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newtothewaywardparty · 7 years ago

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It isn’t that Dean is competitive, exactly.

It’s just that, in his mind, there’s no way that Cas should be better in the kitchen than him.

Dean’s a grown-ass man. He just turned thirty-nine, for crying out loud, and he’s been taking care of Sam since he was four. He’s been cooking for the two of them since he was probably six or seven years old. He’s not the world’s greatest cook, certainly, and most of the stuff he makes comes from a box or a can, but that’s out of convenience and necessity, not out of skill. He knows his way around a kitchen, all right?

And sure, Cas might be a bit older. (Like, thousands upon thousands upon thousands of years older, but whatever. Age is just a number and all…) Obviously, Cas is older, but he doesn’t have cooking experience. Life experience is not cooking experience. And besides, angels don’t even eat! Food just tastes like molecules or whatever anyway, so it makes zero sense that Castiel, Angel of the Lord, should have any skill in the kitchen whatsoever.

At least that’s how Dean sees it.

So when Cas decides to bake brownies from scratch in the bunker kitchen, and Dean has to listen to Sam positively fangirling about the heavenly smell wafting from the oven, and watch his little brother- the health nut- slowly savour the first bite with his eyes closed, groaning around the taste, before swallowing and pronouncing the baked goods “like, the best brownies I’ve ever eaten,” and exclaiming “damn, Cas, I didn’t know you were such an expert baker,” … yeah, Dean has a legitimate excuse for being a little ruffled (and maybe just a tiny bit jealous, because Sammy has certainly never reacted that positively to any of Dean’s cooking.)

Dean challenges Cas to a brownie-off on the spot.

(Okay, so maybe he is just a little competitive.)

“Dean,” Sam snorts, bemused. “Have you ever made brownies before in your life?”

“HAS HE?” Dean gestures wildly to Cas, ignoring the smug look on the blue-eyed angel’s face.

Sam shrugs, hands splayed in surrender. “Fine! You guys wanna fight over brownies, be my guest.”

“Oh, it won’t be a fight, Sammy. It’s gonna be a slaughter,” Dean says loudly, swaggering over to help himself to another brownie. (What? Food is food.)

Sam rolls his eyes.

***

They negotiate their terms.

Cas had used all the bunker’s remaining eggs in his first attempt, so the three of them make a grocery run to grab a few more ingredients under Dean’s supervision (“the type of cocoa you use makes a huge difference, Sam,” and “oh hell no, you can’t expect me to use artificial vanilla extract, are you insane?”)

Eventually, however, the boys find themselves back in the kitchen, where the batters are mixed, the brownies are baked, and Sam is near-forced into a chair at the table to sample the spoils of their labour. Dean places two plates in front of Sam, each containing a large, still-cooling brownie.

Dean waits nervously while Sam takes a bite of the first one. They opted not to reveal which brownie belonged to which baker, just to keep things unbiased, but Dean fidgets on pins and needles while Sam chews. Dean’s eyes keep shifting over to Cas, who seems calm, waiting with practiced patience.

An odd look crosses Sam’s face, but he dutifully (albeit slowly) swallows with a wince, immediately chugging down three quarters of the glass of cold milk Dean provided as a ‘palate-cleanser.’

Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly, but Sam shakes his head, lips pursed, and reaches for the second plate.

Dean waits again, just as impatiently as before, as Sam takes a tentative bite of the second brownie.

He’s barely had time to chew when his expression turns pained, and he suddenly spits the chewed up brownie back on the plate.

“Sam?” Cas asks, concerned.

Sam looks up at them, angrily wiping his mouth. “What’s going on?”

Dean and Cas exchange confused looks. “What?”

“Dude,” Sam says, making a face and then polishing off the rest of his milk. “Those brownies were fucking nasty.”

“Which ones?” Dean presses, glancing over at Cas. “Which one is the winner?”

“Neither,” Sam says automatically, his voice incredulous. “They were both terrible.”

“What?” Dean frowns. “That’s impossible. Cas, did you use the same recipe you used this morning?”

“Of course,” Cas says, but the faintest flush stains his cheeks.

“Wait,” Dean says, puzzled, turning to Sam. “You said they were BOTH gross?”

Sam nods emphatically, eyebrows raised.

Cas becomes unnaturally preoccupied with a speck of something on the floor.

Dean spins on his heel, pointing a finger accusingly at Cas. “You cheated!”

Cas’s eyes narrow and he crosses his arms over his chest. “So did you!”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam interrupts. “Did you guys- did you both… did you… throw the competition?”

“It’s not cheating if you’re trying to lose!” Dean says defensively.

Sam throws his hands up in the air. “Why are you trying to lose?!”

Dean shrugs, avoiding Sam’s eyes.

“Cas?” Sam demands instead.

“I…”

“Unbelievable,” Sam snaps, huffing as he stomps out of the kitchen. “Well, thanks for trying to poison me. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go brush my teeth.”

Dean and Cas remain, unmoving, not yet daring to look at one another.

“I used the same recipe,” Cas mutters quietly, several minutes later. “… But I used a cup of salt instead of sugar.”

Dean coughs. “I, uh… I did too. Salt instead of sugar, I mean.”

“On purpose,” Cas clarifies.

“Yeah,” Dean says. There’s a strange expression on his face Castiel doesn’t recognize. “Me too.”

There’s another prolonged moment of silence, before a slow smile spreads across each of their faces.

“I didn’t want you to lose,” Cas admits shyly. “It seemed very important to you.”

“I wanted you to win. I realized I was kinda being a dick,” Dean counters sheepishly.

“That’s true.”

Dean shoves him playfully, and Cas chuckles.

They stare at each other, still smiling, perhaps a little longer than necessary. Dean notices a light dusting of flour on Castiel’s cheek, and automatically reaches up a gentle hand to brush it off.

“You’ve got a little something there,” Dean says, his voice coming out deep and gruff. His thumb continues to stroke the lines of Cas’s cheekbone long after the flour is gone. He swallows hard, both elated and terrified by his proximity to the angel, and the warm feeling that burns inside him whenever he’s with Cas.

“Thank you,” Cas says, a little breathlessly.

Dean inches closer. “Your… uh… your brownies were really good, man. Like, really good.”

“Thank you,” Cas repeats. His eyes flutter closed, and he leans into Dean’s palm.

Dean’s heart skips a beat. “Cas?” he says huskily. “Why’d you want me to win?”

Castiel’s eyes fly open. “Why did you want me to win?” he counters carefully.

