"Dean, have you ever thought about the fact that if you were played different voice recordings, you probably wouldn't be able to recognize your own voice?"
Dean fumbled for his phone in the dark and lit the screen to see how late it was. Or in this case, how early.
"Dude, it's 3:25 am."
"Yes. But Dean, think about it!" came the way too chipper answer for this early in the morning.
Dean flopped onto his back grumpily, turning his head to squint at Cas in the dim light filtering into his room from under the door.
"Why is it 3:25 in the freaking morning, Cas?"
Cas paused for only a moment, looking at Dean and giving him a bright smile that almost made Dean forget about the fact that it was still the middle of the night and Cas had woken him to discuss his musings on the human body. Dean wished he could say it was the first time.
"Isn't it incredible that you probably wouldn't be able to pick out your own voice in a line-up?"
Dean looked at Cas for a moment, then sighed, a fond smile playing on his lips. He leaned over to his boyfriend and whispered, "Cas."
Then he kissed him.
"Wha—"
Another kiss.
"Bu—"
Another kiss.
"Just shut up, would you?"
He kissed him again, and then once more for good measure. Then he snuggled up to Cas, wrapping his arms around his waist, sliding his leg between Cas's and resting his head on his chest.
there's this quarantine game for those who bored atm 💘 answer the following! if you want to! 1. how has your day been? 2. what is the last thing that made you smile? 3. what's keeping you entertained these days? 4. if you are in some kind of quarantine/self-isolation: is there anything you'd like to achieve in this time? 5. post a selfie! (if you're comfortable with that) 6. last but not least: send this to some mutuals to keep the game going 🥰 or don't.
Oof this was three days ago, huh, my bad
1. I’m currently in quarantine, at least until Saturday, so my days have been wholly uneventful haha
2. I’m catching up on The Flash and Barry/Iris has me swooning, but what else is new haha
3. Video games, for the most part. I did cave and get Disney+, so I’ve been watching some stuff on there, too.
4. Yeah writing would be great, I wrote hardly anything in March and it’s annoying the heck out of me.
hi Lily i’m sorry it took me so long to get to this 😬❤️
(I, uhhh, used the prompt for ‘amnesia’ kinda broadly. Hope it’s still okay! Thanks for the ask!)
__________________________________
If there’s one thing Dean hates, it’s being bullshitted.
Sure, he’ll make jokes about being an Aquarius, but he’snever put any actual stock into things like Zodiac signs. The ruling planet forAquarius is Uranus, for fuck’s sake, how is he supposed to take that seriously?So when Charlie reads his horoscope out loud from the campus newspaper, herolls his eyes. When the cute girl behind the Panda Express counter gives himextra fortune cookies with his take-out, he winks at her but shoves them in hispocket for Sammy. And don’t even get him started on those psychic lines,charging poor saps by the minute to call in for false hope about a promotion ora break-up.
Dean believes in things he can see, hear, or touch. Hebelieves in evidence. Not in superstition or the supernatural.
So when Charlie drags him off-campus after his World Litclass and hauls him up the front steps of a house with a sign in the frontwindow reading, ‘Missouri Moseley – psychic readings’, he feels distinctlybetrayed.
“You said we were going to get pie at the Roadhouse,” heaccuses, leveling a finger at her.
“And we are,” Charlie pauses in front of the door. “After.”
It doesn’t even look like a psychic lives here…although Dean’snot entirely sure what a psychic’s house is supposed to like look. Haunted?Decrepit? Set against a stormy background of perfectly-timed lightning strikes?This house just looks…normal. The front steps aren’t even creaky. It’s kind ofdisappointing, actually. 0/10 for aesthetics. Would not approach in trepidationagain.
“You know this kind of thing is a crock of shit, right?Psychics aren’t real,” Dean insists. He’s had this argument with her a thousandtimes, but he has to try.
Charlie rolls her eyes and knocks on the door. “Would itkill you to stop being a party pooper for five seconds?”
“It could,” he mutters, but he shoves his hands in thepockets of his jacket and begrudgingly waits while she knocks again.
“Oh, lighten up, Negative Nancy. If nothing else, we’ll geta good story out of it. ‘This one time at a psychic reading…’”
“A good story? If you’re paying for it, you better get adamn good story. Hell, let’s just skip the psychic crap and buy fifty bucksworth of tequila, I’ll give you a greatstory.”
