Fic: One More Thing...
Title: One More Thing...
Characters: Castiel/Dean
Ratings/Warnings: PG-13/Spoilers for 5.02
Word Count: 1200
Summary: Dean is having a bad day already, and Cas is so not helping.
Inspired by bitsofbrits's comments in a recent spn_castiel entry.
It was weird, checking into a motel and only asking for the one bed. Dean had asked for two queens out of habit and only corrected himself when he realized the teenage girl behind the front desk wasn’t shooting a gaydar scan between him and the scruffy giant looming behind him.
Half a day, and was already starting to miss the looming. How lame was that?
“Room fifteen,” the girl said, eyes on her Free Cell game as she shoved the keys across the counter.
Dean turned, his mouth ready to call for Sammy to get things out of the car, but of course his brother wasn’t there. Okay, so, another habit that needed extinguishing. Fine. Just peachy. He could retrain himself to be alone. He’d been alone before for like three whole weeks, when Dad had taken off and Sam was at Stanford. He was flexible. Hell, he was Stretch Armstrong.
Still, when Dean opened the door to room fifteen to just the one measly bed and there was nobody beside him to laugh at the overenthusiastically wolf-themed bedsheets, his shoulders sank a little. He sat down on the edge of the bed and patted the embroidered snout of one of the wolves fondly.
The air rustled slightly, and when he glanced back at the door, Castiel was standing in front of it, wearing one of his Very Serious Business faces. Dean couldn’t tell if it was the We Have Work For You face or the No, He’s Not On Any Flatbread face, but something deeply important was clearly on the angel’s mind.
“Dean,” he said darkly, which Dean had come to know as angel for “Hello.”
“Hey, Cas. You got my voicemail, I take it?” He watched the angel nod, then leaned forward. “Did you know your outgoing message is just flapping noises?”
“I am aware,” Castiel said, his eyes flicking between Dean’s face and the window. “I need one more thing from you.”
Dean tensed, his hand immediately rising to his throat where his amulet ought to hang. “What now?” he said, trying to shrug off the nervous gesture all casual-like. “You want me to treat you to Mickey D’s?”
“I need your shirt,” Castiel said, meeting his eyes.
For the second time in recent memory, Dean found himself glancing down at his own chest, his brow pinched. “This shirt? The shirt I’m wearing?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to literally give you the shirt off my back?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask why?”
“It will help me in the search for God.”
Dean shook his head and looked sidelong at the angel. “What, does Fruit of the Loom glow yellow when you’re near Him? Or maybe, me being some sort of holy vessel, you can track him bloodhound style off my scent?”
“Trust me, Dean,” Castiel said somberly.
Dean swallowed, assessed his shirt one last time, and pulled it off over his head. He passed Castiel a glare along with the balled-up shirt. “I like that shirt, so don’t go using it to wipe your angel snot or anything.”
“This body will not produce mucus unless I will it to,” Castiel answered, staring very hard at Dean’s chest.
And that…well, Dean was starting to feel just a tad uncomfortable. Castiel had that gaze, and he could feel it raking over his skin almost like the sweep of fingertips: across the curve of his collarbone, skirting down over his tattoo, darting from one perky nipple to the other, and slowly drawing down the planes of his stomach toward his belt buckle.
“Uh, Cas?” Dean said, leaning to try and catch the guy’s eyes.
Castiel looked up at him, immediately back to I Am Not Kidding You face. Or maybe it was Destiny Cannot Be Changed, Dean face. He had so many faces. “I also need your pants.”
“My pants?”
“Yes.”
“The pants I’m wearing?”
“We’ve had this exchange already.” Castiel stepped toward him, somehow managing to make holding a limp t-shirt look vaguely threatening. “If you trust me, you will give me your pants.”
Pants for the angel. Well, at least he wasn’t demanding a pound of flesh or anything Biblical. Dean grumbled to himself as he peeled off his jeans. He felt eyes on him again, eye-groping him all over the damn place, and tried to ignore them. Rolling his jeans into a tight ball, he chucked them at the angel. “Here’s your freaking pants. Happy? Or do you want my shorts, too?”