Dean shrugs, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Oh, my God,” Sam exclaims from the doorway with an exaggerated sigh. “Would you guys just kiss and get it over with?”

Dean yelps and jumps backwards at the unexpected voice.

“Sam,” Cas begins awkwardly. “I- that is, we-”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Relax. I just came to grab my phone. But you’ve already ruined my tastebuds, go ahead, might as well ruin my eyes too.”

Cas looks at Dean, who’s rubbing his neck and determinedly avoiding Sam’s gaze.

“Look, Sammy…” Dean stammers, red-faced.

“Save it,” Sam hisses. He snatches his phone off the table and stalks off towards the hall without so much as a backwards glance.

Cas hesitates only a moment before steeling his resolve and closing the distance between himself and a surprised Dean, gently slotting their lips together.

Once Dean’s brain catches up (HOLY SHIT I’M KISSING CAS), he reacts accordingly, his hands wrapping themselves firmly around Cas’s waist, while his mouth responds eagerly to the kiss. He might have lost the competition, but he most definitely feels like the winner at the moment.

Plus, Cas tastes like chocolate.

“You guys owe me some REAL brownies, though!” Sam hollers from the other room, a moment later.

Cas chuckles again and Dean smirks against Cas’s lips. Yeah, he thinks. That’s probably fair.

I can’t remember how it came about that I owed @castiels-tight-grip aka @perplexingstatic a brownie fic, but it happened and I am a woman of my word. Enjoy your brownie fic, you beautiful soul! ;) xx

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newtothewaywardparty · 7 years ago

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Ketch: *gets to the bunker like 3 hours before Sam and Dean get back from tentacle porn star battle*

Ketch: aahh! My chance to make an entrance!

Ketch: *hides in a dark corner and drags Gabriel with him*

Gabriel: [MUFFLED SCREAMINGS]

Ketch: (yell whisper) ssshhhh! shut up! Don’t ruin this for me

Ketch: *hears Sam and Dean enter the bunker* not yet… not yEt…

Sam: All we need now is an archangel and we’re set.

Dean: Sure, that sounds easy.

Ketch: guESS WHAT I FOUND

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newtothewaywardparty · 7 years ago

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#I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT I NEED TO WRITE MY NAME FOR

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newtothewaywardparty · 7 years ago

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Love Interruption 6

Sam tries to dance and commits microaggressions. OFC gets some backstory and there’s mystery plot development if you’re paying attention.

Sam padded along the single-lane dirt road behind Odie. Her strides were significantly shorter than his, so he consciously slowed his pace. Waves of turmoil rolled off her. Her shoulders were high and squared. Sam stuffed his hands deep in his jacket pockets and gazed up at the night sky, resplendent with stars this far from concentrations of electric lights.

Before he could make a cautious approach to bringing up Odie’s parents again, the thump of dance music disturbed the quiet. Little over a half mile down the road, and she was jerking her chin at him to follow her into an open-air bar with a thatched roof. She made a beeline for the bar and begin chatting with the bald man behind the bar, procuring two Belikens in bottles.

Sam decided to give her space. He drew up a stool ringing the outdoor dance floor. Daddy Yankee was pumping loud, but it was early enough that not many patrons were dancing. Sam took in the mostly local crowd, looking around with a hunter’s curiosity and caution. A woman in a body-conscious yellow minidress caught his eye and made for him.

“You looking to score, white boi?” she said frankly, once within distance to make herself heard over the bass. Sam raised his eyebrows, trying to decide if she meant drugs or sex, but before he could formulate an answer, Odie was by his elbow.

“Neither.” Odie’s pleasant voice had gone flat. She raked the barfly with a contemptuous gaze. “There’s no business for you here. He’s with me.” Odie then put a hand on Sam’s arm, passing him one of the beers with the other. The woman flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and waltzed away, her hoop earrings swinging with the motion.

Odie removed her hand, but didn’t move away. Sam caught a noseful of her scent below him, coconut and something sweet underneath gun oil and the floral scent of her soap, which Sam recognized from her shower. “Staking a claim?” Sam asked, teasing.

“This is a chill spot to have a stout and get down, but there is always an element looking to take tourists for a ride. Stay close. Don’t accept drinks from strangers.” Odie narrowed her eyes at him. Sam rolled his in response.

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s roofied me.” he admitted. Odie’s eyes widened in surprise. She looked about to follow that line of inquiry when “Dekole” came on.

“I love this song!” she exclaimed, pulling Sam onto the dance floor. His cheeks burned. One sip of one beer wasn’t nearly enough to make him not resemble a newborn colt on a dance floor. Or at least not enough to make him not care about his flailing limbs. His fears were eased when Odie and a few other patrons fell into a line dance that reminded him of a version of the Electric Slide, only with more hips.

Sam followed along as best he could, cracking up right along Odie every time he turned the wrong way or got off beat. Just as he got the hang of the pattern, which didn’t fall on the even beats of the song, it was over. Sweating and smiling, she pulled him over to where the DJ stood in the corner. It turned out to be Hank, one of her friends from childhood. Hank regarded Sam with appropriately big-brotherly threatening vibes while Odie and Hank debated the latest dancehall releases. Finally, he agreed to play Odie’s request and bid Sam farewell, pulling his headphones back over his long locs.

Sam found himself back at the bar, meeting the bartender, another childhood friend of Odie’s, who poured them each a double shot of 1 barrel rum under her watchful eye. He almost did a spit take of the slightly vanilla-flavored liquor when a shriek pierced the night air.

“AAAaaaaayyyyyyy!” screamed Odie in response, and shot past Sam in a blur. He kicked his jacket back in place from where he had been halfway to his gun tucked in the back of his jeans, going for nonchalant and probably missing, judging by the bartender’s knowing look.

Odie emerged from a tangle of limbs and gestured for another round of 1 barrel. “This is Timea,” she offered. Sam smiled and took the woman’s hand.

“Let me guess,” he smirked. “A friend of yours from childhood.”

Timea was gangly with long sandy hair setting off her light skin. She didn’t break six feet but her dark brown eyes could meet Sam’s directly in an assessing stare and she gripped his hand in a surprising grip. “Where did you find this one?” Timea cut her eyes at Odie, who just threw back her rum, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Sam followed suit. “What do you do, Timea?” He cringed internally. He was out of practice at chatting up strangers at a bar. Questioning witnesses and internet search bars were more in his wheelhouse.

“I’m a public health nurse at the local health clinic.” Timea replied, already shaking her shoulders in time to the music. She and Odie fell into a cluster, Odie’s darker head almost a full foot shorter than Timea’s.