Charlie glances over at him and wrinkles her nose. There’sbeen no answer to her knock and she raps on the door again. “Yeah, but I’m bettingthe psychic won’t take off her pants,sing bad karaoke to Taylor Swift, and rant for an hour about how The Original Series is the bestgeneration of Star Trek.”
“That was one time, and if you start up that Next Generation bullshit again-“
He pauses when a distant-sounding voice inside the housecalls, ‘Come in!’. Charlie glances at him and shrugs, pushing open the door andleading them inside.
The inside isn’t much different than the outside – that isto say, kind of boring. They’re standing in a front hallway with hardwoodfloors. There’s a doorway leading into another room, probably a living room,but Dean can’t tell, and there’s a staircase at the back of the room leading upto a second story. A wooden bench is set against the bottom of the stairs,probably for clients to sit while waiting.
Dean glances around curiously, but doesn’t see anyone else.Charlie is grinning again.
“Do you think she’llbe able to tell me where I lost my Organic Chem book?”
“If we came to a psychic so she can help you find a textbook,we’re not friends anymore.”
“That thing cost like $200! Plus, I’m also hoping she’lltell me that Saoirse Ronan is the love of my life.”
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Huh. Think we can ask for thewinning lottery numbers?”
“That would be highly unethical,” a low voice says behindthem.
“Fuck!” he swears, making Charlie jump too. Jesus, he hadn’theard a thing. His heart’s doing a quick trot and he tries consciously to slowit down, hand to his chest, shooting a glare at the guy standing at the bottomof the stairs.
The guy is watching them calmly. He’s doesn’t look phased byDean’s outburst at all – in fact, he looks a little stoned, and he’s got someserious stubble and bedhead going on. There’s a ring pierced through the centerof his bottom lip and the remnants of smudged eyeliner around his eyes, whichjust makes them seem unfairly blue. He’s wearing a faded KC Royals hoodie, hands shoved in the front pocket. There are holesin the knees of his jeans.
“Not that I particularly care about the ethics,” the guycontinues as if he hadn’t just scared Dean half to death. “I would tell you thenumbers if I knew them, but I don’t. At least not yet, but maybe they’ll cometo me. Who knows?”
Well, that answers Dean’s question about whether this dudeis their supposed psychic.
The guy tilts his head and starts towards the doorway of thenext room. “This way, please.”
Dean shoots Charlie a pointed look, eyebrows raised, butfollows. The guy isn’t even wearing shoes, Dean notices suddenly, and thatexplains how he’d crept up on them so friggin’ quietly. The sounds of his barefeet are practically nonexistent on the hardwood floors. Meanwhile, Dean soundslike he’s a stomping giant in his boots.
They duck around a curtain of beads in a doorway and into asmall living room. There’s a squashy couch, two armchairs, and a wooden coffeetable in the middle.
“Please, have a seat.”
The psychic sits down on one end of the couch and gestures. Deanhesitantly takes an armchair. Charlie sits in the other one on his left.
“Would you like something to drink? There’s tea availablefor guests,” the guy says, gesturing to the coffee table in front of them, andDean notices a pitcher and some cups for the first time. The guy picks up thepitcher and starts filling up several cups without waiting for an answer,handing one across the table to Charlie and then to Dean.
Dean takes it warily and holds it up to his nose. “Thisisn’t some kind of drugged hippie tea that’s gonna get us high and make us morelikely to believe the crap you say, is it?”
“Dean!” Charlie scolds, but the psychic doesn’t lookoffended. On the contrary, he seems interested for the first time since they’vearrived, blue eyes suddenly sharpening and fixing on Dean. He smiles, and it’sall teeth.
“I don’t need to drug my customers,” he says, voice rumblingand low – and shit, had it sounded that low a minute ago? – but amused. “It’sjust iced tea.”
“Oh.” Dean breaks theguy’s gaze and takes a sip of his tea.
“You don’t look like a Missouri,” Charlie says finally,clearing her throat.
The psychic smiles, finally looking away from Dean and over to Charlie, and Dean feels like he can breathe again.
“No. My name is Castiel.”
“So where’s Missouri?” Except apparently Dean’s mouth is incapableof shutting up today, and he’s not quite why – he just knows he feels a strangeurge to press this guy’s buttons. “Isn’t she supposed to be the psychic on thesign out front?”
“She’s out of town visiting her granddaughter. But I’m herapprentice. Sometimes I fill in.”
