Fic: Slouching Up That Hill (Dean/Castiel)
Title: Slouching Up That Hill
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: 5x14 tag
Length: ~1,350 words
Summary: Come on angel, come on darlin’, let’s exchange the experience.
Note: Many thanks to aesc and siriaeve for looking this over.
Slouching Up That Hill
Sam’s doing better now, pulping pen caps between his teeth but clear-eyed, purposeful. It’s Cas who’s worrying Dean: he’s been irritable ever since they neutralized Famine, snappish, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s fighting off a headache. During one research session he rises to fetch a book and Dean sees him sway on his feet, his eyes going wide with surprise as he reaches out to steady himself with a hand to the back of a chair. Dean thinks about saying something, but he doesn’t; doesn’t have the time or the patience or the inclination for an argument. When he goes out to fetch lunch, he just doubles Sam’s order for a Chinese chicken salad-oranges and lettuce together? whatever, dude-and back at the motel plops the spare down in front of Castiel without a word. Kicks Sam under the table when he starts to speak. Takes a big bite out of his own turkey sandwich-they’re all off beef for a while, it looks like-and simply watches as Cas slowly picks up his plastic fork, takes one careful bite and then another. Watches as the tension bleeds out of his shoulders and the color comes back into his cheeks, and Dean doesn’t feel nothing, no. The sandwich tastes like chalk dust in his mouth, but he feels satisfied.
Sam’s newest mission in life seems to be to make Dean laugh. Instead of shitty motel rooms, Dean’s starting to feel like he’s stuck staying in a series of crappy comedy clubs. Worse, Sam has recruited Cas to the cause. Whenever the angel opens his mouth, Dean can no longer be sure whether it will be to impart a crucial piece of information about Lucifer, or to ask Dean why the chicken crossed the road.
(Because it was compelled by the righteous power of the Lord. And okay, Dean may have smiled at that, just a little.)
When Bobby unearths a critical piece of information in an ancient text, or Castiel translates a seemingly impossible fragment of Enochian, or Sam fits a bunch of disparate pieces together in that big ol’ brain of his and lands them a fresh clue, man do the three of them get excited. They’re like a bunch of teenage girls at a slumber party, except instead of some heartthrob in a glossy mag, they’re geeking out and cooing over some big, dusty tome. Dean watches them from the couch, absently sipping his beer. “Dean,” Sam practically shrieks, “do you know what this means?” And Dean says, “Yeah, I hear you, Sammy, that’s great.” ’Cause he’s happy for them. He is.
“I believe I am experiencing ‘déjà vu,” Cas says later, breaking away from the celebration inside and joining Dean on the porch. “I used to stand out here and watch you, in there.”
He gestures with the glass in his hand, dark liquid slopping and ice clinking. Dean’s still working on his same beer from earlier, or he was; it’s probably warm and flat now, abandoned somewhere by his shoe.
Dean doesn’t bother to correct Cas’ somewhat fuzzy grasp of the whole déjà vu concept-he can probably get Sam to show him The Matrix later or something. “Spoken like a true stalker,” is all he says now, staring out at the city of junked cars. They look skeletal in the moonlight: hollowed out and empty.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Cas follow his line of sight, then look back, look at him. It used to make Dean uncomfortable that Castiel’s gaze was so penetrating, that the angel could see inside him. It doesn’t make him uncomfortable anymore.
Still, when Cas says, “Dean?” worriedly, Dean coughs and shifts and says, “Don’t you want to get back in there and enjoy the fruits of your nerdy labors?”
Cas looks over his shoulder, toward the lighted window. “Yes,” he says. “But you should come with me. It’s better inside.”
Dean’s eyes flicker over, narrowed. “Is the power of subtlety the next one you’re losing?”
Cas frowns. “You used to want me to be more straightforward.”
“I used to want a lot of things,” Dean says.
Cas doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that. He doesn’t leave, however, so Dean steps off the porch and sets out across the yard, hands in his pockets. Cas doesn’t follow. Good, Dean thinks. Angel can take a hint. Then he rounds the corner and Cas is there waiting, leaning up against the side of the Impala with something strange and weighty in his eyes.
“I never did,” Cas says, like their conversation hasn’t been interrupted by a disgruntled departure and an act of teleportation. “I never wanted anything, except to serve my Father, do my duty, carry out my orders to the best of my ability. Obedience was all that mattered; I never wanted anything for myself.”
Dean thinks about saying something like, Well, you were very goal-oriented, thinks about meaning it as a compliment; Cas, however, doesn’t give him the chance. “But Dean,” he says, stepping forward, proving the need for remedial classes in the concept of personal space, “I want so much now.” His hands open and close at his sides, like he’s reaching for something impossible. “How can you, how can you not-”
Dean sighs. “It’s all just distractions, Cas. Food, booze, fighting, sex-they don’t mean anything. Not in the end.”