“Oh. That’s cool.” Sam replied to her back. The bartender slid him another Beliken with a look of solidarity. Sam pushed off the bar, wandering through the dancing crowd in search of cooler breeze coming off the ocean. It wasn’t long until he felt a small hand at his back.

Sam found himself in the middle of an impromptu salsa lesson from Timea and Odie, who took turns patiently coaching his flat-footed attempts at finding the beat. Timea lost interest quickly, but Odie clasped Sam’s large hands to hers and caught them to her hips, urging him to feel the beat. Sam felt a flush creep up his neck that had nothing to do with the rum or the warm night.

Hank shifted gears, blending the mid-tempo salsa tune into a relaxed reggae beat. Sam somehow found himself swaying back and forth, arms around Odie, while her chin was tucked against his chest. Understandably, Sam wasn’t paying attention to the verse, which was in Garifuna, but when the hook dropped, Sam couldn’t help bursting out in laughter. A woman’s voice crooned “use a condom” over and over again.

The shaking of his chest startled Odie, who drew back and regarded him with confusion. Sam caught his breath. “Real fun song for the club,” Sam said sarcastically. Odie didn’t share his amusement.

“What’s so funny?” She asked, clearly not getting the joke.

“Nothing, it’s just…” Sam trailed off, lamely. How could he describe his embarrassment at hearing something like STI transmission discussed so frankly in a bump-and-grind song? Behind Odie, he saw Timea distributing condoms to club-goers from a tote bag woven from recycled plastic bags. Two young men grudgingly took two after elbowing each other. Sam saw the woman in the yellow dress slip a handful into her purse.

Odie’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Oh, I see.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Safe sex is a joke to you.” She raked his tall form up and down. “It’s not my fault your culture’s puritanical hang-ups make you incapable of dealing with women with any maturity.” She grabbed Timea’s passing arm and took the tote bag.

“You Americans think you can come down here and take what fun you want, spreading your disease, then hoard your medicines for those that can afford it.” She shook the bag at him for emphasis. She looked about to say something else, but Timea shushed her with something that sounded suspiciously like “he’s not worth it,” and they turned away, resuming their condom distribution.

Sam’s face was now burning even brighter, from shame. He took a few deep breaths, trying to absorb all Odie had said. Why was he embarrassed about this stuff, for Chuck’s sake? She was right, of course. He was a little uptight, and that had everything to do with his own insecurities. Time to man up.

He found Odie leaning against a beam holding up the bar’s thatched roof. Her jacket was draped across her shoulders, and her eyes were on the tide rolling in across the road, just down the beach. She glanced at him, eyes full of scorn.

Sam ducked his head to catch her eye again. He held up his wallet for her to see. “Hey,” he said softly. “I think this is expired.” He produced an ancient condom from its place in his wallet. He had learned to be prepared, but to be honest, his life hadn’t given him much opportunity to check the freshness of his supplies in quite some time. “Plus,” he added with a shy smile, “I hear this is a terrible place to keep them anyway.”

Odie gave him a long look, then silently passed over a condom from the now-almost-empty tote bag from Timea’s clinic. Sam took it from her like the peace offering it was. He cleared his throat. “You know, when you said online your parents were dead, I assumed vamps or something. I drew a straight line between two points, but I see now that was pretty presumptuous of me.”

Odie’s shoulders slumped from where she had been holding them up by her ears. “My father, Jay Reneau, was Garifuna. He practiced obeah” Her voice was so soft Sam had to strain to hear her even out here away from the speakers and crowd. At his questioning look, she added. “Black magic, or voodoo, I guess you would call it, from the Ashanti tradition.” Her mouth quirked. “Though mostly it was like he was a counselor, helping people with their problems.”

Sam stayed silent, giving her the space to continue. He tried his best to make his body less big, less overwhelming, less threatening. For the millionth time, he wished he wasn’t such a moose.

“My mother, Elena Panti, was Mayan-descended from the indigenous people here. She was a midwife, and delivered all the local babies. She also helped heal people with local plants.” Another long pause as her eyes fixed, unseeing, on the waves rolling in.

“When she became sick, we didn’t know why.” Odie swallowed. “Many people here began blaming her for spreading it amongst the women in town.” Sam felt his face fall into a grim mask. It made sense, in a way. He remembered the confusion and fear in his own youth when HIV became known in America. People thought you could get it from a toothbrush, for chrissake.

“Others blamed him. Said he was cursing people with black magic. Why he would curse his wife, they could only speculate. Perhaps a punishment for infidelity.” Odie’s face was a short story about what she thought of this theory.

“Point is,” She finally turned her deep brown eyes to Sam. “They had a lot of enemies. They both got sick eventually. One day they both disappeared. I never saw them again. Did they get kidnapped? Murdered? Or just abandon me?”

Sam began to protest, then remembered his dad basically did the same, out of a sick sense of protection. “It happened enough, back then,” said Odie, sensing his skepticism.

His head swirled. Could Odie’s parents’ disappearance have any connection to the disappearances at the resort now? The question was halfway to his tongue when he saw her expression, raw with pain. Instead, Sam asked softly, “Is that why you are so tight with Hank and Timea?” He knew a little something about children raising one another, forced to grow up too early.

Odie affirmed this with a nod. “We were part of a generation that was devastated by the virus’ appearance here. Many of my peers didn’t make it. Orphans make good targets for predators.” She gave Sam a significant look.

“That’s how you got into hunting.” Sam stated flatly.

“I always knew about ghosts, from my dad,” Odie dismissed. “But a nest of vamps set up shop in Dangriga, ‘adopting’ orphans and using them as bait.” Odie was a million miles away, so she missed Sam’s wince. He was thinking of Alex, but she was continuing. “That’s how I met Hank, and we took them out together. A year later we discovered a pack of werewolves who were recruiting claiming that turning people would cure them.”

Sam switched seamlessly into nerd mode, curious despite himself. “It doesn’t?”

Odie sadly shook her head. “Something about the virus doesn’t mix well with the supernatural, makes it mutate. Sam’s eyes widened, thinking of the Jefferson Starships.

Odie was uncorked now, the words flowing out. “Timea barely kept her heart in her chest, but we saved her. Her parents had already been turned and we had to take them out.”

Sam opened his mouth to say he was sorry, but Odie was steel now, continuing her litany. “The bartender, Dominik, we picked up as a youngster. He was being raised by a shifter who took his daddy’s place. He almost chose the fake over the truth. He didn’t speak for months, and then only to me.”