Dean snorts. An apprentice?He didn’t even know that was an actual thing, he thought it was just a crappyTV show.
“Castiel?” Charlie says, testing the name.
“It’s Biblical.” Castiel’s tone makes it sounds like he’sused to the question. He probably is, with a weird name like that. “I was namedafter the Angel of Thursday.”
“Oh, so you were born on a Thursday,” Charlie nods. “That makessense.”
Tilting his head to the side, Castiel gives her the the mostbaffled look Dean’s over seen, like she just spoke in Farsi or something. “No. Iwas born on a Monday.”
…god, this guy is weird.Dean opens his mouth to say so, too, but Charlie reaches over to swat him onthe arm.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Castiel,” she says quickly. “I’mCharlie and this is Dean-”
Dean can’t resist. “If he’s psychic, shouldn’t he alreadyknow that?”
He’s expecting more of a reaction this time - for Castiel togive him a dirty look or something - butinstead the guy just glances at him sideways, eyes lidded in the most predatoryfucking look Dean’s ever seen in his life, and winks at him. Fucking winks at him.
“- and we’re here for readings,” Charlie carries on,reaching over to hit Dean’s arm again.Whose side is she even on? “How exactly does this work? Do you see into thefuture, or…?”
“Psychic abilities tend to have a will of their own,” Castielsays, setting down his cup of tea. “They don’t always work the same way. I cansense thoughts and energies in a room, but the strength and clarity vary.Sometimes I’ll hear a sentence word for word, and other times I only get thevaguest sense of someone’s intentions. The same goes for projecting into thepast or the future. Sometimes I can see pieces of someone’s past or future, butI don’t always choose what pieces I see. You can ask specific questions andI’ll do my best to answer them, but I can’t make any promises.”
“That doesn’t sound like a very dependable gift,” Deanpoints out, taking a pointed drink of his iced tea.
“Concentration and focus help make it more accurate, andalso practice. That’s why I’m apprenticing.”
“So what happens if you don’t ‘see’ anything worthwhile?”
“Then you don’t have to pay me,” Castiel says easily, shrugging,as if he couldn’t care less about the money. Dean wonders how his boss Missourifeels about that.
“Not a very lucrative way to do business.”
“That’s because you’re assuming I won’t see anythingworthwhile.” Castiel’s slow smile gives Dean the bizarre urge to shiver. “You’renot the first skeptic I’ve met, Dean, and you won’t be the last.”
“And what’s wrong with being a skeptic?” Dean demands. “Ibelieve in things I can see. Not in superstition or religion, and not inpsychics.”
“If God were alive today, he’d be an atheist,” Castiel murmurs,shaking his head.
Dean almost chokes on his tea.“That– that’s Vonnegut,” he coughs, because what the hell, this guy just quoted Vonnegut. Dean is planning his friggin’ thesis about Vonnegut.
Castiel just smiles. “Now, Dean, as the skeptic - wouldyou like your reading first or last?”
“Oh, do him first!” Charlie chimes in, sipping her tea withobvious relish. She’s settled back into the armchair and crossed her feet up offthe floor, apparently making herself comfortable for a long stay. Dean glares at her, trying to communicate hisbetrayal while simultaneously ignoring the innuendo in her words.
Castiel chuckles. The hair on the back of Dean’s neck andarms does not prickle just a bit at the sound.
“If you say so,” Castiel says, and then he fucking leansover the coffee table and reaches out his hands to Dean. “Give me your hands please.”
“Uh.” Dean freezes, gripping his cup of tea in a vice, but Castieljust waits expectantly, hands turned palms up above the table. Like he justexpects Dean to hands holds with him and then they’re going to, what, sing Kumbaya or something?
“What, how’s this work? No crystal balls, or smoke andmirrors, or what?” he says instead, bidding for time.
“No crystal balls or mirrors,” Castiel says cheerfully. “And especially no smoke, because if Missouri catches yousmoking inside her house, she’ll hit you with a spoon. And that’s not a psychic vision, I just know from experience.”
Dean is at a loss. With a sigh, he sets down his cupon the coffee table. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
He reaches out his hands and cautiously grasps both ofCastiel’s palms. They’re large – a little bigger than Dean’s hands – and warm,gripping lightly. Across from him, Castiel closes his eyes. After shooting onelast uneasy look at Charlie, Dean hesitantly follows suit, shutting his eyes aswell.
