[Fic] In the Land of the Emotionally Repressed, Dean Winchester is King (R) 1/2 for ruskiebiz
Gift type: Fanfic
Title: In the land of the Emotionally Repressed, Dean Winchester is King (1 of 2)
Recipient: ruskiebiz
Author: zoemathemata
Rating: R
Warnings: None. Unless you count schmoop. Probably NSFW.
Spoilers: S4
Summary: Dean does his best to cheer Castiel when Cas is disheartened by recent events and is left blind.
Author notes: Indeterminate setting. It’s more of an emotional whumping than a physical one. Because Cas can take a lot physically, I feel like emotions would be his downfall. I hope you like it.
Dean expected Castiel sometime close to dawn, and let himself drift off. but he shot awake at the firm press of Castiel’s hand at the center of his chest and the deep timbre of his voice shortly after two in the morning.
“Dean.”
He was instantly wide awake.
“Cas? What’s wrong?” he hissed lowly. “What time is it?”
“I do not know.” The angel was turned away from Dean, seated on the side of the bed.
Dean glanced at the clock, reading the small, glaring numbers.
“How did it go?”
“I do not wish you to become … agitated.”
Dean’s throat got tight. “Okay, that right there? That makes me ‘agitated.’ What happened?”
Castiel hesitated slightly. “She agreed to consider the proposition of an alliance and take the matter up with her sisters.”
Dean breathed out a short sigh of relief. “That’s good right? I mean, she didn’t say no.”
He stretched a hand out to flick on the lamp. Unerringly, Castiel’s hand snaked out in the dark and clamped over his wrist before his fingers hit the switch.
“Wait.” Castiel gently led Dean’s hand back to the mattress, fingers curled firmly around his bones.
“There’s a ‘but’ isn’t there?” Dean rolled his eyes. “Always a fucking ‘but,’” he muttered.
“She requested a small … token to prove our fortitude.”
Sick dread started dragging her icy fingers across Dean’s lower spine. “What kind of token?”
Another hesitation. “They will grow back.” Castiel’s voice was earnest as if it were important that Dean believe him.
“What will grow back?” Dean’s voice was low, nearly a whisper and so he hoped that Cas hadn’t heard the slight waver in the timbre. Castiel’s fingers tightened once on Dean’s wrist and then he released the joint.
“My eyes. You may turn on the light now if you wish.”
Dean was a needle on a record and Castiel’s statement pushed him out of the comfortable groove and sent him skittering across the corrugated surface with an awful screech.
“Your … what?”
“She asked for a small tribute to prove our worth as allies,” he repeated. “I replied that I was unsure as to what would be considered sufficient.”
“You let her choose? Jesus, you never let them choose!”
“It is of little consequence since, as I assured you, they will grow back. She knew they would grow back as well.” He sounded rather dispassionate about the entire affair. Tired.
“Fucking hell, that’s not the point.”
“She was quite quick and efficient. Her claws were very sharp. It only took a fraction of time.”
Dean finally flicked the light on. Castiel sat on the side of the bed, feet planted solidly on the floor, head titled slightly to the side, as if to hear Dean better. His familiar tan coat was slightly wrinkled, blood splattered down the front. Castiel probably didn’t realize he was covered in his own blood. Castiel already had white gauze stretched over his eyes, wrapped around his head and tucked in neatly.
“Where did you get the bandages from?”
“She bandaged them for me.”
“She did what?”
“She offered to bandage them and I accepted.”
“What the fuck for?”
“It seemed like a reasonable alternative to standing there bleeding while we spoke.”
“No, I mean…” Dean huffed. “Why would she do that?”
“The Furies were not only known for avenging wrongs. In many stories they are also known as Kindly Ones, meeting out justice and affection for those who could not get either for themselves. I doubt she wanted to see me suffer. Once she had her tribute, she was satisfied.”
“Yeah, I’m sure she’s a fucking saint,” huffed Dean sarcastically. “C’mere, I want to make sure you’re all right.” He reached out, placed a finger under Castiel’s chin to turn it toward him. He continued to mutter under his breath, “… some handsy bitch claws your eyes out and then has the goddamn nerve to bandage you up, probably gave you sepsis or some ancient fucking sickness with her dirty Greek claws, I fucking knew I should have gone with you …”
Castiel pulled back when Dean started to unwrap the bandages and waved him away. The gesture was slightly clumsy, Castiel’s arm whacking into the flat of Dean’s palm with a soft ‘thwump.’
“I do not think you wish to see them. I am fine. They will grow back. But with my powers diminished from being cut off from the Host… it will take some time.”
“How much time?”
Another quiet sigh. “I’m not sure, Dean.”
Silence stretched out and wrapped around them heavy.
“C’mon, I’ll help you take your clothes off.” Dean lithely slipped out from under the covers and stood before Cas.
Castiel stood up, patient as Dean slid both coats off his shoulders and tossed them over a chair.
“Did you know your clothes have blood on them?” Cas’ generally pristine white shirt had trails of blood running down the front.
He could see Cas’ eyebrows dart together in a frown, just barely peaking up over the bandages.
“I thought I had cleaned them.”
“Maybe it doesn’t work if you can’t see it.” Dean worked on the buttons.
“Perhaps.” Castiel shrugged his shoulders slightly to ease the shirt off.
“S’cool. You can wear something of mine tomorrow.”
“I’m tired, Dean.”
Castiel shucked his shoes and pants while Dean rifled through his duffle bag, yanked out a t-shirt and gave it a cursory sniff. Clean.
“It’s been a long couple of days,” replied Dean while he slid the soft, dark cotton over Cas’ head and helped him feed his arms through the short sleeves.
Cas sent his hands out to touch the mattress and judge the distance before he sank back down to sit on the bed.
“It is not the length of the days that tires me. It is the contents.”
Dean grunted a non-committal agreement. “Everything seems worse at night,” he said calmly. “Lie down.”
It was unnerving sometimes, how easily Cas would do what Dean told him. Not that Dean made a habit of ordering him around, but a lifetime of hunting had made him brusque with his speech. Efficient. He tended not to use words he didn’t need and that often meant he sounded like he was giving commands. Of course, sometimes he was giving commands, but he felt weird when he said something and Cas just did it.
Castiel stretched out his hands, feeling around for the pillows and the edge of the mattress. Dean hovered, not quite touching but close enough to make his presence known. When the angel had sufficiently mapped out the bed with his fingertips, he tucked his feet under the light blanket and turned on his side, bring the fabric up and over his shoulder. Facing away from Dean. Which was… not usual.
