#kljkljksljksl

[chevrolangels]

kiss me under the shit stick

deancas, christmas, ~700 wds

They’re in some old folks home, all decked out for the holidays. Sam’s doing his empathetic-puppy-dog-I-hear-you-face to the receptionist and getting all the info, which leaves Dean and Cas to hang back and wait for the go signal. 

Castiel’s drinking his third cup of coffee that morning, some Folgers that a smiling aide had pressed into his hands. He hadn’t the heart to say no.

Dean takes the cup from Castiel without asking, taking a generous swig. As he lowers the cup, he smiles, nudging Castiel with his elbow.

“Hey, Cas,” he says, nodding up towards the ceiling. “Look.”

Castiel follows his gaze. Above them, above the doorway of a small alcove, is a sad-looking plant, tacked limply to the wall. 

“Mistletoe,” he observes. Dean smirks.

“Uh-huh. Mistletoe.”

He sidles closer, fingers ghosting over Castiel’s back, down to tease at his waist.

“And you know what that means, don’t you?” He asks, waggling his eyebrows.

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“I do, indeed.”

Dean's grip tightens on his waist, bringing Castiel closer, and he’s already leaning in, despite them being rather exposed. It’s thrilling, to see Dean more comfortable with himself, with them—but Castiel isn’t going to pass up such a golden opportunity.  

“Strange, though,” he says, and Dean abruptly pauses, squinting at him.

“What?” 

Castiel shrugs.

“Strange that humans would choose mistletoe to kiss under.”

Dean looks at him suspiciously.

“Okay...and why is that?”

“Mistletoe is a parasitic plant and only propagates through bird droppings,” Castiel answers. “The word itself comes from ‘mistle’, meaning ‘feces’, and ‘toe’, meaning ‘twig’.”

He pauses, watching Dean’s expression spasm.

“You humans do have some strange traditions,” he says innocently.

“Wait a second—”

Dean holds up a finger.

“Are you telling me...people have been kissing—for years—under a literal goddamn shit stick?”

Cas nods. 

Dean gapes at him for a moment, then glances upward again. 

“Oooookay,” he says, grimacing. “ Never mind. I’m just gonna—”

In one smooth motion, Castiel grabs Dean’s coffeeless hand, pulling him back into the alcove, pressing him against the wall. Dean makes a small noise of surprise before Cas’s lips are on his, slightly dry, wonderfully soft, warm as he cups Dean’s jaw with his other hand.

“You’re not getting away from me that easily,” he says softly, nose bumping Dean’s. Dean blinks, a little dazed.

“You’re the one who brought up bird feces,” he mumbles, but his other hand searches for Castiel’s tie, pulling him closer. Castiel chuckles.

“I’d happily kiss you anywhere, even under the shit stick,” he murmurs, “But we might scandalize a few of the residents.”

Dean smiles.

“Better take advantage of this privacy, then,” he says, before leaning in again.

~

Rosa, at the receptionist desk, pens in another clue into her crossword. Sadie is still talking to the nice young man with the too-long hair, and across from her, the other two agents spill from the small room where they keep the brooms, straightening their jackets. The cute one’s hair is completely disheveled, and the other one has a smug smile on his face. 

Rosa shakes her head, and goes back to her crossword.

Dean clears his throat, his cheeks pink as their fingers tangle together, hidden behind the folds of Castiel’s coat. 

“Okay, Kris Kringle,” he says affectionately. “You got any other fun Christmas trivia tidbits?”

Castiel pretends to think for a moment, thumb brushing over Dean’s.

"Well, pre-Christian cultures regarded the white berries of the mistletoe as symbols of male fertility,” he says, as calmly as if he were discussing the weather. “The seeds representing semen, obviously.”

Dean nearly spits his coffee across the floor.

Rosa glares at him from the receptionist desk.

Dean wheels on Cas, cheeks flaming.

“Dude. You’ve got to be fucking with me.”

“Why?” Castiel asks, keeping a completely straight face. “Don’t you think they resemble testicles?” 

“Jesus, not so damn loud—”

“I’m just telling you your own lore, Dean.”

At that moment, ‘Agent Stills’ turns, giving them the signal. Dean claps Castiel’s arm, looking relieved. 

“Alright, buddy. Go time. Let’s leave the bedroom talk for...the bedroom.” 

Castiel nods soberly, hiding his smile.

“Of course.”

They pass by the receptionist, who gives the three of them the stink-eye as they leave. Castiel leans in, whispering into Dean’s ear.

“Just wait until I tell you about the orgies during Saturnalia.”

"Oh, for the love of—”