what do they say? (a Dean/Cas fanfic)
Dean had asked Castiel if he knew what they say about big feet. He did not. But he intended to find out.
Rated: T / 6,201 words / Supernatural Special: Castiel #1 (Comic)
“You know what they say about big feet…”
Castiel hadn’t known what to make of Dean’s comment back when he made it, and in the time since he and the Winchesters slayed the skunk ape Dean never explained what he had meant about big feet.
He wondered if there were contextual clues he might have missed. But after reviewing their short interaction over and over again Castiel wasn’t closer to figuring out what Dean wanted to communicate. In fact, Dean’s sly smile, smoldering gaze, and purring voice served to confuse him further.
Castiel was driven to distraction by his obsession.
He resolved not to waste any more time thinking about Dean and big feet.
Somehow that caused him to only think of Dean and big feet.
His comment had lodged itself deep within Castiel’s mind and, despite how he pried, it refused to budge.
He was in hell.
Salvation was the stubborn bastard who got him stuck there.
His frustration soon became too much to bear, and Castiel snapped.
The Winchesters had sheltered at an unremarkable motel somewhere in the farthest tip of the Florida panhandle that evening. Dean sat on a bed cleaning his gun. Concentration marred his pleasant features, causing his face to divot, his freckles collapsing into creases and winking out of sight like the incandescent light bulbs with faulty wiring on the motel’s sign outside. Sam, meanwhile, counted their meager savings by hand from his spot on the other bed. Both were dressed in the standard uniform of plaid shirts and denim pants. Neither had an inclination that Castiel was in the room with them, watching for an opportunity to pounce from an invisible perch in the corner.
“Are you sure you don’t want something else?” Sam asked.
“Nope,” Dean said. “Burger’s fine.”
“Because we passed this Mediterranean place on the way over. Looked pretty interesting. Maybe we can –“
“Do we have Mediterranean money?”
Sam pouted at the change he cobbled together. From his vantage point Castiel saw that there were barely twenty dollars.
“Exactly. Now go to the diner down the road and get me a burger. And pie.”
“We don’t have money for pie either.”
“You don’t need money.” Dean looked at Sam as he twisted a patch rod round inside his gun’s bore. He leered and winked. “Flirt a little. Flex your muscles. Should get you at least two slices.”
“What if I don’t want pie?”
“Who said the second slice was for you?”
Sam flipped Dean off and left. He cursed after him but was drowned out by the heavy slam from the closing door.
It was just Dean and Castiel now.
This was the moment he’d been waiting for. But before he could act Dean set his gear beside him and looked in Castiel’s general direction.
Castiel tensed.
“Cas,” he said, “you can come out now.”
Damn. Dean had gotten better at sensing his presence.
“C’mon. Quit stalling.”
Castiel flapped his wings, exiting the interplanar space he hid in and fully materializing within the motel room. His trench coat snapped its hem while his tie was whipped by the slight squall his entrance caused. He withdrew his wings, and tamped down his wild, dark locks into something less ruffled with a quick swipe of his hand.
“Hello, Dean.”
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