Fuck. They might have to ‘talk.’ He felt more dread at that than when Castiel had first mentioned the Fury wanted a token. But he could be cool with it. He staked vampires. Burned bodies. Hunted things. Killed demons. He could talk. Talking was easy. He talked all the time. About… stuff. Lots of stuff. So he was not afraid to talk about stuff with Castiel. Nope.
He flicked off the lamp and crawled back into bed. It was an older mattress that had a slight dip in the center and when he settled down on his side, Cas sunk back a bit toward him, pulled by the gravity well. Dean wrapped an arm around him and used him to pull in closer. His lips brushed up against the bony vertebrae at the base of Castiel’s neck.
“So what happened? Other than the part where she was a total bitch and clawed your eyes out.”
As always, there was a pause until he felt Castiel’s lungs expand slightly as he inhaled to speak.
“She was quite civilized, actually. Which I did not expect. She was cordial and spoke easily with me. She had knowledge of me.”
“What, she knew you?” That made Dean uneasy.
“She didn’t know of me per se, but she knew of angels and mentioned that she had dealt with some many lifetimes ago. She is quite old. She may in fact, be older than me.”
“Dude, that is old.” Dean joked, giving Cas a small squeeze.
The sound of Dean’s low timbered voice in the dark soothed him. He once told Dean that he enjoyed listening to him speak, especially when his lips were close, the extra vibrations from the proximity running into his skin and sometimes raising the fine hairs. Dean had proclaimed it a chick-flick moment and had tried to cut him off. Castiel had simply waited patiently until Dean finished his short tirade and completed his sentence anyway. Cas had also liked the slight flush that had crept up Dean’s neck immediately thereafter.
“And then?”
He waited for Castiel to gather his words again. Dean often pictured Castiel rifling through words in his head like a giant rolodex, trying to find ones that would best fit what he wished to say; recount a story, explain mythology or express new, fragile emotions he felt. It had occurred to Dean as well, that English wasn’t Castiel’s first language. First, second, nineteenth, or one-thousandth. . . Castiel probably thought in some bizarre Angelic tongue that had never been heard by human ears and then had to work it into simple English.
“I attempted to persuade her that an alliance was in her best interests.”
“What didja say?”
He would swear to… well not to God, because his faith was still On Strike, but he would swear to something that he felt Castiel’s eyebrows draw together in consternation. Castiel sighed and shifted, turning over onto his back and Dean pulled away slightly, shifted, so he could focus on his profile. The dim light of the alarm clock casting a green glow on his face. As predicted, his eyebrows were furrowed, just soft tips showing above the bandage.
“I asked her if my understanding of her function was correct.”
“Come again?”
“I explained to her that my knowledge of the Furies had led me to believe that they were primarily creatures of vengeance. While they could be called on to be gracious or kind, they were most often called on to provide justice or retribution.” Again Castiel paused while he chose his next words. “She said,” he hesitated, as though trying to get the phrase right, “that was the Cliff notes, but she’d take it.”
“It means you got the short of it, if not the long.” Dean’s lips brushed over the skin of Castiel’s shoulder as he spoke.
“Ah.” Castiel’s face relaxed as if a final puzzle piece had settled into place. He absently ran his fingers over the back of Dean’s hand, going back and forth over the knuckles.
“At the time I did not understand her reference so I continued as though I was correct. I told her it would behoove her to assist us in stopping the apocalypse, for she would need humans from which to feed.”
“Don’t say ‘behoove.’ No one says ‘behoove.’” Dean’s words were distorted by a yawn.
“And humans,” Castiel continued, used to Dean’s interjectory vocabulary tutelage, “would want to unite with each other if faced with a new, external threat such as the apocalypse. Which would lead to less opportunities for satisfactory feedings.”
Oh, Jesus. Dean resisted the urge to sigh. They should send Sam on all diplomatic meetings. He was clearly the only one with a fine grasp of the nuances of the English language. Castiel didn’t quite understand why his words were coming across the way they were, and Dean just couldn’t be fucking bothered.
“Is that how you said it?” The fact that Cas couldn’t see the look on Dean’s face was kind of a small mercy.
Castiel thought about the question. “More or less. It is difficult to say with accuracy. We were conversing in ancient Greek.”
Of course they were. Scratch Sam for diplomatic missions.
“And how did she take it?”
“I don’t know.”
“So what’s buggin’ you?”
Pursed lips. “I believe the argument was a strong one, and I advocated it for several minutes.” His fingers stopped running back and forth over Dean’s knuckles.
Yahtzee.
“But…” Dean prompted.
“I am… dismayed by my own rationalizations.” His fingers slid over Dean’s once more and then tightened fractionally.
“Because…”
“Because I believe them to be accurate. Humans have an extraordinary capacity to turn on each other with out an external force oppressing them. The adeptness with which humans hurt each other…the startling regularity with which they do it… Today I stood in front of a being whose powers I do not understand, but whose help could be instrumental in assisting us and the only enticement I could offer for an alliance was that if she joins us in saving humanity, she can feed off the results of that salvation when humanity again turns on itself.”
Well, shit. When you put it like that, it was fantastically depressing.
He understood now what Cas had meant when he said he was tired. It wasn’t as though Dean forgot Castiel wasn’t human. There were far too many daily reminders for that. But he did forget that emotions were relatively new. Eons of being detached and removed from humans left Castiel ill-prepared for the daily onslaught of sadness, sorrow and disappointment to which most humans had built up a resistance. Castiel wasn’t tired so much as wrung out.
Dean thumped his thumb on Castiel’s sternum while he tried to think of something profound, something comforting to say.
“Dude, that sucks.”
“It is very… disheartening.”
He wasn’t sure what to say. As far as he was concerned, Cas was right. Humans did crazy shit to one another and they did it all the time. It was totally fucked up and wrong and made him depressed too sometimes. Mostly it just made him angry. Sometimes a little sick, but mostly angry. But Cas wasn’t supposed to feel that way. He was supposed to be heavenly and full of grace and contemplative and knowledgeable. With a side helping of having the hots for Dean. Cas wasn’t supposed to be ‘disheartened.’
That stupid Greek bitch - Fury - whatever - broke his angel, god-dammit.
It was almost ridiculous but Dean was more upset about this than he was about the eyes. The eyes would grow back (and they better be as fucking perfect as before or he was going to have the mother of all barbecues find out exactly what charred Fury tasted like). And yeah, he’d been surprised by the whole lack-of-eyes thing, but honestly? He’d kind of gotten used to Cas being able to heal himself. Not that it didn’t make his brain stutter like a stalled car when something did happen, but he could rationalize it away, knowing that the angel would heal, and all would be right in Dean’s world for about five seconds until the next crisis struck.
But now he stared at Castiel’s face in the low light, his eyes covered, his mouth turned slightly downward. Dean thought he could almost feel soft, undulating waves of melancholy emanating from him.