Cas watches him while he speaks, his stare intense, thoughtful. “But we’re not at the end,” he says finally, somehow bestowing upon the statement Spockian levels of calm and logic. “And I think-I want some distraction, Dean. I want-”
At the cat house, Cas had looked so freaked, wide-eyed and awkward and scared. It had been funny; it had made Dean laugh. Dean is not laughing now.
But he does, he does feel something when Cas’ grasping fingers seize around the edge of his coat. He feels surprise, at the very least, when Cas claims him, awkward but insistent, with his mouth. And maybe he even feels something like relief, because, because- Because it’s Cas, maybe, and Cas wants him. There is something left of him for Cas to want.
And boy does he ever: he sucks eagerly on Dean’s lower lip, nips at the corner of his mouth, explores Dean’s body with tongue and hands. Cas has appetites, and Dean feels open to the idea of letting him indulge them, letting him drag Dean forward to sandwich Cas between his body and the car. He’s making all these little sounds, greedy moans and desperate sighs, and though Dean is silent he shivers a little, grateful suddenly for the warm press of Cas’ hands at the root of his spine.
“You want this, don’t you?” Cas asks, clearly shaking with how much he does-millennia with nothing, and he ends up with this, with Dean, Jesus. “Don’t you want this?”
Dean finds it’s easiest to press closer to Castiel’s heat, into the greedy grope of his hands. “I want you,” he promises. And it’s true. I want you to have whatever you want.
Cas kisses him again, hungrily. “This wasn’t destined, Dean,” he says with an impressive amount of solemnity, his lips swollen and pink. “Heaven had no hand in this. No conception-”
Dean snorts. “I should hope not.”
Cas flushes; for him it’s a newly-learned skill, something that has just begun to appear, as rare and as fleeting as his smiles. It makes Dean-well. It’s not entirely unaffecting.
“They could not have conceived of this,” Cas tries again, reaching up to caress Dean’s cheek.
On impulse, Dean catches his hand, folds his fist around Cas’ fingers. “Good,” he says.
He can feel the warm pulse of Castiel’s blood in his wrist. For several seconds, he stays still, soaking up the silent thump thump, quick but even. Castiel throbs against him, hot with desire, alive with it. Dean’s surprised to find he doesn’t want to let go.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: 5x14 tag
Length: ~1,350 words
Summary: Come on angel, come on darlin’, let’s exchange the experience.
Note: Many thanks to aesc and siriaeve for looking this over.
Slouching Up That Hill
Sam’s doing better now, pulping pen caps between his teeth but clear-eyed, purposeful. It’s Cas who’s worrying Dean: he’s been irritable ever since they neutralized Famine, snappish, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s fighting off a headache. During one research session he rises to fetch a book and Dean sees him sway on his feet, his eyes going wide with surprise as he reaches out to steady himself with a hand to the back of a chair. Dean thinks about saying something, but he doesn’t; doesn’t have the time or the patience or the inclination for an argument. When he goes out to fetch lunch, he just doubles Sam’s order for a Chinese chicken salad-oranges and lettuce together? whatever, dude-and back at the motel plops the spare down in front of Castiel without a word. Kicks Sam under the table when he starts to speak. Takes a big bite out of his own turkey sandwich-they’re all off beef for a while, it looks like-and simply watches as Cas slowly picks up his plastic fork, takes one careful bite and then another. Watches as the tension bleeds out of his shoulders and the color comes back into his cheeks, and Dean doesn’t feel nothing, no. The sandwich tastes like chalk dust in his mouth, but he feels satisfied.
Sam’s newest mission in life seems to be to make Dean laugh. Instead of shitty motel rooms, Dean’s starting to feel like he’s stuck staying in a series of crappy comedy clubs. Worse, Sam has recruited Cas to the cause. Whenever the angel opens his mouth, Dean can no longer be sure whether it will be to impart a crucial piece of information about Lucifer, or to ask Dean why the chicken crossed the road.
(Because it was compelled by the righteous power of the Lord. And okay, Dean may have smiled at that, just a little.)
When Bobby unearths a critical piece of information in an ancient text, or Castiel translates a seemingly impossible fragment of Enochian, or Sam fits a bunch of disparate pieces together in that big ol’ brain of his and lands them a fresh clue, man do the three of them get excited. They’re like a bunch of teenage girls at a slumber party, except instead of some heartthrob in a glossy mag, they’re geeking out and cooing over some big, dusty tome. Dean watches them from the couch, absently sipping his beer. “Dean,” Sam practically shrieks, “do you know what this means?” And Dean says, “Yeah, I hear you, Sammy, that’s great.” ’Cause he’s happy for them. He is.