Castiel furrowed his brow, giving Dean’s shorts a look like he had considered that but thought it unwise. Meeting Dean’s eyes again, he leaned forward, easing into his personal bubble in that slick, unnerving angel way of his. Dean leaned back slightly, but Castiel pressed one hand to the wolf bedspread, hovering so close that Dean could feel the guy’s breath on his lips. His stomach took a wild flip, like a seat in one of those many-armed amusement park rides Sammy used to like so much as a kid. Like a circuit on one of those rides, the motion was half-fear, half-well, something not-fear. Dean didn’t really want to think about it. He licked his lips.
“I gave my place in Heaven for you,” Castiel said, his voice low and his breath hot against Dean’s lower lip. “I gave my family. My safety. Everything I had, I gave for you, and I would have given more if I’d had it.” His eyes widened dangerously. “And instead of being grateful, you complain of feeling naked when I ask for a loan of one small object.” He said the last three words slowly, each syllable throwing its own distinct puff of breath against Dean’s skin. Then he paused, his eyes traveling the length of Dean again with that curious head-tilt. His lips curled up at the corners, and when he looked back up, he was wearing a full-on smirk. And that face? Dean had no doubts about that face. That was the Just So You Understand face. “Now,” Castiel said, “you have a legitimate complaint about nakedness. I hope you enjoy it.”
And with a sound like his outgoing voicemail message, the angel disappeared.
Dean suddenly realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it out, scanning the room. “Cas?” No answer. “Cas, look, I’m sorry for the whining.” Still no answer. He smacked a hand against the bedspread. “Aw, c’mon, man! All my stuff’s still out in the car!” Nothing.
Dean Winchester groaned, falling back heavily on the bed. He was still bruised from the fights with un-demons in Colorado, he’d had to say goodbye to his little brother - who, of course, was the one who always remembered to bring in the bags - he’d been set up as a pawn in this stupid apocalypse, and to top it all off, a renegade angel had stolen his pants.
“This day freaking BLOWS!” Dean yelled at the mirrored ceiling, and started bundling the wolf bedspread around himself for a trip out to the car.
The end!
Characters: Castiel/Dean
Ratings/Warnings: PG-13/Spoilers for 5.02
Word Count: 1200
Summary: Dean is having a bad day already, and Cas is so not helping.
Inspired by bitsofbrits's comments in a recent spn_castiel entry.
It was weird, checking into a motel and only asking for the one bed. Dean had asked for two queens out of habit and only corrected himself when he realized the teenage girl behind the front desk wasn’t shooting a gaydar scan between him and the scruffy giant looming behind him.
Half a day, and was already starting to miss the looming. How lame was that?
“Room fifteen,” the girl said, eyes on her Free Cell game as she shoved the keys across the counter.
Dean turned, his mouth ready to call for Sammy to get things out of the car, but of course his brother wasn’t there. Okay, so, another habit that needed extinguishing. Fine. Just peachy. He could retrain himself to be alone. He’d been alone before for like three whole weeks, when Dad had taken off and Sam was at Stanford. He was flexible. Hell, he was Stretch Armstrong.
Still, when Dean opened the door to room fifteen to just the one measly bed and there was nobody beside him to laugh at the overenthusiastically wolf-themed bedsheets, his shoulders sank a little. He sat down on the edge of the bed and patted the embroidered snout of one of the wolves fondly.
The air rustled slightly, and when he glanced back at the door, Castiel was standing in front of it, wearing one of his Very Serious Business faces. Dean couldn’t tell if it was the We Have Work For You face or the No, He’s Not On Any Flatbread face, but something deeply important was clearly on the angel’s mind.
“Dean,” he said darkly, which Dean had come to know as angel for “Hello.”
“Hey, Cas. You got my voicemail, I take it?” He watched the angel nod, then leaned forward. “Did you know your outgoing message is just flapping noises?”
“I am aware,” Castiel said, his eyes flicking between Dean’s face and the window. “I need one more thing from you.”
Dean tensed, his hand immediately rising to his throat where his amulet ought to hang. “What now?” he said, trying to shrug off the nervous gesture all casual-like. “You want me to treat you to Mickey D’s?”