Cas was… sad.
And that shit would not fly.
He propped his head up on his elbow, his thumb still lightly tapping out a beat on Castiel’s chest (Thuderstruck).
“But, you know,” he stalled for time. “There’s tons of shit that’s good too.” Drawing a blank at this exact moment, but never-mind about that. “Tons,” he forced.
“I have watched humanity for millennia, Dean. There is very little that I have not seen.”
“Well, yeah, but since you started going all touchy-feely,” emphasis on the touchy, yes please, “you’ve kinda been stuck in the apocalypse. Not exactly a crowd-pleaser.”
“I have been with you,” said Cas, as if that made up for being stuck in ‘All Apocalypse, All the Time.’
“And I’m a barrel of laughs,” Dean intoned dryly. “Seriously, it’s a wonder you can stand it.”
Castiel tipped his sightless face toward Dean. “I enjoy being with you. Currently you are the only source of exultation on which I can rely.”
The thumb tapping out ‘Thunderstruck’ on Castiel’s sternum stopped. “Dude. What did I say about that kind of talk? You can not say shit like that. It’s embarrassing.”
“I have yet to experience this embarrassment that arises from hearing someone cares deeply for you. I do not look forward to it.” His tone was morose. Low.
Ladies and gentlemen, Dean Winchester: Puppy Kicker. Fuck.
His hand roamed down and squeezed Castiel’s hip. “No, I… you don’t… not everyone… aw fuckit. Don’t go by me. I’m fucked up. Say what you want.” That was gonna come back and bite him in the ass.
“Dean, you do not have to mollify me, although I greatly appreciate the sentiment.”
“I’m not… look, nighttime is a really bad time to discuss heavy shit like this. I told you, everything seems worse at night. It’s ‘cause it’s dark, and nobody likes the dark, scary things come out in the dark and sometimes you think the sun won’t come up. But it does. ‘Cause it’s the sun.” He paused. “And that’s what it does.” He repeated.
Worst motivational speech ever. He rolled his eyes at his inane words.
“It’s all right, Dean,” Castiel settled his hand over top of Dean’s and gave the fingers a small press. “You may sleep now. I believe I will meditate to assist the regeneration of my eyes.”
He felt bad, but it was hard not to be relieved. He dropped his forehead onto Cas’ shoulder.
“I’m shitty at this, but it doesn’t mean it’s not true,” he mumbled, his lips pressed up into the pillow.
Castiel felt his heart tighten pleasantly at the effort Dean was making. It’s true that it was not Dean’s forte, and in fact, was quite far from it,’ but Castiel felt an exquisite tremor in his chest and in his throat at his attempt. He tilted his head and placed his lips firmly in Dean’s hair.
“Thank you.”
* * * *
The next morning, with Castiel meditating upstairs, Dean filled Sam in about his ‘mostly’ successful meeting with the Fury.
“Like, took them right from the sockets?” Sam questioned, his face kind of scrunched up.
Dean shrugged as he slurped his black coffee. “Bitch plucked them right out apparently. And now he’s…” Dean made a wide, sweeping motion with one hand that could have meant anything.
“Sounds like he’s depressed.” Sam leaned a hip bone against the counter.
“Thanks, Sigmund, I got that. But what the hell am I supposed to do about it?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because you’re…” another wide arcing hand gesture, “… with the feelings and the talking and the… feelings.”
“You said you talked last night.”
Dean huffed. “We did, but it didn’t exactly… y’know. Go well.”
“Imagine that.”
“Are you going to fucking help me or not?”
“Yeah, ‘cause your attitude totally makes me want to help.”
“Don’t bitchface me.” Dean waggled a finger in Sam’s face. Sam batted it away.
“Dude, I don’t know what you expect me to say. He’s your…” he was going to say ‘boyfriend’ but was pretty sure that would get him sucker punched, “… angel,” he finished lamely.
“Just tell me how to fix him.”
“I dunno. Just…” Sam sighed. Forget demons and monsters, his brother was totally going to be the death of him. “When Jess was depressed, I would just do nice things for her.”
“What kind of nice things?” Dean looked suspicious.
“I don’t know, nice things. If she said she felt like a mocha, I’d go out and get her a mocha and I’d put the little sprinkles on top, ‘cause she liked the sprinkles. And she liked seals so we’d go watch them swim around that tank thing at the zoo.”
“There’s no zoo around here!” Dean accused.
“Jesus.” Sam tossed his hands in the air. “Figure it out yourself then.” He pushed off the counter with his hip, and stalked out of the kitchen muttering under his breath. “Jerk.”
Fine. If that’s how Sam was gonna be he was going to have to do it himself. “Bitch.”
* * * *
And that was how Dean found himself standing in the local pet store convincing the pert seventeen year old behind the till to let his ‘friend’ hold a kitten.
“We usually don’t take them out of the back unless you fill in the forms.”
Her mouthful of metal braces gave her a slight lisp. And she slurped every few words. She was pretty in a coltish sort of way, all skinny limbs and awkwardness. She might be brunette, he hadn’t really checked. He was listening to her, but his eyes were focused on where he left Castiel. In the bird section. He’d left him by the budgies but somehow the angel had managed to wander sightlessly past the cockatoo (he snorted to himself. Cock-a-too) and was now dangerously close to some kind of large parrot.
He’d finally gotten Castiel out of the tan trench beast and douche-y navy suit and into some regular clothes. He straight out lied and told Cas his clothes were trashed (no way to get the blood out now, it set in) despite the fact that after years of hunting, he could get the blood out of pretty much anything. When Cas wondered what he should wear now, Dean produced a grey henley and a pair of worn jeans. Fingering the fabric, Castiel had proclaimed them quite soft and thanked him in the quiet way he had.
They’d driven an hour and a half to get to a big enough pet store. One that was sure to have a plethora of sugary-sweet, so-cute-you-could-vomit, guaranteed-to-be-soft-and-make-you-love-the-world kittens. Castiel had kept his face turned toward the sun on the entire ride, like a plant soaking up the rays. He didn’t need the bandages and had only kept them on for the first night, complaining in the morning the gauze itched. He had removed the bandages and now simply kept his eyes shut or wore a pair of sunglasses Sam had given him.
“I just want him to touch one. Five minutes,” Dean argued, directing his face toward pet-girl, but keeping his eyes on Cas. His green eyes widened slightly as Castiel leaned toward the big bird cage and pressed his palm up against the metal. Cas had a very intent look on his face, discernible even with the sunglasses on. Like he was trying to understand the parrot. Christ, for all Dean knew, he was.
