FIC: Vanilla Ain't Nothing But a Flavor
Title: Vanilla Ain't Nothing But a Flavor
Summary: Dean calls Castiel a word he doesn't like
Pairing: Dean/Castiel preslash
Rating: PG
Word count: 483 words
Notes: Planned as a series of short stories and drabbles. Thanks to the ever lovely llwyden for the super fast beta, preventing me from abusing poor unsuspecting semi colons.
They say eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves. The problem, in this case, is that the eavesdropper in question is an angel, created to be an unquestioning instrument of his creator’s justice. The fine nuances of whether or not he should be offended by say, a careless comment comparing him to a flavoring - namely, vanilla, shouldn’t affect him. As an angel he’s supposed to be above such things as ego, pride, and vanity.
Clad in his human vessel’s form and standing in front of an old pitted mirror in one of those seedy motels the Winchesters seem to favor, he studies his features. He sees pale skin, spiky black hair and as he leans in closer, bright blue eyes that seem to stare back at him in confused consternation.
He thinks about what he learned about vanilla from Sam’s computer. On the one hand, vanilla is derived from orchids, which are considered exotic. However, the tone in Dean’s voice as he’d referred to Castiel as not only vanilla, but “kinda sweet,” had conveyed no sense of exoticism, but instead the kind of fondness reserved for soft furry animals.
He suspects that Dean Winchester was implying that he is bland and plain, perhaps lacking in sexual appeal. This should not signify in any fashion; he’s an angel, the beauty of his nature is in his service to others. Still, there is this odd sensation, thought, something that is suggesting that yes, it does, very much.
The desire to fly, disappear and hide himself in the shadows is unpleasant and he spares the notion nothing but a passing consideration. He’s a warrior. He may watch from afar, but he never flees.
He pulls faces at his reflection and even laughs at himself once, when the absurdity of his actions strikes him. “This is ridiculous,” he says out loud, then pulls back, eyes still on the man in the mirror. For the first time he tries to imagine his body as more than a convenience. His features are pleasing, he concludes. His clothing, on the other hand, is not.
Jimmy was not a rich man and his coat and suit are cheap and hang limply on his form. Besides, what was it Dean called him that first time --“holy tax accountant”? The words were said in derision, so he can only conclude the description falls under the category of vanilla, which is bad. So, the clothes have to go. He snaps his fingers and they disappear.
And then the motel room door opens, bathing the room in afternoon light.
“Woah, there, Trigger, that’s what towels are for,” Dean tells him and hooks his thumb in the direction of the cheap bathroom.
Mortified, Castiel reels away and there is the sound of wings flapping as he strategically retreats.
Dean shakes his head and closes the door, but he’s smiling.
“Gotta get that boy a girlfriend."
Continued in Even Mr. Spock Gets the Blues
Summary: Dean calls Castiel a word he doesn't like
Pairing: Dean/Castiel preslash
Rating: PG
Word count: 483 words
Notes: Planned as a series of short stories and drabbles. Thanks to the ever lovely llwyden for the super fast beta, preventing me from abusing poor unsuspecting semi colons.
They say eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves. The problem, in this case, is that the eavesdropper in question is an angel, created to be an unquestioning instrument of his creator’s justice. The fine nuances of whether or not he should be offended by say, a careless comment comparing him to a flavoring - namely, vanilla, shouldn’t affect him. As an angel he’s supposed to be above such things as ego, pride, and vanity.
Clad in his human vessel’s form and standing in front of an old pitted mirror in one of those seedy motels the Winchesters seem to favor, he studies his features. He sees pale skin, spiky black hair and as he leans in closer, bright blue eyes that seem to stare back at him in confused consternation.
He thinks about what he learned about vanilla from Sam’s computer. On the one hand, vanilla is derived from orchids, which are considered exotic. However, the tone in Dean’s voice as he’d referred to Castiel as not only vanilla, but “kinda sweet,” had conveyed no sense of exoticism, but instead the kind of fondness reserved for soft furry animals.
He suspects that Dean Winchester was implying that he is bland and plain, perhaps lacking in sexual appeal. This should not signify in any fashion; he’s an angel, the beauty of his nature is in his service to others. Still, there is this odd sensation, thought, something that is suggesting that yes, it does, very much.
The desire to fly, disappear and hide himself in the shadows is unpleasant and he spares the notion nothing but a passing consideration. He’s a warrior. He may watch from afar, but he never flees.
He pulls faces at his reflection and even laughs at himself once, when the absurdity of his actions strikes him. “This is ridiculous,” he says out loud, then pulls back, eyes still on the man in the mirror. For the first time he tries to imagine his body as more than a convenience. His features are pleasing, he concludes. His clothing, on the other hand, is not.
Jimmy was not a rich man and his coat and suit are cheap and hang limply on his form. Besides, what was it Dean called him that first time --“holy tax accountant”? The words were said in derision, so he can only conclude the description falls under the category of vanilla, which is bad. So, the clothes have to go. He snaps his fingers and they disappear.
And then the motel room door opens, bathing the room in afternoon light.
“Woah, there, Trigger, that’s what towels are for,” Dean tells him and hooks his thumb in the direction of the cheap bathroom.
Mortified, Castiel reels away and there is the sound of wings flapping as he strategically retreats.
Dean shakes his head and closes the door, but he’s smiling.
“Gotta get that boy a girlfriend."
Continued in Even Mr. Spock Gets the Blues