He only manages the silence for a few seconds before he’sfidgeting in his chair. “So this, uh, hand-holding thing… it helps you get abetter read, or what?”
Castiel’s voice is low and amused. “No, not at all. In fact,it’s entirely unnecessary.”
Eyes snapping open, Dean snatches his hands away like he’sbeen burned, only to realize too late that Castiel is laughing. His blue eyescrinkled at the corners, smiling wide, and even Charlie is cracking up, doubledover in the chair next to him.
“Just for that, I’m not paying,” Dean says petulantly.
Castiel just keeps chuckling and stretches out his handsagain.
“I apologize, Dean. Seriously this time. Please give me yourhands,” Castiel says. When Dean raises his eyebrows and folds his arms acrosshis chest, Castiel actually rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Myintentions are honest, I promise. Physical contact actually does help me to getbetter readings.”
With a sigh, Dean holds out his hands and lets Castiel take them again.Castiel’s eyes slide shut, but Dean keeps his eyes open this time. He waitsimpatiently, expecting Castiel to make another sarcastic comment or startstroking his hands or do something else strange, but none of that happens.
Castiel actually seems to be taking it seriously this time, holdingDean’s hands in a light, loose grip. His long fingers are warm around Dean’s,fingertips just barely brushing against Dean’s wrists in a way that he triesnot to focus on. Instead, he watches Castiel’s face, which is set in a look ofquiet determination, eyebrows just barely drawn together. After a couple ofminutes when nothing happens, Dean feels himself start to relax.
That’s when Castiel has to talk and ruin it, of course.
“You have a beautiful soul.”
“Uh.” Dean blinks, resisting the urge to pull his hands awayagain. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? Thank you? Is that somethinghe can even take credit for? He knows the guy is just trying to make him react.
Luckily, Charlie seizes the moment.
“You can see souls?” she asks eagerly, leaning forward inher seat.
Castiel answers her patiently without opening his eyes orreleasing Dean’s hands. “Not quite, but I can sense auras to an extent, whichare extensions of the soul.”
“Wow,” Charlie breathes. Then she grins mischievously. “AndDean’s is beautiful, huh?”
“Oh yes,” Castiel says, and Dean’s not sure what to think about the tone of Castiel’s voice.
He clears his throat. “Anyways, that’s great, but it doesn’ttell me anything. No one else can see souls, you could be just making it up. Stillgot no proof here, man.”
“Of course,” Castiel rumbles, and he’s silent for anotherlong moment before starting to speak slowly. “You were…born and raised here inLawrence. You’re a…Literature major. You’re a big brother.”
Okay, it’s a little eerie, but still. “Dude, anyone couldguess those things within the first five minutes of meeting me. Try again.”
Nodding, Castiel’s look of concentration gets more serious,his lips pressed together in a line. Then his eyebrows pinch together above hisclosed eyes, and he says the absolute worst thing he could have said.
“I’m so sorry about your mother, and the fire.”
“Don’t,” Dean chokes out, because he needs Castiel to stop right now. There’s a quiet gaspfrom Charlie on Dean’s left, but he doesn’t look at her. “Not that. Anythingbut that.”
His heart is hammering a mile a minute, hands suddenlyclammy with sweat. Because if Castiel knows about that, knows about that part of Dean’s past that he’s only everdiscussed with Sammy, then…then Castiel must be telling the truth. He must be thereal deal, an actual psychic, or something like it.
And son of a bitch, if that thought isn’t terrifying. He’snot sure he wants to hear another word that comes out of Castiel’s mouth.
Castiel’s face actually looks remorseful. “I apologize. Ididn’t mean to bring up painful memories, it was just…a very powerful one, hardnot to see.”
Dean has nothing to say to that, so he waits in silence,trying not to panic at the fact that he may need to reevaluate his entire worldview in his apartment later tonight.
After another few moments, Castiel frowns to himself, a quickdownward quirk of his lips that Dean’s draws eyes despite himself, and then he fuckinglicks his lips, tongue flashingbriefly over the ring in his bottom lip. Dean tries to remind himself that he’sgoing to get caught staring in a moment, but just as he thinks it, Castielopens his eyes and meets his gaze. He beams, but doesn’t let go of Dean’shands, and Jesus Christ, this is probably the longest that Dean’s ever heldhands with someone in his life.
“It’s very good to see you again, Dean Winchester,” Castielsays, fondly.
“I didn’t tell you my last name,” Dean says, stupidly.