“Owning a pet is a big responsibility,” the girl continued, clearly stealing glances beneath the till to check her script. Slurp. “And if you and your family decide to get a pet, you have to be peppered,” she frowned and grabbled the cue card. “Prepared,” she corrected, “to have that animal for the extent of its life.” Slurp.
The parrot jumped forward. Castiel leaned in as close as he could to the cage and slid his fingers in between the metal grill.
“Don’t do that!” Dean exclaimed. The girl twitched.
“Huh?” she lisped.
Dean didn’t even hear her. “Don’t put your fingers in there,” he called out.
Dean tensed his body ready to attack the parrot if necessary. He catalogued the weapons he had on his person and tried to figure out what would be best for a bird. Gun? Knife? Holy water?
The bird gave an ungodly shriek and, okay, Dean flinched.
Castiel tilted his head quizzically.
And the bird fucking tilted its head back.
Both pet-girl and Dean gaped. Castiel straightened his neck and the parrot…. Parroted. The avian came up as close as it could to the wire of the cage and poked its beak through a slot in the spokes, touching its mandible to the tip of Cas’ nose.
“What the fuck?”
“Maybe you should get him a bird instead.” Slurp. She was slightly awestruck. “Moses likes him.”
“What?” His head rotated back to the girl.
“Moses.” She pointed. “The parrot.”
“You named the bird Moses?”
The girl shrugged. Slurped. “He didn’t answer to any of the other names we tried.”
Dean watched Cas nose to… beak with the bird. Well, if that’s the way it was going to be…
“Can he… can he hold the bird?” Dean gestured toward Castiel and Moses.
“Uh… Moses doesn’t really like most people.”
The bird was fucking nuzzling Castiel’s nose. Cas stood there patiently while the bird rubbed its beak back and forth. “I think Moses is willing to make an exception. And trust me, he’s not most people.”
He finally stole a glance back at the pet-girl. She stared at Castiel and Moses with a wide eyed look, like she was stuck between a bear and a lion. Probably calculating how much trouble she was going to get in.
Dean put himself in her line of sight, blocking Castiel and the bird. Her eyes immediately darted back to him and he unleashed his smile, full force. She blinked. He dipped his head down conspiratorially and looked up through his lashes.
“Please?”
“I gotta stay here and watch the till. But you can open the cage on the side. He bites,” she warned. “He bites hard.” She absently rubbed a finger.
“We’ll be okay.”
She gave him one last look. “He’s a mean fucker, really.”
Dean nodded once. “Got it.”
He sauntered over to where Moses was trying to have his way with Cas. Cas must have his Dean-Radar switched on, because as soon as he was within two feet, the angel turned his head away from the bird and toward Dean.
“What kind of avian is this?”
Dean checked the tag on the cage. “He’s a Congo African Grey Parrot.”
“What color is he?”
Dean tried to keep the tone out of his voice when he answered, “Grey.”
Castiel also tried to keep the tone out of his voice. “I meant what shades of grey.”
Dean eyeballed Moses, who, now that Dean looked at him, was giving him the evil bird-eye. “I dunno. Grey. He’s got, uh, white around his eyes, and,” Dean tilted his head a little. “A bit of red at the tail. He’s, like dark grey on top, and light grey on his… belly?” Did birds have bellies?
He opened the cage and then suddenly realized he had no idea how to grab a bird. Did you just reach in and grab it by the neck? Should he put his arm out and wait for Moses to hop on? Maybe grab a wing?
“Girl says his name is Moses.”
Castiel nodded firmly. “It is a good name for him.”
Dean was glad Castiel couldn’t see him roll his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. Look, the cage is open and you can touch him if you want.” He gestured uselessly.
“I believe I would enjoy that.” He started to raise his hand and without thinking, Dean grabbed his arm and put his other hand on Cas’ hip, moving him slightly to the left and in front of the door to the cage. Dean carefully directed Cas’ arm inside. He paused to give the bird a significant look, a look that said, You bite him, I kill you. Dean would have sworn on a stack of bibles the bird looked back at him fucking understood. And then proceeded to ignore Dean.
Moses hopped forward on his perch, toward Cas’ outstretched appendage and with one last graceful bounce, the bird landed solidly on his arm.
“Dude, these things can live for fifty years!” Dean exclaimed as he read the rest of the information tag on the cage.
Moses bird-walked up Cas’ arm and was now perched on his shoulder and started rubbing his beak against Castiel’s ear and was making soft bird noises.
“Am I gonna have to get you guys a room?”
Castiel lips twitched slightly as the bird tickled behind his ear.
Dean was not jealous.
Moses shook himself a little, like a wet dog, and the sound of rustling feathers…
“He sounds like you.” Dean huffed.
“It’s his wings.”
Moses turned his freaky bird stare back to Dean and Dean could have sworn that bird was giving him a Fuck Off vibe. Oblivious, Castiel raised his arm and pet the bird carefully, going with the grain of his feathers. Moses puffed his chest out proudly.
Castiel seemed… content. He lightly stroked the soft feathers of the bird’s trunk with his fingertips. Moses leaned slightly in toward his neck and Cas tipped his head slightly toward the bird in return. Dean jammed his hands into his pockets.
“Uh, we can’t keep him. You know that right?” Dean was nervous.
“I am aware. However, I wish to stay here for a few minutes.
“Uh-huh. Okay. I’ll be… you know…” Another useless hand wave which he tried to cover up by shoving his hand through his hair. “So holler if you need somethin’.”
Castiel’s attention was back on the bird. Stupid bird.
Dean wandered the aisles, frowning at some of the crazy shit he saw. Toothpaste for cats. Jesus. That meant there were toothbrushes… oh, there they were. Chew toys for dogs in the shape of squirrels. It’s not like you could fool the dogs into thinking it was a real squirrel. Sweaters for small dogs. Dresses for even smaller dogs. Holy hell. If you were gonna get a dog, why would you get one the size of a rat? Why not just get a rat? This whole store was bullshit.
He came around the corner of the shelving and saw Cas standing silently with Moses perched on his shoulder, the two of them leaning into each other, and the angel still looked relaxed. Serene.
Stupid bullshit store was worth it.
So, first mission appeared successful. Operation ‘Fix Cas’ was going well.
A fact he had to remind himself of over and over again two hours later while Sam stitched up a two inch gash that damn bird left on his arm. Sam’s normally pristine stitching was slightly off due to his uncontrollable smirking and guffawing.
“I swear to god Sammy…”
“I would pay money to have been there. Cold hard cash.”
“Moses was highly distressed,” interjected Castiel.
“Moses? Moses was highly distressed?” barked Dean. “How about Dean was righteously pissed when that bird brain clawed a chunk of his arm out?”
“You startled him. You surreptitiously approached him.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dean’s jaw hung open. He turned to Sam. “That bird was fucking jealous.”