She shook herself and gave a deep sigh. “Don’t.” she began, when Sam opened his mouth. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Just know,” she leaned back against the beam facing him, uncrossing her arms “why it’s not a joke to me. And Sam,” she caught him in her eyes again. “It really shouldn’t be to you, either.” Sam nodded, putting his hand on her shoulder. She leaned into it, eyes closed, for a moment before pushing back off to walk back to her house.

#spn #supernatural #fanfic #deancas #destiel #Sam Winchester #fake boyfriends #couples retreat #exposition #sorry it really got away from me #Odie wants her story told #what can I say?

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newtothewaywardparty · 7 years ago

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A reblog for the afternoon crowd

Love Interruption 5

Dean and Cas attend an intimacy workshop at the couples’ retreat and unwittingly become the teacher’s pets. Intimacy? Lack of boundaries? Him and Cas? All he felt he was made of lately was a series of thinner, more permeable boundaries, arbitrary lines and fences and guidelines he made up for himself to try to delineate the lines of the map between friend and family and whatever this was in his chest, rising, unbidden, against his breaths and anger and jokes and clenching and alcoholic haze and whatever else he could do to fight back the rising tide of need every time he looked into those blue eyes and felt home.

Chapter 4

“Welcome to group therapy,” cooed Dr. Lea, her entire look the ‘sexy librarian’ of porno fantasies. Dark reading glasses, dark brown hair pulled into a french twist, suit with a skirt and a silk chemise underneath. Dean quirked an eyebrow at Cas, but Cas just looked back at him, nonplussed. Of course, Cas didn’t get it. Dean guessed the pizza man never delivered to the library.

“In our sessions this weekend, you will be participating in exercises with your partner to foster the three legs of the relationship stool.” Dean coughed, covering his mouth with his fist, to cover up the immature joke he had been about to make. Dr. Lea continued, pretending not to notice. “Intimacy, Trust, and Commitment. A relationship needs all three to survive and thrive. Perhaps your relationship has all three, but they could be stronger. Perhaps yours is missing a leg, or even two legs are badly damaged. We will do exercises to help you assess where you are in the process and how to grow those relationship legs.”

Now Dean had to bite his lip entirely, raising his eyebrows. She invited them to divide into couples before continuing with her instructions, directing them about the room to yoga mats with floor pillows that were set up throughout the space.

Cas looked at him balefully. “What?” said Dean, defensively. “You just couldn’t blend in?” asked Cas. “Uh, she’s talking about growing legs and I’m, what, just supposed to leave that hanging?!” Dean realized his joke after the words were out of his mouth and smirked again, but Cas just pursed his lips in annoyance and fell silent.

“Today we will be focusing on intimacy with our partners. Not sexual intimacy, but emotional intimacy, which is harder to achieve in our modern society. We are going to try Soul Gazing, a form of tantra nonverbal communication. You can use this exercise to harmonize your energies, and open your heart space to one another.”

Dean leaned over to Cas and whispered, “Dude, I have no idea what she just said.” and smirked. Cas just gazed disapprovingly at Dean.

“Sit facing one another on the mat, either cross-legged or however is comfortable for you.” Said Dr. Lea, and began walking around the classroom, helping couples adjust. Dean hitched his jeans up his thighs a bit before sitting on the woven mat by their feet, settling his butt on a circular floor pillow with some kind of Moroccan rug look to it. Cas sank to his knees in front of Dean and Dean’s heart did a weird flop inside his chest as he found himself face-to-face with Cas’ crotch. Then Cas settled himself cross-legged opposite Dean.

“Now, you will create an energy circuit with your partner by placing your left palm up and your right palm down. Your partner will do the same, so your palms are touching one another. Dean confusedly tried to figure out these verbal instructions, fumbling hands with Cas for a couple of moments until Cas deliberately grabbed Dean’s wrist and took Dean’s right hand in his, uncurling Dean’s fingers, and placed it, face-down on Cas’ open left palm. Then Cas took Dean’s left hand in his right, avoiding Dean’s eyes. He placed Dean’s left hand firmly up, and covered it with his own right palm. Cas looked up at Dean’s eyes and said “there we go,” and smiled minutely.

Dean’s breath hitched in his chest at the sight of Cas’ icy blue eyes, and refused to think about how hot it had been when Cas took charge that way.

“Next,” continued Dr. Lea, satisfied all the couples were situated, “I would like you to take a moment to attune your breathing to one another. Then I will ring a bell and you will look at your partner in the eyes, without breaking contact. Try to be present in the moment and let any feelings of judgement or distraction simply float away. When I ring the bell the second time, the exercise will be over.”

They’ve done this before, Dean thinks. Nothing to be nervous about. He looked down at their hands, pressed together like pages of a book, breathing deeply, trying to calm his staccato beat of his heart and brain. The bell rang and Dean dragged his eyes up and saw a familiar, perfect, blue sight. This was home.

Understanding passed between them, without any discomfort. It seemed to Dean that they shared a frank recognition, of their history, both individually and shared, and of their natures, complex and immutable. When he looked at Cas like this-without words or expectations, it seemed they were so easily able to reach a mutual understanding.

It’s when they spoke that words and feelings and history and expectations and desires got hopelessly tangled. Why did things have to get weird? Dean thought; leave talking to the civilians; why can’t we just have this?

“Cas? Dean!” a voice broke Dean’s concentration. He wet his lips, not breaking eye contact with Cas, unwilling to leave that certainty, that comfort. Dr. Lea broke in again: “I rang the bell. The exercise is completed.” Dean nodded, still staring at Cas. Who would look away first?

Cas, unwavering, still as a statue, hands warm against Dean’s, looked at him inscrutably and Dean felt the chest feeling, the fucking betraying rise of longing press up again, and he. Would. Not. cry. So he looked away first.

Dean took a deep breath as if he had just surfaced from a long submersion underwater. Cas just looked down and to the side, but did not move his hands from Dean’s.

Dr. Lea cleared her throat and said, “you may have found that exercise uncomfortable or challenging. Perhaps you felt exposed or vulnerable. Perhaps you felt awkward or tense. Hopefully you were able to recognize your partner’s soul and the energy of their life force.” With this she turned to Cas and Dean. “How did you two respond to the exercise?”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. He hadn’t expected to be put on the spot so soon after their humiliating overstep of the exercise’s time limit. Luckily, Cas smoothly stepped in.

“Dean has a beautiful soul. It’s the first thing I ever noticed about him.” Dean shot him a disbelieving look, as if to say let’s not lay it on too thick, buddy, but Cas just shrugged back at him with one shoulder, a new human behavior he had recently adopted.