“I believe I am experiencing ‘déjà vu,” Cas says later, breaking away from the celebration inside and joining Dean on the porch. “I used to stand out here and watch you, in there.”
He gestures with the glass in his hand, dark liquid slopping and ice clinking. Dean’s still working on his same beer from earlier, or he was; it’s probably warm and flat now, abandoned somewhere by his shoe.
Dean doesn’t bother to correct Cas’ somewhat fuzzy grasp of the whole déjà vu concept-he can probably get Sam to show him The Matrix later or something. “Spoken like a true stalker,” is all he says now, staring out at the city of junked cars. They look skeletal in the moonlight: hollowed out and empty.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Cas follow his line of sight, then look back, look at him. It used to make Dean uncomfortable that Castiel’s gaze was so penetrating, that the angel could see inside him. It doesn’t make him uncomfortable anymore.
Still, when Cas says, “Dean?” worriedly, Dean coughs and shifts and says, “Don’t you want to get back in there and enjoy the fruits of your nerdy labors?”
Cas looks over his shoulder, toward the lighted window. “Yes,” he says. “But you should come with me. It’s better inside.”
Dean’s eyes flicker over, narrowed. “Is the power of subtlety the next one you’re losing?”
Cas frowns. “You used to want me to be more straightforward.”
“I used to want a lot of things,” Dean says.
Cas doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that. He doesn’t leave, however, so Dean steps off the porch and sets out across the yard, hands in his pockets. Cas doesn’t follow. Good, Dean thinks. Angel can take a hint. Then he rounds the corner and Cas is there waiting, leaning up against the side of the Impala with something strange and weighty in his eyes.
“I never did,” Cas says, like their conversation hasn’t been interrupted by a disgruntled departure and an act of teleportation. “I never wanted anything, except to serve my Father, do my duty, carry out my orders to the best of my ability. Obedience was all that mattered; I never wanted anything for myself.”
Dean thinks about saying something like, Well, you were very goal-oriented, thinks about meaning it as a compliment; Cas, however, doesn’t give him the chance. “But Dean,” he says, stepping forward, proving the need for remedial classes in the concept of personal space, “I want so much now.” His hands open and close at his sides, like he’s reaching for something impossible. “How can you, how can you not-”
Dean sighs. “It’s all just distractions, Cas. Food, booze, fighting, sex-they don’t mean anything. Not in the end.”
Cas watches him while he speaks, his stare intense, thoughtful. “But we’re not at the end,” he says finally, somehow bestowing upon the statement Spockian levels of calm and logic. “And I think-I want some distraction, Dean. I want-”
At the cat house, Cas had looked so freaked, wide-eyed and awkward and scared. It had been funny; it had made Dean laugh. Dean is not laughing now.
But he does, he does feel something when Cas’ grasping fingers seize around the edge of his coat. He feels surprise, at the very least, when Cas claims him, awkward but insistent, with his mouth. And maybe he even feels something like relief, because, because- Because it’s Cas, maybe, and Cas wants him. There is something left of him for Cas to want.
And boy does he ever: he sucks eagerly on Dean’s lower lip, nips at the corner of his mouth, explores Dean’s body with tongue and hands. Cas has appetites, and Dean feels open to the idea of letting him indulge them, letting him drag Dean forward to sandwich Cas between his body and the car. He’s making all these little sounds, greedy moans and desperate sighs, and though Dean is silent he shivers a little, grateful suddenly for the warm press of Cas’ hands at the root of his spine.
“You want this, don’t you?” Cas asks, clearly shaking with how much he does-millennia with nothing, and he ends up with this, with Dean, Jesus. “Don’t you want this?”
Dean finds it’s easiest to press closer to Castiel’s heat, into the greedy grope of his hands. “I want you,” he promises. And it’s true. I want you to have whatever you want.
Cas kisses him again, hungrily. “This wasn’t destined, Dean,” he says with an impressive amount of solemnity, his lips swollen and pink. “Heaven had no hand in this. No conception-”
Dean snorts. “I should hope not.”
Cas flushes; for him it’s a newly-learned skill, something that has just begun to appear, as rare and as fleeting as his smiles. It makes Dean-well. It’s not entirely unaffecting.
“They could not have conceived of this,” Cas tries again, reaching up to caress Dean’s cheek.
On impulse, Dean catches his hand, folds his fist around Cas’ fingers. “Good,” he says.
He can feel the warm pulse of Castiel’s blood in his wrist. For several seconds, he stays still, soaking up the silent thump thump, quick but even. Castiel throbs against him, hot with desire, alive with it. Dean’s surprised to find he doesn’t want to let go.