“You know you’re making it worse for yourself, right?”
“Shut up and sew.”
Next Part
Title: In the land of the Emotionally Repressed, Dean Winchester is King (1 of 2)
Recipient: ruskiebiz
Author: zoemathemata
Rating: R
Warnings: None. Unless you count schmoop. Probably NSFW.
Spoilers: S4
Summary: Dean does his best to cheer Castiel when Cas is disheartened by recent events and is left blind.
Author notes: Indeterminate setting. It’s more of an emotional whumping than a physical one. Because Cas can take a lot physically, I feel like emotions would be his downfall. I hope you like it.
Dean expected Castiel sometime close to dawn, and let himself drift off. but he shot awake at the firm press of Castiel’s hand at the center of his chest and the deep timbre of his voice shortly after two in the morning.
“Dean.”
He was instantly wide awake.
“Cas? What’s wrong?” he hissed lowly. “What time is it?”
“I do not know.” The angel was turned away from Dean, seated on the side of the bed.
Dean glanced at the clock, reading the small, glaring numbers.
“How did it go?”
“I do not wish you to become … agitated.”
Dean’s throat got tight. “Okay, that right there? That makes me ‘agitated.’ What happened?”
Castiel hesitated slightly. “She agreed to consider the proposition of an alliance and take the matter up with her sisters.”
Dean breathed out a short sigh of relief. “That’s good right? I mean, she didn’t say no.”
He stretched a hand out to flick on the lamp. Unerringly, Castiel’s hand snaked out in the dark and clamped over his wrist before his fingers hit the switch.
“Wait.” Castiel gently led Dean’s hand back to the mattress, fingers curled firmly around his bones.
“There’s a ‘but’ isn’t there?” Dean rolled his eyes. “Always a fucking ‘but,’” he muttered.
“She requested a small … token to prove our fortitude.”
Sick dread started dragging her icy fingers across Dean’s lower spine. “What kind of token?”
Another hesitation. “They will grow back.” Castiel’s voice was earnest as if it were important that Dean believe him.
“What will grow back?” Dean’s voice was low, nearly a whisper and so he hoped that Cas hadn’t heard the slight waver in the timbre. Castiel’s fingers tightened once on Dean’s wrist and then he released the joint.
“My eyes. You may turn on the light now if you wish.”
Dean was a needle on a record and Castiel’s statement pushed him out of the comfortable groove and sent him skittering across the corrugated surface with an awful screech.
“Your … what?”
“She asked for a small tribute to prove our worth as allies,” he repeated. “I replied that I was unsure as to what would be considered sufficient.”
“You let her choose? Jesus, you never let them choose!”
“It is of little consequence since, as I assured you, they will grow back. She knew they would grow back as well.” He sounded rather dispassionate about the entire affair. Tired.
“Fucking hell, that’s not the point.”
“She was quite quick and efficient. Her claws were very sharp. It only took a fraction of time.”
Dean finally flicked the light on. Castiel sat on the side of the bed, feet planted solidly on the floor, head titled slightly to the side, as if to hear Dean better. His familiar tan coat was slightly wrinkled, blood splattered down the front. Castiel probably didn’t realize he was covered in his own blood. Castiel already had white gauze stretched over his eyes, wrapped around his head and tucked in neatly.
“Where did you get the bandages from?”
“She bandaged them for me.”
“She did what?”
“She offered to bandage them and I accepted.”
“What the fuck for?”
“It seemed like a reasonable alternative to standing there bleeding while we spoke.”
“No, I mean…” Dean huffed. “Why would she do that?”
“The Furies were not only known for avenging wrongs. In many stories they are also known as Kindly Ones, meeting out justice and affection for those who could not get either for themselves. I doubt she wanted to see me suffer. Once she had her tribute, she was satisfied.”
“Yeah, I’m sure she’s a fucking saint,” huffed Dean sarcastically. “C’mere, I want to make sure you’re all right.” He reached out, placed a finger under Castiel’s chin to turn it toward him. He continued to mutter under his breath, “… some handsy bitch claws your eyes out and then has the goddamn nerve to bandage you up, probably gave you sepsis or some ancient fucking sickness with her dirty Greek claws, I fucking knew I should have gone with you …”
Castiel pulled back when Dean started to unwrap the bandages and waved him away. The gesture was slightly clumsy, Castiel’s arm whacking into the flat of Dean’s palm with a soft ‘thwump.’
“I do not think you wish to see them. I am fine. They will grow back. But with my powers diminished from being cut off from the Host… it will take some time.”
“How much time?”
Another quiet sigh. “I’m not sure, Dean.”
Silence stretched out and wrapped around them heavy.
“C’mon, I’ll help you take your clothes off.” Dean lithely slipped out from under the covers and stood before Cas.
Castiel stood up, patient as Dean slid both coats off his shoulders and tossed them over a chair.
“Did you know your clothes have blood on them?” Cas’ generally pristine white shirt had trails of blood running down the front.
He could see Cas’ eyebrows dart together in a frown, just barely peaking up over the bandages.
“I thought I had cleaned them.”
“Maybe it doesn’t work if you can’t see it.” Dean worked on the buttons.
“Perhaps.” Castiel shrugged his shoulders slightly to ease the shirt off.
“S’cool. You can wear something of mine tomorrow.”
“I’m tired, Dean.”
Castiel shucked his shoes and pants while Dean rifled through his duffle bag, yanked out a t-shirt and gave it a cursory sniff. Clean.
“It’s been a long couple of days,” replied Dean while he slid the soft, dark cotton over Cas’ head and helped him feed his arms through the short sleeves.
Cas sent his hands out to touch the mattress and judge the distance before he sank back down to sit on the bed.
“It is not the length of the days that tires me. It is the contents.”
Dean grunted a non-committal agreement. “Everything seems worse at night,” he said calmly. “Lie down.”
It was unnerving sometimes, how easily Cas would do what Dean told him. Not that Dean made a habit of ordering him around, but a lifetime of hunting had made him brusque with his speech. Efficient. He tended not to use words he didn’t need and that often meant he sounded like he was giving commands. Of course, sometimes he was giving commands, but he felt weird when he said something and Cas just did it.
Castiel stretched out his hands, feeling around for the pillows and the edge of the mattress. Dean hovered, not quite touching but close enough to make his presence known. When the angel had sufficiently mapped out the bed with his fingertips, he tucked his feet under the light blanket and turned on his side, bring the fabric up and over his shoulder. Facing away from Dean. Which was… not usual.
Fuck. They might have to ‘talk.’ He felt more dread at that than when Castiel had first mentioned the Fury wanted a token. But he could be cool with it. He staked vampires. Burned bodies. Hunted things. Killed demons. He could talk. Talking was easy. He talked all the time. About… stuff. Lots of stuff. So he was not afraid to talk about stuff with Castiel. Nope.