Dr. Lea beamed at them. “You two have remarkable intimacy. I’d like to explore how those lack of boundaries plays out in other aspects of your relationship.” Dean’s eye roll was almost audible. Dr. Lea went around the room, engaging the other couples in their observations, but Dean’s mind wandered. Instead, he sat in his chair, intertwining his fingers and spacing off, ignoring Cas’ knee inches from his own.

Intimacy? Lack of boundaries? Him and Cas? All he felt he was made of lately was a series of thinner, more permeable boundaries, arbitrary lines and fences and guidelines he made up for himself to try to delineate the lines of the map between friend and family and whatever this was in his chest, rising, unbidden, against his breaths and anger and jokes and clenching and alcoholic haze and whatever else he could do to fight back the rising tide of need every time he looked into those blue eyes and felt home.

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newtothewaywardparty · 7 years ago

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Love Interruption 5

Chapter 4

Dean leaned over to Cas and whispered, “Dude, I have no idea what she just said.” and smirked. Cas just gazed disapprovingly at Dean.

Dean’s breath hitched in his chest at the sight of Cas’ icy blue eyes, and refused to think about how hot it had been when Cas took charge that way.

Dean took a deep breath as if he had just surfaced from a long submersion underwater. Cas just looked down and to the side, but did not move his hands from Dean’s.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. He hadn’t expected to be put on the spot so soon after their humiliating overstep of the exercise’s time limit. Luckily, Cas smoothly stepped in.

#supernatural #spn #destiel #deancas #Dean Winchester #Castiel #fake boyfriends #couples therapy #feelings #UST #angst #Dean is a child #not really just immature #guys I still suck at tagging

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newtothewaywardparty · 7 years ago

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Love Interruption 4

So, I accidentally wrote another Sam chapter. The thing is, he’s a better exposition monkey and also maybe I’m in love with Odie a little bit. Why do you keep talking about my shoulders? LOL, we are all Velma. ANYWAY here’s a long chapter and the next one has Destiel FEELINGS and AWKWARD SILENCES and GROUP THERAPY so if that’s your jam please keep reading I love you all like Sam loves books.

Sam awoke to the sound of the surf. He sighed deeply and raised his head off his pillow on the floor palette Odie had fixed him up in her small living area directly off her kitchen. After ducking in the bathroom, he investigated the tiny cabin looking for her, but it was empty. He helped himself to a bowl of the sweetened coconut rice pudding-type dish he found on the stovetop. Grabbing a mango from a bowl in the center of the metal folding table and a knife, he made his way outside.

He scored a mango half into edible cubes, which clung to the thin green skin until he chewed them off, their sweet juice dribbling down his chin. Odie strode confidently up the beach carrying her surfboard, water droplets on her skin and hair catching the morning sun. She gave Sam a grin that was all white teeth and a big wave with her free hand. Sam waved back and tried not to notice the way her board shorts hugged her strong thighs or the way her yellow bikini top set off her radiant skin.

Sam ducked his head until she was close enough to call to him over the morning waves. “Do all American hunters go to the beach in jeans and boots?” Odie propped her surfboard in its spot along the cabin wall and grabbed a towel from the clothesline.

Sam chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Don’t have many other duds, I guess. This is our first beach trip in a while.” Or ever, he thought. “Plus,” He tapped his boots together firmly where they sat at the end of his crossed legs in the hammock. “It’s sort of our all-purpose uniform. Protect the feet, the skin, layers for different temperatures.” His smile fell a bit. Their lives were not like normal people’s. Sam had a tendency to make himself sad. The downside of being smart, he guessed.

Odie pulled on a graphic tee and gave him a knowing look. “It’s the same here, but you need clothes that won’t get in the way. Loose, sweat-wicking so you don’t dehydrate. Light colors to reflect heat. Flip flops can be lost in a hurry. Sport sandals are better for the jungle.” She jerked her head toward the beach. “Good luck running something down in the sand in those huge clodhoppers.”

Sam made as if he was actually willing to haul himself out of the hammock. “Wanna race? Put your money where your mouth is?”

Odie swatted him with the towel. “I’d hate to humiliate you on your first day. Besides, we have work to do.”

They set up research headquarters at her kitchen table. Odie boasted a premium wifi connection one of her hunter network friends had spliced off the line running to the Stone Jaguar resort where Cas and Dean were staying.

“So, these couples all checked into the resort, and then disappeared on the last day of the couples’ retreat.” Sam summarized. Odie nodded, indicating the proto-murderboard she had rigged up, complete with photos of the couples, their names, and details of their cases underneath it.

“We already had our hunters work with local law enforcement but they’re worthless.” sighed Odie. “They all think the couples were mixed up in drug business in town or kidnapped by Guatamalans near the border.” She tossed her hair disdainfully. “Both theories are ridiculous, of course, but they are eager to write them off because nobody in this part of the country wants to hurt tourism.”

Sam nodded. Made sense, and reminded him of plenty of cases he had worked before. People were pretty much the same everywhere. Willing to turn a blind eye as long as it didn’t affect the status quo.

Odie stood, putting her hands on her hips, pacing in front of the posterboard she had tacked to her kitchen wall. “We also tried interviewing resort employees. They didn’t have any further details. The couples went to the retreat’s final ceremony-a graduation kind of thing. They returned to their rooms, and nobody ever saw them again after that.”

Sam sat back, clicking his pen. “Run through them for me again.” They had been through all of this online already, when he had agreed to come down. A former acquaintance of Eileen’s based in Mexico had connected them. Sam felt a pang at the memory of the brunette hunter, with her sass and bravery and great smile…

“Four couples with no connection I can find. Two in their 50s, one in their 20s, and one in their 30s. One from New York City, one from Sydney, one from rural Alabama, and one from a small town in Northern England. One white couple, one Asian couple, and two mixed-race couples. Three hetero, one same-sex. Two had children; two didn’t.” Odie blew air through her lips in frustration. “It must be opportunity rather than profile.”

Sam agreed, typing on his laptop rapidly. “And the reason we think it’s something supernatural is…” He trailed off. This had been a sensitive topic online. If he was being entirely honest, he didn’t think there was a case here. Maybe the local police were right. Just missing couples in a developing area with higher-than-usual crime.

If he was really willing to look honesty in the face, he’d admit he only agreed to the case to get some beach time and possibly, maybe, just a little part of him wanted to get his brother and Castiel into a couples’ retreat. But Sam was not on trial here.