“I need your shirt,” Castiel said, meeting his eyes.
For the second time in recent memory, Dean found himself glancing down at his own chest, his brow pinched. “This shirt? The shirt I’m wearing?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to literally give you the shirt off my back?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask why?”
“It will help me in the search for God.”
Dean shook his head and looked sidelong at the angel. “What, does Fruit of the Loom glow yellow when you’re near Him? Or maybe, me being some sort of holy vessel, you can track him bloodhound style off my scent?”
“Trust me, Dean,” Castiel said somberly.
Dean swallowed, assessed his shirt one last time, and pulled it off over his head. He passed Castiel a glare along with the balled-up shirt. “I like that shirt, so don’t go using it to wipe your angel snot or anything.”
“This body will not produce mucus unless I will it to,” Castiel answered, staring very hard at Dean’s chest.
And that…well, Dean was starting to feel just a tad uncomfortable. Castiel had that gaze, and he could feel it raking over his skin almost like the sweep of fingertips: across the curve of his collarbone, skirting down over his tattoo, darting from one perky nipple to the other, and slowly drawing down the planes of his stomach toward his belt buckle.
“Uh, Cas?” Dean said, leaning to try and catch the guy’s eyes.
Castiel looked up at him, immediately back to I Am Not Kidding You face. Or maybe it was Destiny Cannot Be Changed, Dean face. He had so many faces. “I also need your pants.”
“My pants?”
“Yes.”
“The pants I’m wearing?”
“We’ve had this exchange already.” Castiel stepped toward him, somehow managing to make holding a limp t-shirt look vaguely threatening. “If you trust me, you will give me your pants.”
Pants for the angel. Well, at least he wasn’t demanding a pound of flesh or anything Biblical. Dean grumbled to himself as he peeled off his jeans. He felt eyes on him again, eye-groping him all over the damn place, and tried to ignore them. Rolling his jeans into a tight ball, he chucked them at the angel. “Here’s your freaking pants. Happy? Or do you want my shorts, too?”
Castiel furrowed his brow, giving Dean’s shorts a look like he had considered that but thought it unwise. Meeting Dean’s eyes again, he leaned forward, easing into his personal bubble in that slick, unnerving angel way of his. Dean leaned back slightly, but Castiel pressed one hand to the wolf bedspread, hovering so close that Dean could feel the guy’s breath on his lips. His stomach took a wild flip, like a seat in one of those many-armed amusement park rides Sammy used to like so much as a kid. Like a circuit on one of those rides, the motion was half-fear, half-well, something not-fear. Dean didn’t really want to think about it. He licked his lips.
“I gave my place in Heaven for you,” Castiel said, his voice low and his breath hot against Dean’s lower lip. “I gave my family. My safety. Everything I had, I gave for you, and I would have given more if I’d had it.” His eyes widened dangerously. “And instead of being grateful, you complain of feeling naked when I ask for a loan of one small object.” He said the last three words slowly, each syllable throwing its own distinct puff of breath against Dean’s skin. Then he paused, his eyes traveling the length of Dean again with that curious head-tilt. His lips curled up at the corners, and when he looked back up, he was wearing a full-on smirk. And that face? Dean had no doubts about that face. That was the Just So You Understand face. “Now,” Castiel said, “you have a legitimate complaint about nakedness. I hope you enjoy it.”
And with a sound like his outgoing voicemail message, the angel disappeared.
Dean suddenly realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it out, scanning the room. “Cas?” No answer. “Cas, look, I’m sorry for the whining.” Still no answer. He smacked a hand against the bedspread. “Aw, c’mon, man! All my stuff’s still out in the car!” Nothing.
Dean Winchester groaned, falling back heavily on the bed. He was still bruised from the fights with un-demons in Colorado, he’d had to say goodbye to his little brother - who, of course, was the one who always remembered to bring in the bags - he’d been set up as a pawn in this stupid apocalypse, and to top it all off, a renegade angel had stolen his pants.
“This day freaking BLOWS!” Dean yelled at the mirrored ceiling, and started bundling the wolf bedspread around himself for a trip out to the car.
The end!