Castiel chuckles again, that low sound that makes Dean’sskin want to prickle, and now he’s rubbing his thumbs lightly over the backs ofDean’s hands, what is happening. “No,but it seems we’ve met before.”
“Dude, I’ve never met you before in my life,” Dean protests,and finally he tugs his hands away. Castiel doesn’t protest, letting him go easily.
“In this life. We’ve never met before in this life. But apparently, we know each otherquite well in another life. In many other lives, actually.”
Dean gapes at him. “There’s no way you saw that.”
“I did, I received very distinct impressions, although the details and timelines were a bit jumbled. There’ssomething here,” Castiel says, and he gestures between himself andDean. “It seems we have a knack for finding one another, in every life.”
“That’s a load of crap.”
“It’s not,” Castiel insists. “Why would I lie about this? We have a…profoundbond, you could say.”
“Oh my god, they were soulmates,” Charlie whispers.
Dean, after jumping in his seat because he’d forgotten allabout her, gives Charlie the dirtiest look he can muster. It’s a realstink-eye, that’s for sure. Sammy definitely would’ve been cowed.
But Charlie doesn’teven have the good grace to look ashamed, just beaming at Dean and lookingabout two seconds from leaping out of her seat to envelop him in a hug.
“You have a soulmate!” she exclaims.
How is this his life, Dean thinks somewhat hysterically. Hewas promised pie and somehow ends up with a psychic claiming to be his soulmate.
At least Charlie was right. This is definitely gonna make one hell of a story.
Congratulations to our week thirteen creator @60r3d0m!
Monday will be dedicated to reblogging the content we got in our tracked #spncreationdaily tag: don’t forget to follow it so you don’t miss announcements and most importantly all the awesome creations from the fandom!
On Tuesday we’ll start reblogging @60r3d0m‘s amazing fics and meta: show them some love, we’re really excited to be able to share what they created!
The first time Dean falls asleep on him, Cas tells himself it’s an accident.
They’re sat side by side on the couch in the bunker, Sam clattering away on his laptop white noise in the background.
“I don’t think that’s medically accurate, Dean,” Cas says, as he always does, when Dr. Sexy is done diagnosing his latest patient with a case of a some-disease-no-one’s-ever-heard-of.
“Whatever, Cas,” comes Dean’s standard reply. “I’m not watching it for the patients.” And Cas is left to ponder on that, as usual, wondering what it is that Dean’s trying to say.
They’ve danced to this tune before, Dean making offhand comments with a look in his eyes that Cas is still struggling to understand. But the dance is cut short tonight, Dean’s eyes drooping in Cas’ peripheral where usually they’re shining with mischief. Cas shifts, moving closer to Dean to nudge him and suggest he go to bed, when Dean’s head unexpectedly falls to his shoulder. Cas freezes, every muscle tensing, until Dean exhales, the sound deep and comforting.
Cas glances up to see Sam smiling smugly at him over his laptop, and he glares, indignant. Sam has the grace to swallow his smile down to a raised eyebrow of bemusement, and satisfied, Cas relaxes. He settles back, a soft sound getting caught in his throat when Dean follows him down, nestling further into the space between Cas’ shoulder and jaw.
He’s too hot, his trenchcoat is bunched uncomfortably around him, and it turns out that now that Cas is human, Dean is way heavier than he looks, but Cas still thinks that he wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
The second time, Cas is only fairly certain that it’s an accident.
Dean’s hurt pretty badly on the hunt, so even after Sam’s patched him back up, Cas maintains that he’ll stay and watch over him. Sam excuses himself from the room with an over-dramatic hair flip, muttering under his breath about “getting their shit together.”
And then Cas is left, kneeling worriedly by the side of Dean’s bed, watching his chest rise and fall and cursing himself for not being able to heal him.
“Hey Cas,” Dean groans, and Cas starts, unaware that Dean was even conscious. “What’d I tell you ‘bout watching me sleep?” Dean peeks an eye open. “You look pretty beat yourself.”
“I’m fine, Dean.”
Dean looks unconvinced, the patented Winchester eyebrow of ‘sure, bro, whatever you say’ rising at him. Cas huffs. “I can’t sleep. Every time I shut my eyes, all I can think about is…”
Dean blindly reaches a hand out towards him, and Cas is startled when his fingers clench in his sleeves and start tugging.
“Get up here, then.”
“What?”