Odie immediately bristled. “We’ve been over this. It’s too clean. Too neat for humans.” All the couples were found missing the morning they were to check out. Their rooms were undisturbed and locked. All luggage, valuables, and passports remained in place. Nobody saw or heard anything in the night or the morning. No bodies were ever found. They simply vanished.

Sam held a hand out, placating. “Okay. I believe you.” He didn’t, but Sam was good at talking people down. With patience borne of years dealing with jittery victims and his histrionic brother, he changed tack. “Who are the usual suspects in these parts? Vampires? Werewolves? Ghosts? Shifters?”

Odie gave a weird half shrug. “Yes. And no.” I’ve hunted all of those, but what we get here is a little different. After all, our folklore and indigenous gods are different than what you find in middle America.”

Sam raised his hands over his keyboard again, eager. “Okay, well, I’m okay in Spanish, too. What should I look up? Aztec or Inca?” Odie was silent long enough that Sam looked up to confirm she had heard him. She was doubled over, laughing so hard she wasn’t capable of making sound. She drew in a deep breath and schooled her features.

“Well,” she began in the prim tones of a schoolmarm. “Begin by researching all the lore from Mayan/Mestizo peoples whose cultures were indigenous here. Then add in all the French/Creole traditions of the Garifuna people, those descended from shipwrecks of enslaved Africans bound for the West Indies. Don’t forget the British Hondurans. Then of course the British colonizers themselves. In recent generations the Amish with German-descended lore can be found in many of our farming areas, and our cities are full of Chinese immigrants with their myriad religions.”

Sam pushed back from the table. He realized, of course, how reductive he had been, but he was also frustrated. How would they even begin to pinpoint what they were dealing with here?

He looked up at Odie who was watching him with less mirth now and more wariness. “I’m sorry. That was incredibly stupid. You obviously have been over all of this already, and know more than I even will about your community. What do you need from me? How can I help?”

Odie’s brown eyes measured him, assessing. “First,” she walked over and shut the lid of his laptop with a ‘click.’ “The answer’s not going to be online.” She leaned over him and quirked an eyebrow. “And due to the largely oral culture here, it’s not going to be in one of your books.” She pushed one of the tomes Sam had crammed into his carry-on away from him on the table.

She flopped into a chair next to Sam, sighing. “The reason I wanted a second set of eyes-experienced eyes-” here she cut her gaze to Sam who shifted, uncomfortably. The Winchester brothers were becoming somewhat of elder statesmen as far as hunters were concerned. “-is because I can’t figure it out. It’s…” she pressed her knuckles to her lips, and her gaze fell on a small framed photo on the opposite wall. “It’s not the first case that’s been unsolved here.”

Sam followed her eye line to the photo. A small girl with chubby cheeks and arms clung to a woman in a long skirt with armfuls of jewelry and a long, dark braid. A man with a beard and kind eyes had his arm around her, gazing at the girl adoringly. “Your parents?” Sam nodded towards the picture. They had talked about it a bit online. Hunters were often orphans.

Odie’s lips hardened into a line. She took a deep breath as though to begin a story, then stood abruptly. “I need a drink” she announced, grabbing a worn denim jacket from the hook by the door. She opened the door, then paused with her hand on the handle. “You coming?” She didn’t look behind her. Sam didn’t reply. He just walked past her into the warm night, resplendently clear with a beautiful three-quarter moon.

#supernatural #spn #fanfic #Sam Winchester #destiel #deancas #fake boyfriends #couples retreat #tropes #case fic

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newtothewaywardparty · 7 years ago

Text

Love Interruption 3

In which Dean and Cas get a couples’ massage and Dean opens his heart chakra. Or, the author tried to write slow burn UST and it turned into angst #sorrynotsorry

Dean padded in his ridiculous white terrycloth slippers after Cas down a hallway of the on-site spa. They wore matching bathrobes and were full of the breakfast of rice, black beans, fried plantains, and fresh mango that had been delivered to their room. The paperwork they had found in their ‘room’ (which was really a freestanding cabana opening to the sandy beach) disclosed that each couple began their retreat with a ‘relaxing and healing couples massage.’

Dean barely had time to glance at the agenda before rolling onto the bed and falling asleep, fully dressed on top of the covers. The Xanax had apparently taken stronger hold than he had been aware. When he awoke at a positively disrespectful hour, the blankets were disturbed next to him, but Cas wasn’t in the bed. Which was weird because Cas usually had to be pried from bed with a tire-iron.

Already awake, Cas had showered and donned his hotel-issued bathrobe emblazoned with an emblem of a jaguar. He was uncharacteristically quiet as they shared breakfast, chatting sparsely about the details they already knew about the case. Dean didn’t mind the morning’s appointment to give their day shape; staying alone in a romantic cabana with Cas was unsettling.

Now Dean was debating which was weirder; staying cooped up with Cas playing boyfriends in a beachside cabana, or getting a romantic couples massage from Kelsi and Brian, their massage therapists.

“Right this way,” said Kelsi, opening the door for them. She had blonde hair and what he pegged as an Australian accent. Belize was a popular destination for ex-pats looking for a Caribbean lifestyle. Dean gave Cas a “not bad” appraising look as they got a look at the posh interior. Natural wood and glowing, low lights surrounded two massage tables covered in soft blankets. Some sort of hippie new age music was playing softly in the background. Dean scoffed externally, while internally admitting it was sort of relaxing. Whatever; he’d never admit in public.

Brian, a large man with dark skin and a local Garifuna accent, asked if they had an allergies, and when they replied in the negative, he fired up some kind of scent thingy that looked like a humidifier. “Lavender oil with bergamot and peppermint” he explained. Dean nodded knowledgeably to Brian’s face but as soon as the massage therapist turned around Dean tried to privately roll his eyes at Cas, who was standing in his fluffy robe, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

“Smells much better than Enochian ritual magic” said Cas, nodding at the diffuser. Dean cringed. Here they go. When would Cas learn not to say shit like that in front of normies? Luckily, Brian and Kelsi seemed pretty unflappable.

“We’re going to leave the room while you disrobe and get under the covers on the tables, face down. You can leave your robes on these hooks; slippers go over here,” said Kelsi calmly before leaving the room with Brian, pulling the door shut behind him.

Dean knew this was how “real” massages worked. (He had done some research online because his previous experiences on the road with storefront massage parlors didn’t seem quite relevant to this, much classier, situation.) Nevertheless, getting to this part with Cas in the room felt strangely awkward and intimate. He fingered the demon knife in his pocket, wondering if they were in enough danger to keep it nearby. He settled for stashing it under the mattress of the massage table.