He flicked off the lamp and crawled back into bed. It was an older mattress that had a slight dip in the center and when he settled down on his side, Cas sunk back a bit toward him, pulled by the gravity well. Dean wrapped an arm around him and used him to pull in closer. His lips brushed up against the bony vertebrae at the base of Castiel’s neck.
“So what happened? Other than the part where she was a total bitch and clawed your eyes out.”
As always, there was a pause until he felt Castiel’s lungs expand slightly as he inhaled to speak.
“She was quite civilized, actually. Which I did not expect. She was cordial and spoke easily with me. She had knowledge of me.”
“What, she knew you?” That made Dean uneasy.
“She didn’t know of me per se, but she knew of angels and mentioned that she had dealt with some many lifetimes ago. She is quite old. She may in fact, be older than me.”
“Dude, that is old.” Dean joked, giving Cas a small squeeze.
The sound of Dean’s low timbered voice in the dark soothed him. He once told Dean that he enjoyed listening to him speak, especially when his lips were close, the extra vibrations from the proximity running into his skin and sometimes raising the fine hairs. Dean had proclaimed it a chick-flick moment and had tried to cut him off. Castiel had simply waited patiently until Dean finished his short tirade and completed his sentence anyway. Cas had also liked the slight flush that had crept up Dean’s neck immediately thereafter.
“And then?”
He waited for Castiel to gather his words again. Dean often pictured Castiel rifling through words in his head like a giant rolodex, trying to find ones that would best fit what he wished to say; recount a story, explain mythology or express new, fragile emotions he felt. It had occurred to Dean as well, that English wasn’t Castiel’s first language. First, second, nineteenth, or one-thousandth. . . Castiel probably thought in some bizarre Angelic tongue that had never been heard by human ears and then had to work it into simple English.
“I attempted to persuade her that an alliance was in her best interests.”
“What didja say?”
He would swear to… well not to God, because his faith was still On Strike, but he would swear to something that he felt Castiel’s eyebrows draw together in consternation. Castiel sighed and shifted, turning over onto his back and Dean pulled away slightly, shifted, so he could focus on his profile. The dim light of the alarm clock casting a green glow on his face. As predicted, his eyebrows were furrowed, just soft tips showing above the bandage.
“I asked her if my understanding of her function was correct.”
“Come again?”
“I explained to her that my knowledge of the Furies had led me to believe that they were primarily creatures of vengeance. While they could be called on to be gracious or kind, they were most often called on to provide justice or retribution.” Again Castiel paused while he chose his next words. “She said,” he hesitated, as though trying to get the phrase right, “that was the Cliff notes, but she’d take it.”
“It means you got the short of it, if not the long.” Dean’s lips brushed over the skin of Castiel’s shoulder as he spoke.
“Ah.” Castiel’s face relaxed as if a final puzzle piece had settled into place. He absently ran his fingers over the back of Dean’s hand, going back and forth over the knuckles.
“At the time I did not understand her reference so I continued as though I was correct. I told her it would behoove her to assist us in stopping the apocalypse, for she would need humans from which to feed.”
“Don’t say ‘behoove.’ No one says ‘behoove.’” Dean’s words were distorted by a yawn.
“And humans,” Castiel continued, used to Dean’s interjectory vocabulary tutelage, “would want to unite with each other if faced with a new, external threat such as the apocalypse. Which would lead to less opportunities for satisfactory feedings.”
Oh, Jesus. Dean resisted the urge to sigh. They should send Sam on all diplomatic meetings. He was clearly the only one with a fine grasp of the nuances of the English language. Castiel didn’t quite understand why his words were coming across the way they were, and Dean just couldn’t be fucking bothered.
“Is that how you said it?” The fact that Cas couldn’t see the look on Dean’s face was kind of a small mercy.
Castiel thought about the question. “More or less. It is difficult to say with accuracy. We were conversing in ancient Greek.”
Of course they were. Scratch Sam for diplomatic missions.
“And how did she take it?”
“I don’t know.”
“So what’s buggin’ you?”
Pursed lips. “I believe the argument was a strong one, and I advocated it for several minutes.” His fingers stopped running back and forth over Dean’s knuckles.
Yahtzee.
“But…” Dean prompted.
“I am… dismayed by my own rationalizations.” His fingers slid over Dean’s once more and then tightened fractionally.
“Because…”
“Because I believe them to be accurate. Humans have an extraordinary capacity to turn on each other with out an external force oppressing them. The adeptness with which humans hurt each other…the startling regularity with which they do it… Today I stood in front of a being whose powers I do not understand, but whose help could be instrumental in assisting us and the only enticement I could offer for an alliance was that if she joins us in saving humanity, she can feed off the results of that salvation when humanity again turns on itself.”
Well, shit. When you put it like that, it was fantastically depressing.
He understood now what Cas had meant when he said he was tired. It wasn’t as though Dean forgot Castiel wasn’t human. There were far too many daily reminders for that. But he did forget that emotions were relatively new. Eons of being detached and removed from humans left Castiel ill-prepared for the daily onslaught of sadness, sorrow and disappointment to which most humans had built up a resistance. Castiel wasn’t tired so much as wrung out.
Dean thumped his thumb on Castiel’s sternum while he tried to think of something profound, something comforting to say.
“Dude, that sucks.”
“It is very… disheartening.”
He wasn’t sure what to say. As far as he was concerned, Cas was right. Humans did crazy shit to one another and they did it all the time. It was totally fucked up and wrong and made him depressed too sometimes. Mostly it just made him angry. Sometimes a little sick, but mostly angry. But Cas wasn’t supposed to feel that way. He was supposed to be heavenly and full of grace and contemplative and knowledgeable. With a side helping of having the hots for Dean. Cas wasn’t supposed to be ‘disheartened.’
That stupid Greek bitch - Fury - whatever - broke his angel, god-dammit.
It was almost ridiculous but Dean was more upset about this than he was about the eyes. The eyes would grow back (and they better be as fucking perfect as before or he was going to have the mother of all barbecues find out exactly what charred Fury tasted like). And yeah, he’d been surprised by the whole lack-of-eyes thing, but honestly? He’d kind of gotten used to Cas being able to heal himself. Not that it didn’t make his brain stutter like a stalled car when something did happen, but he could rationalize it away, knowing that the angel would heal, and all would be right in Dean’s world for about five seconds until the next crisis struck.
But now he stared at Castiel’s face in the low light, his eyes covered, his mouth turned slightly downward. Dean thought he could almost feel soft, undulating waves of melancholy emanating from him.
Cas was… sad.
And that shit would not fly.