“Well you can’t watch me all night and I sure as hell can’t stay awake much longer, so take your stupid trench-coat off, and get your ass over here.”
It’s only once Cas is lying stiffly next to Dean above the covers, his mind racing, that he manages to blurt out. “You think my trench-coat is stupid?” And just because he can’t see Dean rolling his eyes, doesn’t mean that he doesn’t know he’s just done it.
“Go to sleep, Cas,” Dean says. He rolls over until his head is resting on Cas’ chest. “There, now you’ll be able to feel it if I stop breathing, so you can stop watching me.”
Cas is too stunned to protest, and eventually he falls asleep to the rhythm of Dean’s breath tickling across his chest.
By the tenth time, Cas is sure that Dean falling asleep on him is most definitely not an accident.
It’s only after Dean willingly sits in the backseat with him and lets Sam drive the Impala, drifting off with his head conveniently lodged under Cas’ chin and Sam’s gloating smile glinting at him in the rear-view mirror, that Cas starts to question it.
They’re back in Dean’s bedroom now, ostensibly watching a film that Dean had insisted Cas had to see.
“Dean?” Cas looks down at the top of Dean’s head that’s currently resting on his chest. “I thought you wanted to watch this movie.”
“Hmm?” Dean makes no effort to sit up. If anything, he simply presses himself nearer to Cas, adjusting to get comfy. “No, wanted you to watch it. I don’t need to be awake for that.”
And Cas drops his head back with a huff, deciding that if Dean wants to shamelessly use him as a pillow, who is he to argue. Aimlessly, he buries a hand in Dean’s hair, rubbing gently at the back of Dean’s head. Dean lets out a small moan, and Cas smiles down at him, his expression fonder than he’d normally allow, safe in the knowledge that Dean can’t see it.
“I didn’t know humans purred,” Cas says after a while, warmth spreading through him when Dean’s chuckle rumbles across his chest.
“Cas, shh. I’m trying to watch the movie.”
“Really? I thought you were sleeping?”
Dean does raise his head at that, glaring at Cas in a way that reminds him of an affronted kitten. His hair’s all sticking up from where Cas’ hand has been in it, and all Cas can think is how he wants nothing more than to ruffle Dean up in other ways.
“It’s kind of hard to sleep when my pillow keeps making smartass comments,” Dean grouches, dropping his forehead down to Cas’ sternum.
“Ah, is that all I am to you now, a pillow?”
“It’s not my fault that you’re strangely comfortable,” Dean mutters into Cas’ chest, so quietly that Cas barely hears him. From the warmth now radiating off the back of Dean’s neck, Cas summises that that had probably been Dean’s intention.
Dean sighs heavily, before pushing himself up and off of Cas.
“Dean?” Cas questions, but Dean’s back is turned to him now, and Cas can practically hear the walls in his head slamming themselves back down. Cas shuffles up behind him, looping his arms around Dean’s waist and dropping his forehead to Dean’s shoulder. “You know,” he murmurs. “You’re pretty comfy too.”
Dean snorts, rubbing a hand down his face. “Man, we suck at this.”
And Cas has to smile at that, ruefully thinking back on all the times that they’ve been here, on all the times he’s woken up and been met by Dean’s shuttered expression that was always shimmering with something just out of reach.
But he gets it now, gets what Dean’s been doing and he’s not ready to just let it go.
“Come back to bed, Dean,” Cas says, hesitating before dropping a barely-there kiss to Dean’s shoulder. He feels Dean hesitate too, feels the shudder that shivers it’s way down Dean’s spine. But then Dean is turning in his arms, pushing him backwards and wrestling him back into position—Dean’s head back on his chest, only this time Dean’s pulling his arms around him, tucking himself into Cas’ embrace.
“Is this…this okay?” Dean asks. Cas can feel how tense he is, so he tightens his arms around him once, before relaxing, his palms drawing soft, slow circles across Dean’s back.
“Yes, Dean,” he murmurs, dropping his chin to rest on the top of Dean’s head. “It’s perfect.”
And for the tenth time, Cas lets Dean fall asleep on him, safe in the knowledge that this time, when Dean wakes up, Cas won’t be letting him go.
I couldn’t find the prompt list, so if you’re still doing these, I’d like to give you one :D Prompt: DeanCas, Quotation: “I couldn’t stop myself.”
(S6 AU in which Dean knows how to booty call an angel xD)
The telltale fluttering noise reaches Dean’s ears, and a grin is on his face even before he turns around.