He quickly slipped off his robe, back to Cas, and crossed the room to the table in two quick strides, eyes on the floor the entire time. He practically dove under the covers, and settled onto the warm bed. He peeked up with one eye to see Castiel was already arranging his covers over himself as well. Dean was definitely not disappointed he didn’t get a glimpse of Cas without his robe. Nope. Definitely what he was feeling was relief.

Dean shook his head to himself in exasperation. Way to keep it cool, Dean. He settled his face into the weird circular pillow, staring down at the floor. A few seconds later a knock came at the door. “Come in,” called Cas, seemingly more at ease than Dean. Well, Cas doesn’t get as self-conscious as the rest of us wretched humans, Dean thought, goodie for him. Just a normal day on the job, being a hunter, right? Pretending to be a strained couple getting some much-needed relaxation by getting their nude bodies rubbed down by a couple of strangers. Perfectly normal. For one hysterical moment, Dean wondered who in their right mind had originally conceived of the ‘Couples Massage.’ If he ever met them, they would have Words, Dean thought.

His discomfort quickly abated as soon as the massage began. Brian and Kelsi began a well-practiced professional routine of working detachedly on Dean and Cas’ muscles, and pretty soon Dean forgot all about Cas and just focused on the sensation of release in his tight back and shoulder muscles. Brian put his considerable bulk into ironing out and smoothing knots Dean hadn’t even realized he had, probably from too many miles in the Impala, nights on lumpy motel mattresses, and fights with supernatural baddies. Dean felt his shoulders descend away from their tightly-held position near his ears, melting down his spine. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed.

His relaxation was abruptly cut short by a noise startling Dean out of his reverie. A deep groan emitted from the table next to his, and Dean raised his head, alarmed. Castiel lay on the table directly to Dean’s right, and Dean could see Cas’ back, uncovered to the gentle rise below his lower back, gleaming slightly in the low light with the oil Kelsi was using to work her thumbs into the pads of muscle just above Cas’ ass. “Mmmmmm, that feels AMAZING, Kelsi!” Cas rumbled into his face pillow. Dean felt all the blood in his body competing for first place in the race to his dick. He had maybe, once or twice, fantasized about what Castiel might sound like in the throes of pleasure. Here was his sneak peek and it. . .did not disappoint.

“Is everything okay?’ Brian interrupted. Dean jerked back to awareness of his slack jaw (he hadn’t realized his mouth was open), his tense upper back holding himself up to look at the next table. Dean shook his head. “Yeah, sorry,” and laid back down as Brian resumed his ministrations.

Dean closed his eyes as Castiel continued his very vocal response to Kelsi’s massage. The situation was getting quickly out of hand for Dean, who had always found Cas’ rumbly growl appealing. The problem was, not only was Cas moaning completely un-self-consciously in a way that could only be construed as pleasurable, he was. . .surprisingly verbal. Cas was not shy about using his big boy words to tell Kelsi exactly what he did and didn’t like, and how much he liked it. “Right there, Kelsi.” “Just a bit harder, please.” “That’s perfect, oh yeah.” All completely innocently, of course. Dean was the one perving on the talk, imagining Cas giving him that kind of direction and detailed feedback in response to Dean’s touch. It was hot as hell, and Dean shifted to relieve the pressure on his now uncomfortable groin. Before things went too far south, his overactive imagination was interrupted by Kelsi.

“If you take the partner yoga massage class, Cas carries a lot of tension in his hands and feet. He’s extremely sensitive there, and on his neck and jaw.” Dean turned his head to see her demonstrating a stroke along one of Cas’ bare feet, eliciting a moan closer to a cry from Cas as his entire body shuddered on the table. Cas is so fucking sensitive, thought Dean. He quickly dropped his face down through the pillow hole again, face burning, mouth dry. “Yep” he said, “Thanks for the tip.”

Brian, apparently not to be outdone, chimed in “And Cas, that class would really help Dean. He carries a ton of tension in his back and shoulders, all the way to his lower back. Dean’s eyes flew open as Brian scooched the sheet all the way down to the absolute lower limits of his modesty. Using a strong forearm and elbow, Brian made an ironing motion all the way up and down one side of Dean’s body. Now it was Dean’s turn to utter an involuntary cry of pleasure. “What did you say it was you did again?” Brian asked.

“Law enforcement” Dean said gruffly.

“I can tell. You feel like soldiers and firefighters I’ve worked on in the past,” replied Brian. “Strong but not as flexible or balanced as my athletes. You should take the partner yoga massage class with Cas, have him help you stretch it out.” Dean rolled his eyes with the privacy of the face pillow.

“That sounds nice, Brian, thank you for the recommendation,” Cas managed to interject, politely, between his groans. Dean heard Kelsi tell Cas to turn over and move down on the massage table while she held the blanket to shield his privacy, so Dean knew what was coming when Brian asked him to do the same. The only problem was Little Dean. He knew if he flipped over at this time, he would be pitching a tent too obvious and embarrassing for the poor professionals just trying to do their jobs. Dean heard himself tell Brian, “You know, my back still hurts. Could you work a little longer there?”

Lying face up seemed to elicit fewer vocalizations from Cas, and between that thankful respite and mentally cataloguing every gross monster Dean had ever faced, he was soon ready to flip over, and told Brian so. The massage therapist situated Dean so that his arms were on top of the sheet and stood above Dean’s head. Brian massaged Dean’s scalp and head, face, and neck, until Dean felt himself floating softly on a cloud of nonsexual physical pleasure.

Dean so rarely had anyone touch him. He’d never admit it, but that was one thing he never got enough of-growing up-or now, for that matter. He got the shit beat out of him on the regular, at first by his dad, and then by monsters and assholes. That served as a nice counterpoint to the sex he regularly sought ought in his younger, more reckless years; anonymous encounters with women (and yeah, sometimes men) who would fill his need for physical intensity and pleasure without the demands of intimacy. Now, the only regular tactile human contact he had was gruff, brotherly hugs with Sam, and the too-few, too-short, too-little shoulder grasps from Cas.

With that thought, a pang of longing rose up from somewhere around Dean’s belly, and with practiced discipline, Dean shoved it back down. Brian was now working smoothly and deeply over the muscles of Dean’s chest. Dean breathed down the longing, but the release of the muscles seemed to bring it back up.

Brian administered one particularly deep stroke and Dean felt tears well up in his eyes. Not from pain. At least, not from physical pain. Brian didn’t notice and kept working on Dean’s chest, opening it up while Dean struggled against him to emotionally shut it back down, this longing he worked so hard every day to keep tied up and locked up tight and tamed and dulled and fuck-Dean felt like his heart was actually breaking. The longing need was going to escape and it was going to be a hell of a lot more embarrassing than a stupid erection. Dean finally gasped and let a small noise escape; those less charitable to his ego might have described it as a sob.