He propped his head up on his elbow, his thumb still lightly tapping out a beat on Castiel’s chest (Thuderstruck).
“But, you know,” he stalled for time. “There’s tons of shit that’s good too.” Drawing a blank at this exact moment, but never-mind about that. “Tons,” he forced.
“I have watched humanity for millennia, Dean. There is very little that I have not seen.”
“Well, yeah, but since you started going all touchy-feely,” emphasis on the touchy, yes please, “you’ve kinda been stuck in the apocalypse. Not exactly a crowd-pleaser.”
“I have been with you,” said Cas, as if that made up for being stuck in ‘All Apocalypse, All the Time.’
“And I’m a barrel of laughs,” Dean intoned dryly. “Seriously, it’s a wonder you can stand it.”
Castiel tipped his sightless face toward Dean. “I enjoy being with you. Currently you are the only source of exultation on which I can rely.”
The thumb tapping out ‘Thunderstruck’ on Castiel’s sternum stopped. “Dude. What did I say about that kind of talk? You can not say shit like that. It’s embarrassing.”
“I have yet to experience this embarrassment that arises from hearing someone cares deeply for you. I do not look forward to it.” His tone was morose. Low.
Ladies and gentlemen, Dean Winchester: Puppy Kicker. Fuck.
His hand roamed down and squeezed Castiel’s hip. “No, I… you don’t… not everyone… aw fuckit. Don’t go by me. I’m fucked up. Say what you want.” That was gonna come back and bite him in the ass.
“Dean, you do not have to mollify me, although I greatly appreciate the sentiment.”
“I’m not… look, nighttime is a really bad time to discuss heavy shit like this. I told you, everything seems worse at night. It’s ‘cause it’s dark, and nobody likes the dark, scary things come out in the dark and sometimes you think the sun won’t come up. But it does. ‘Cause it’s the sun.” He paused. “And that’s what it does.” He repeated.
Worst motivational speech ever. He rolled his eyes at his inane words.
“It’s all right, Dean,” Castiel settled his hand over top of Dean’s and gave the fingers a small press. “You may sleep now. I believe I will meditate to assist the regeneration of my eyes.”
He felt bad, but it was hard not to be relieved. He dropped his forehead onto Cas’ shoulder.
“I’m shitty at this, but it doesn’t mean it’s not true,” he mumbled, his lips pressed up into the pillow.
Castiel felt his heart tighten pleasantly at the effort Dean was making. It’s true that it was not Dean’s forte, and in fact, was quite far from it,’ but Castiel felt an exquisite tremor in his chest and in his throat at his attempt. He tilted his head and placed his lips firmly in Dean’s hair.
“Thank you.”
* * * *
The next morning, with Castiel meditating upstairs, Dean filled Sam in about his ‘mostly’ successful meeting with the Fury.
“Like, took them right from the sockets?” Sam questioned, his face kind of scrunched up.
Dean shrugged as he slurped his black coffee. “Bitch plucked them right out apparently. And now he’s…” Dean made a wide, sweeping motion with one hand that could have meant anything.
“Sounds like he’s depressed.” Sam leaned a hip bone against the counter.
“Thanks, Sigmund, I got that. But what the hell am I supposed to do about it?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because you’re…” another wide arcing hand gesture, “… with the feelings and the talking and the… feelings.”
“You said you talked last night.”
Dean huffed. “We did, but it didn’t exactly… y’know. Go well.”
“Imagine that.”
“Are you going to fucking help me or not?”
“Yeah, ‘cause your attitude totally makes me want to help.”
“Don’t bitchface me.” Dean waggled a finger in Sam’s face. Sam batted it away.
“Dude, I don’t know what you expect me to say. He’s your…” he was going to say ‘boyfriend’ but was pretty sure that would get him sucker punched, “… angel,” he finished lamely.
“Just tell me how to fix him.”
“I dunno. Just…” Sam sighed. Forget demons and monsters, his brother was totally going to be the death of him. “When Jess was depressed, I would just do nice things for her.”
“What kind of nice things?” Dean looked suspicious.
“I don’t know, nice things. If she said she felt like a mocha, I’d go out and get her a mocha and I’d put the little sprinkles on top, ‘cause she liked the sprinkles. And she liked seals so we’d go watch them swim around that tank thing at the zoo.”
“There’s no zoo around here!” Dean accused.
“Jesus.” Sam tossed his hands in the air. “Figure it out yourself then.” He pushed off the counter with his hip, and stalked out of the kitchen muttering under his breath. “Jerk.”
Fine. If that’s how Sam was gonna be he was going to have to do it himself. “Bitch.”
* * * *
And that was how Dean found himself standing in the local pet store convincing the pert seventeen year old behind the till to let his ‘friend’ hold a kitten.
“We usually don’t take them out of the back unless you fill in the forms.”
Her mouthful of metal braces gave her a slight lisp. And she slurped every few words. She was pretty in a coltish sort of way, all skinny limbs and awkwardness. She might be brunette, he hadn’t really checked. He was listening to her, but his eyes were focused on where he left Castiel. In the bird section. He’d left him by the budgies but somehow the angel had managed to wander sightlessly past the cockatoo (he snorted to himself. Cock-a-too) and was now dangerously close to some kind of large parrot.
He’d finally gotten Castiel out of the tan trench beast and douche-y navy suit and into some regular clothes. He straight out lied and told Cas his clothes were trashed (no way to get the blood out now, it set in) despite the fact that after years of hunting, he could get the blood out of pretty much anything. When Cas wondered what he should wear now, Dean produced a grey henley and a pair of worn jeans. Fingering the fabric, Castiel had proclaimed them quite soft and thanked him in the quiet way he had.
They’d driven an hour and a half to get to a big enough pet store. One that was sure to have a plethora of sugary-sweet, so-cute-you-could-vomit, guaranteed-to-be-soft-and-make-you-love-the-world kittens. Castiel had kept his face turned toward the sun on the entire ride, like a plant soaking up the rays. He didn’t need the bandages and had only kept them on for the first night, complaining in the morning the gauze itched. He had removed the bandages and now simply kept his eyes shut or wore a pair of sunglasses Sam had given him.
“I just want him to touch one. Five minutes,” Dean argued, directing his face toward pet-girl, but keeping his eyes on Cas. His green eyes widened slightly as Castiel leaned toward the big bird cage and pressed his palm up against the metal. Cas had a very intent look on his face, discernible even with the sunglasses on. Like he was trying to understand the parrot. Christ, for all Dean knew, he was.
“Owning a pet is a big responsibility,” the girl continued, clearly stealing glances beneath the till to check her script. Slurp. “And if you and your family decide to get a pet, you have to be peppered,” she frowned and grabbled the cue card. “Prepared,” she corrected, “to have that animal for the extent of its life.” Slurp.