Cas seems less amused. “Dean, what have I told you about calling me down here?”
Dean doesn’t have a mirror at hand to check, but he’s sure he looks like the epitome of innocence right now. “You told me to only bother you when there’s an emergency,” he recites.
“Exactly,” Cas sighs, but he treads further into the room nonetheless. “As you’re aware, I have important matters to attend to-”
“But Cas, this is an emergency,” Dean insists, and he clasps his hands before his crotch in an attempt to carry on his own version of innocent choir boy. More importantly, he knows damn well where this motion redirects the focus of Cas’ gaze. (Just to be sure though, and while they’re already down there, he lets his fingers trace the area of his inner thigh most inconspicuously).
Lo and behold, the picture of the perfect heavenly soldier starts to crumble. Even though Cas’ body language is as subtle as ever, Dean’s learned long ago to read him like a book. The signs don’t slip his attention: he watches closely as Cas’ lips part of their own accord, how his throat works around a swallow once he snaps his mouth shut again.
A good start for Dean. Now he just needs to keep it up.
“Asking me what I’m wearing right now counts as an emergency?” Cas retorts finally. He doesn’t scoff, but the judgment is still audible in his voice. Still: that’s head tilt number ’you humans are so fascinating’ which, translated into Dean-speak, ranks as a ’let’s see where this is going’-raise of the eyebrows.
Well, now. If Cas wants to play, they’ll play.
“Damn right it does,” Dean nods. “You know, it was becoming rather urgent for little Dean to get that kind of information.”
Cas rolls his eyes dramatically, but dumbass can be sure that Dean sees that ghost of a smile that flashes over his face before Cas regains control over his facial features.
“Dean, I really don’t have the time for this.” Cas’ eyes turn heavenward, which Dean interprets is the equivalent of glancing impatiently at his watch.
Dean knows how serious Cas takes his work, knows how important it is in the grand scheme of things. But he’s let Dean into his life now, and Dean knows that you can’t keep working yourself silly without carving out a little time for yourself once in a while.
Dean takes his role very seriously too, self-proclaimed as it may be. And he knows for a fact that it’s been way too long since Cas got some me-time. Or Dean-time, in this case, he guesses.
So no, Dean won’t back down this time.
“If it helps,” Dean tries. “My emergency does have a little to do with angels and research.” It’s hard to keep a mischievous grin off his face, but Dean’s got just the right motivation to try.
He gestures towards the table, at a small painting in a book he’s been leafing through for a case. It shows an angel, sprawled elegantly on a rock, unashamedly showing off his crotch. The angel’s almost completely naked if not for that white piece of fabric that falls across his chest. “I just couldn’t help wondering about the dress code this guy sets,” continues Dean. “I just had to thoroughly research this subject. I thought, hey, I have a very good friend who’d be the perfect primary source! Is that what you wear too, while you’re fighting the good fight up there, pray tell?” He finishes his little speech with a perfectly timed wink.
Cas glances at the painting with such obvious disinterest that it’s gotta be faked. “We don’t look like that,” he informs him. “Usually. That’s Gabriel, he likes to flaunt.”
Scandalized, Dean hurries to close the book with a thud. “Ew,” he says. Looking up nudes of Cas’ most eccentric brother’s really not been part of the plan. What a mood killer. Now he has to find a way to get back on track.
“Anyway,” he attempts a do-over. He slips behind Cas, the better to whisper seductively in Cas’ ear, his hands sliding down his shoulders and arms and back, anywhere they can reach. “Let’s get a look under all those layers, huh.” It’s not as smooth as Dean had planned, but ‘smooth’ flew out the window the moment Cas mentioned Gabriel.
From the way Cas’ muscles slowly but surely relax under Dean’s ministrations, Dean knows he’s almost cracked him.
Almost.
“Dean, your dirty prayers have the-” Cas insists on being a stubborn bastard right up until his voice culminates in a gasp (which, in turn, conjures a smug smile on Dean’s face). “The worst timing.”
If Cas were serious about not having the time for a little tryst, he’d whooshed off already. He’s just playing hard to get now, that little shit.
“Sorry,” Dean breathes against the sensitive skin of Cas’ neck. He’s not sorry at all. “Couldn’t stop myself.” Huffing a laugh that’s not free of smugness, he adds, “Got you here, didn’t it.”