Brian stopped abruptly. “Are you ok?” he asked in a low tone. Dean nodded, embarrassed, keeping his eyes squeezed shut so the stupid betraying fuckers wouldn’t start making tears, as they seemed so wont to do. He was holding his breath to squeeze the chest longing-need-lonely feeling back in. Brian did not move to touch him.

“Dean?” came Cas’ voice from the next table, intense. “What’s wrong?” Dean peeked over long enough to see Cas’ scrutinizing, worried face. For some reason that made it worse, and Dean breathed shallowly, trying to get control over his emotions.

“Would you like me to continue?” Dean shook his head no and Brian withdrew respectfully, as Dean choked back another sob, breathing shakily.

“Dean!” Cas flew off his table, leaving a startled Kelsi in his wake, clutching the sheet around his waist as he did so and was at Dean’s side in a second. “What’s wrong with him?” Cas demanded, whirling on Brian. “What did you do to him?” Cas throat and jaw was clenched again, no doubt the cause of the ‘tension’ Kelsi had noted.

Brian lifted his hands placatingly. “It’s completely normal” he pleaded. “Working the muscles often releases pent-up emotions, stress, fear, pain, even trauma. It’s healthy and good to physically let go.” Cas put one hand on Dean’s shoulder. The shoulder. Cas was touching him. Another breath in, and out, and squeeze the chest down, shove the longing down, and Dean was still trying to hold it together, now more for Cas’ sake than his own. Push it away. As far away as he could get it. Time to flip that switch he so often did whenever fear or sadness threatened him. Anger was always easier than hurt, for Dean.

“I’m fine, Cas, just leave me alone,” Dean snarled, pushing Cas’ hand away, ignoring Cas’ drawn brows, pursed lips.

Cas looked at Brian, head tilted as he always did when trying to understand human things. “Why did it happen now, instead of when the massage started?”

Brian looked baffled. “I have no idea. Maybe he finally felt safe enough to let go of those emotions, or maybe the massage released a blockage in the heart chakra.”

Dean barked “I don’t have a blockage in my heart-Chaka-Khans! Just leave me alone,” he spat out, waving his hands for emphasis. Brian beat a hasty retreat, and honestly, who wouldn’t when confronted with peak angry Dean? Kelsi looked at Cas with an apologetic, sad smile, then left the room.

Dean sat up, mindful to keep his sheet tucked around his hips. Cas stood, as per his usual, in Dean’s personal space, but made no move to touch Dean. Dean looked up to meet Cas’ blue eyes, and saw the concern there. Dean opened his mouth to quip and make that look go away on Cas’ face, but the words got caught and he just ended up taking a breath and then closing his mouth, looking more like a goldfish than his ‘cool’ self-image. Cas didn’t break eye contact but every so slowly, as if Dean was a horse Cas was afraid to spook, placed his hand gently on Dean’s back and began rubbing counter-clockwise circles there.

Cas had beat his ass into a brick wall. Cas had cupped his jaw and healed him. Cas had gripped his shoulder. Cas had hugged him firmly like a brother. Cas had clasped his arms around Dean and wrestled the demon out of him. But Cas had never, ever touched him anything close to this; caring and gentle.

The cracks in the dam became a hole, and Dean’s sobs shattered the peaceful whale noises, spa-music groove in the massage room. Dean clung to Cas’ chest like a baby, but Cas just calmly held him. “It’s okay, Dean” said Cas’ voice in Dean’s hair. “I’ve got you.”

Time slowed, and with it, Dean’s breathing slowed down. Whatever stupid chakra opening had run its course and he felt strangely better, lighter, freer, if a little spent. Now he was aware of the rise and fall of Cas’ bare chest under his cheek, Cas’ large hand on Dean’s back, Cas’ barely draped lower body underneath Cas’ taut muscles. Dean breathed evenly again, this time to steel himself to pull away and compose himself. He gave Cas’ shoulder a pat that was more push, trying to regain the ‘buddy’ equilibrium they had established over the past decade. Kind of hard in these circumstances, but Dean was no stranger to denial. “Thanks Cas. I’m good now.”

Cas let his hand drift awkwardly in the air where it had been on Dean’s back seconds before. Cas’ expression was unreadable. “Do you think this has something to do with the case?” He asked abruptly, dropping his hand to his side to pull up his sheet more securely over his hip bone.

“Nah, I think I’m just garden variety cuckoo. Remind me to NEVER get a massage again,” Dean joked, pointedly *not* looking as Cas crossed the room and dropped his sheet, pulling on his robe, his back to Dean.

“Both Brian and Kelsi pushed that partner yoga massage class pretty hard. I think we should follow it up.” said Cas, nonchalantly. “As a lead” he added after a moment’s silence. Cas tossed Dean his robe, and Dean pulled it on while gratefully covered by his sheet. Dean nodded, acknowledging both Cas’ idea, and the robe assist.

“I’ll be in the room” said Cas, whirling on his heel and leaving almost as quickly as he had with his angel mojo back in the day.

Dean felt sad in a way that had nothing to do with his massage meltdown. He felt like there was something he wasn’t understanding with Castiel. He had to be more careful to keep thing, you know, normal. His emotions were clearly getting in the way here. Well, of wherever ‘here’ was. The location of which, Dean wasn’t sure. He needed a map, because the road so far had been pretty damn twisty. What’s the Hallmark card category, Dean wondered, for a celestial being, savior, ally, former enemy, friend, family member who you may or may not want to bang and also be in love with?

“Fuck my life.” Dean dropped his head into his hands, doing a perfect facepalm. The poor guy didn’t ask to be fixated on by Dean. Jokes about Cas’ obvious loyal devotion to Dean aside, Dean had no clue what, if anything, Cas thought about the subject. Dean had given Cas a million openings, and he’d never taken one. Then again, neither had Dean.

He figured, if it hadn’t happened by now, there probably was a reason, and that reason was either Cas didn’t feel the same way about Dean OR Cas just wasn’t capable of feeling that way about anybody, period. As he once said to Kevin, angels just didn’t have the equipment, so to speak. One thing was clear: this case was going to make it ten times as hard as normal for Dean to stow his crap and do the job. He stood up, set his shoulders tensely again, and headed back to the room.

#supernatural #spn #destiel #deancas #dean winchester #castiel #angst #fanfic #fake boyfriends #couples retreat

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