The parrot jumped forward. Castiel leaned in as close as he could to the cage and slid his fingers in between the metal grill.
“Don’t do that!” Dean exclaimed. The girl twitched.
“Huh?” she lisped.
Dean didn’t even hear her. “Don’t put your fingers in there,” he called out.
Dean tensed his body ready to attack the parrot if necessary. He catalogued the weapons he had on his person and tried to figure out what would be best for a bird. Gun? Knife? Holy water?
The bird gave an ungodly shriek and, okay, Dean flinched.
Castiel tilted his head quizzically.
And the bird fucking tilted its head back.
Both pet-girl and Dean gaped. Castiel straightened his neck and the parrot…. Parroted. The avian came up as close as it could to the wire of the cage and poked its beak through a slot in the spokes, touching its mandible to the tip of Cas’ nose.
“What the fuck?”
“Maybe you should get him a bird instead.” Slurp. She was slightly awestruck. “Moses likes him.”
“What?” His head rotated back to the girl.
“Moses.” She pointed. “The parrot.”
“You named the bird Moses?”
The girl shrugged. Slurped. “He didn’t answer to any of the other names we tried.”
Dean watched Cas nose to… beak with the bird. Well, if that’s the way it was going to be…
“Can he… can he hold the bird?” Dean gestured toward Castiel and Moses.
“Uh… Moses doesn’t really like most people.”
The bird was fucking nuzzling Castiel’s nose. Cas stood there patiently while the bird rubbed its beak back and forth. “I think Moses is willing to make an exception. And trust me, he’s not most people.”
He finally stole a glance back at the pet-girl. She stared at Castiel and Moses with a wide eyed look, like she was stuck between a bear and a lion. Probably calculating how much trouble she was going to get in.
Dean put himself in her line of sight, blocking Castiel and the bird. Her eyes immediately darted back to him and he unleashed his smile, full force. She blinked. He dipped his head down conspiratorially and looked up through his lashes.
“Please?”
“I gotta stay here and watch the till. But you can open the cage on the side. He bites,” she warned. “He bites hard.” She absently rubbed a finger.
“We’ll be okay.”
She gave him one last look. “He’s a mean fucker, really.”
Dean nodded once. “Got it.”
He sauntered over to where Moses was trying to have his way with Cas. Cas must have his Dean-Radar switched on, because as soon as he was within two feet, the angel turned his head away from the bird and toward Dean.
“What kind of avian is this?”
Dean checked the tag on the cage. “He’s a Congo African Grey Parrot.”
“What color is he?”
Dean tried to keep the tone out of his voice when he answered, “Grey.”
Castiel also tried to keep the tone out of his voice. “I meant what shades of grey.”
Dean eyeballed Moses, who, now that Dean looked at him, was giving him the evil bird-eye. “I dunno. Grey. He’s got, uh, white around his eyes, and,” Dean tilted his head a little. “A bit of red at the tail. He’s, like dark grey on top, and light grey on his… belly?” Did birds have bellies?
He opened the cage and then suddenly realized he had no idea how to grab a bird. Did you just reach in and grab it by the neck? Should he put his arm out and wait for Moses to hop on? Maybe grab a wing?
“Girl says his name is Moses.”
Castiel nodded firmly. “It is a good name for him.”
Dean was glad Castiel couldn’t see him roll his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. Look, the cage is open and you can touch him if you want.” He gestured uselessly.
“I believe I would enjoy that.” He started to raise his hand and without thinking, Dean grabbed his arm and put his other hand on Cas’ hip, moving him slightly to the left and in front of the door to the cage. Dean carefully directed Cas’ arm inside. He paused to give the bird a significant look, a look that said, You bite him, I kill you. Dean would have sworn on a stack of bibles the bird looked back at him fucking understood. And then proceeded to ignore Dean.
Moses hopped forward on his perch, toward Cas’ outstretched appendage and with one last graceful bounce, the bird landed solidly on his arm.
“Dude, these things can live for fifty years!” Dean exclaimed as he read the rest of the information tag on the cage.
Moses bird-walked up Cas’ arm and was now perched on his shoulder and started rubbing his beak against Castiel’s ear and was making soft bird noises.
“Am I gonna have to get you guys a room?”
Castiel lips twitched slightly as the bird tickled behind his ear.
Dean was not jealous.
Moses shook himself a little, like a wet dog, and the sound of rustling feathers…
“He sounds like you.” Dean huffed.
“It’s his wings.”
Moses turned his freaky bird stare back to Dean and Dean could have sworn that bird was giving him a Fuck Off vibe. Oblivious, Castiel raised his arm and pet the bird carefully, going with the grain of his feathers. Moses puffed his chest out proudly.
Castiel seemed… content. He lightly stroked the soft feathers of the bird’s trunk with his fingertips. Moses leaned slightly in toward his neck and Cas tipped his head slightly toward the bird in return. Dean jammed his hands into his pockets.
“Uh, we can’t keep him. You know that right?” Dean was nervous.
“I am aware. However, I wish to stay here for a few minutes.
“Uh-huh. Okay. I’ll be… you know…” Another useless hand wave which he tried to cover up by shoving his hand through his hair. “So holler if you need somethin’.”
Castiel’s attention was back on the bird. Stupid bird.
Dean wandered the aisles, frowning at some of the crazy shit he saw. Toothpaste for cats. Jesus. That meant there were toothbrushes… oh, there they were. Chew toys for dogs in the shape of squirrels. It’s not like you could fool the dogs into thinking it was a real squirrel. Sweaters for small dogs. Dresses for even smaller dogs. Holy hell. If you were gonna get a dog, why would you get one the size of a rat? Why not just get a rat? This whole store was bullshit.
He came around the corner of the shelving and saw Cas standing silently with Moses perched on his shoulder, the two of them leaning into each other, and the angel still looked relaxed. Serene.
Stupid bullshit store was worth it.
So, first mission appeared successful. Operation ‘Fix Cas’ was going well.
A fact he had to remind himself of over and over again two hours later while Sam stitched up a two inch gash that damn bird left on his arm. Sam’s normally pristine stitching was slightly off due to his uncontrollable smirking and guffawing.
“I swear to god Sammy…”
“I would pay money to have been there. Cold hard cash.”
“Moses was highly distressed,” interjected Castiel.
“Moses? Moses was highly distressed?” barked Dean. “How about Dean was righteously pissed when that bird brain clawed a chunk of his arm out?”
“You startled him. You surreptitiously approached him.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dean’s jaw hung open. He turned to Sam. “That bird was fucking jealous.”
“You know you’re making it worse for yourself, right?”
“Shut up and sew.”
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