“Hmmm,” Cas makes. “I suppose we could-” Cas starts, and oh how Dean loves rendering him incoherent. “We could squeeze in a little, uh. A little time for-”
But Dean’s already slid around Cas again, and he backs him up until the back of his knees hit the mattress. “Mmmm,” he agrees.
Cas falls. Dean readily follows suit. “Wanna try that thing I prayed?”
And that wakens a hunger in Cas’ eyes that’s been slumbering just below that stoic surface all along. With a determined grunt, Cas flips them around until it’s Dean whose back presses into the mattress.
“That a yes?” Dean asks.
He gets his answer.
He gets the literal answer to his prayers, by an actual angel. He’s the luckiest man alive.
*
Later, when they’re lying side by side on the bed, arms pressed together comfortably and no thought wasted on moving even an inch, Dean’s still wondering at the irony of it all.
That it’s him of all people who gets to have an angel on his shoulder –or in his bed, when he’s really lucky. Like today.
“I should go back,” Cas murmurs, but the words sound like they’re being dragged out by force. Cas is very fond of the afterglow.
“If it helps,” Dean says, addressing the unspoken guilt Cas feels for indulging in this while a war rages up in Heaven. “Answering prayers of a faithless man – that’s gotta count for something, right? I think you’ve been a really upstanding, uh, angel today.” Dean fights a fit of giggles that bubbles up his throat. He loses the fight. “Just saying. You’re setting a good example for all the harp players up there. I’m diggin’ your dedication, buddy.”
“Answering prayers is important,” Cas agrees.
“Well, then,” Dean mock-salutes to Cas. “Thank you for your service on this godforsaken earth,” he says as solemnly as he can through the giggles that can’t seem to stop coming.
Cas stares at the side of Dean’s head, completely unperturbed by Dean’s strange behavior. “It was my pleasure,” Cas assures.
They’re nearly past the exit with the sign for diner food when Dean’s head whips around so hard Sam hears his neck crack. “POUTINE!” Dean cries and slaps Sam excitedly on the elbow. “Sam! Sam! They got poutine!”
Whatever Sam might have wanted to say in response is cut off by the scree of tires and the Impala’s hard fishtail into the exit lane. Sam’s life flashes before his eyes -- which, wow, rude -- and he squeezes them shut, certain that death is about to come crashing down on them and the last words he hears will be “They got poutine.” But the only consequence is a short honk from the other lane. Sam squints his eyes open one at a time.
They’re not dead. They’re at a stop light, turning left. Toward the diner. Dean is grinning and sitting up straight on the bench, for once.
Slowly, hesitantly, Sam relaxes. “Was poutine really that important?”
“Hell yeah, it was!” Dean answers immediately, like he’d been waiting for the question.
Sam turns to the back seat to share a raised eyebrow with Cas, only to find a look of surprised befuddlement writ large over the angel’s face. He hears the question loud and clear before Cas even opens his mouth. “What exactly is poutine?” Cas asks.
Dean’s head whips around again. “Thousands of years old and you’re telling me you’ve never had poutine?”
Cas shrugs. “There are many things I haven’t experienced,” he says.
Dean, for some reason, does a double-take and sends him a small glare before grinning again. “Just wait, Cas. This’ll blow yer socks off.”
The look of confusion on Cas’s face only deepens, and Sam has to bite down on a giggle when Cas looks down at his own feet.
****
“What do you mean, gross?”
Dean pouts in upset indignation as he watches Sam poke at his soggy, grease-gravy-soaked french fries. Sam shrugs. “You can have mine if you want,” Sam says, shoving the basket in his general direction. Dean rolls his eyes and pulls the grease bomb closer, stabbing a fry with a fork and taking a vindictive bite. His eyes flutter closed and he sighs in apparent bliss.
“Heavenly,” he says, without a trace of irony. Sam snorts. “What about you, Cas? What’d’you think?”
Castiel is still chewing his first fry, slow and contemplative. “Salty,” he says.
“Salty? Really? That’s all you got?”
Cas finally swallows. “The American palate is very salt-heavy, generally speaking.” He takes another fry and puts it in his mouth.
Dean seems to take this as a victory and points, grinning wide at Sam. “See?” he says. “Cas likes it!”
“I’m reserving judgement,” Cas corrects.
“You like it and you know it,” Dean insists, pointing at Cas with his fork before digging into Sam’s fries. “Because it’s delicious.”
The ghost of a smile curves up Cas’s cheek and he eats another fry.
