

He toes off his shoes, hangs his coat up and detours to the office to set his briefcase beside Dean's, drape his sportscoat over his chair.

He wanders into the kitchen rolling up his sleeves, and at Dean's exaggeratedly lecherous "Hey there," looks up.

Dean's leaning back against the kitchen island, hands braced on the edge, a frilly pink Kiss the Cook! apron tied around his waist. It is, from all appearances, the only thing he's wearing.

"Dear God," Castiel hears himself murmur, and Dean laughs, the tips of his ears as pink as his apron.

"You like?" he asks, pushing away from the island.

"I..." Dean does a little spin in place, and oh. Panties. Pretty pink panties.

Castiel doesn't realize he's said it out loud until Dean, facing him again, answers, "Yeah, well. You liked it so much that one time, and we kind of ruined those. So, I thought, maybe... yeah."

His cheeks are burning, his eyes cast to the side, and Castiel says, "I hope you have the stove turned off," as he's crossing the room and backing Dean up against the counter, hands immediately drawn to the texture of smooth satin stretching over warm muscle.

Dean jerks a little under Castiel's wandering fingers, laughs as he wraps an arm around his waist, slides a hand up his chest until he can cup Castiel's face. "Hey. Happy Valentine's Day."

Castiel kisses his palm, then leans in to whisper against his mouth. "I love you."

Dean's eyes are bright with laughter. "It's the panties, isn't it."

Castiel tilts his head, pretends to ponder this while he insinuates a leg between Dean's, breathes in the surprised little "Ah!" that gets him. "They certainly don't hurt. Bed."

"Now," Dean agrees, wiggling out of his grip. "Race you."

The apron hits him in the chest, and Castiel chases Dean all the way to the master suite.